SHIANG Read online

  His son strode at his side and the old man wondered if it was mere imagination that Anjin lengthened his steps so that he drew ahead. His son chafed in his obedience; Lord Hong understood that. He had been the same with his father, though he would never have risked a rebuke in such a way, not in public.

  The steward led them along a cloister Lord Hong knew well. When he saw his son’s impatience had placed him a full stride clear, he stopped at one of the rose bushes that lined the cloister, where it opened out into gardens. They were in fine bloom as it happened, but it also served to remind his son which of them set the pace. His six guards spread apart slightly as the nobleman bent to inhale the fragrance, alert for attack from any quarter.

  ‘Such a beautiful flower, Anjin. Come and smell this.’

  Lord Hong made sure he did not see his son raise his eyes in frustration. Anjin came forward and took a quick sniff at the rose, nodding as if he could hardly believe how his time was being wasted.

  ‘It is a yellow-blend tea rose, my lord,’ the steward said. ‘The … peace rose. Shall I have cuttings sent to your estate?’

  Lord Hong smiled.

  ‘Is there anything you don’t know, Master Chen? Yes, thank you. That is very kind of you.’

  The man blushed and bowed, delighted by the praise.

  ‘It is my duty to know things, my lord.’

  ‘Still, if you ever tire of the palace and feel you would prefer a life on the tea plantations, with servants of your own, I hope you will consider my offer.’

  ‘Of course, my lord,’ the man replied, bowing once again. Both of them knew it would never happen. It had become a routine over the years for Lord Hong to try and poach the best royal servants. In truth, the king had a fine eye for staff, like his father before him. If one of them had ever said yes, Lord Hong would have been overjoyed.

  Having rebuked his son in a manner which had almost certainly been wasted on him, Lord Hong continued on past anterooms to a hall that never failed to steal his breath as he entered. The ceiling stretched far above them in ribs of stone that spread like white fans. The floor was a miracle of polished black granite, reflecting the world above and in particular the great columns that held the roof. They were Lord Hong’s private joy. He had loved wood since he’d been a child and each of the thirty-two columns was unmatched in the realm. They stood two hundred feet tall and had been carried by ship across half a world. The richness of colour was a pleasure every time Lord Hong entered the room. It did not matter that he knew very well the room was designed to impress visitors and put them at a disadvantage. Lord Hong felt pride in a royal house that could create such things – he felt he was made greater rather than reduced by it.

  He was announced in ringing tones ahead and he strode forward, picking up speed as he saw the other men gathered around the king’s throne at the far end. His son Anjin had to hurry to catch up and Lord Hong had the sense of one of his swordsmen moving awkwardly. He dismissed the thought from his mind. He was in the presence of the king and he had to watch everything with his most perfect awareness. In that place, more than any other, a mistake could very easily cost him his life.

  2

  Tea

  Wrapped in a shawl, Marias knew a sort of freedom once more. The harvest market was a busy place, where household slaves and free women mingled, making a thousand purchases. The stallholders were mostly men, who called and joked with those who bought from them, keeping up a stream of cheerful banter.

  Marias had removed all trace of paint from her face before setting off. With her hair bound in simple clips, she knew she looked like any other wife or young mother, out to buy vegetables or a length of cloth. Yet she was aware even so of every second glance, as if something in her bearing might still cry ‘slave’. It was hard not to flinch from the gaze of men who might suddenly shout that she had no chaperone, or that she had run. The punishments for that gravest of sins were meant to be terrifying. That was their purpose.

  As she passed through the main market and on to the tiny streets beyond, even more crammed with stalls and doorways than the square, she could feel the brand on her thigh. It seemed to ache again in remembered pain. She dared not look down, in case it gleamed through the cloth. She was sweating freely, though she told herself it was just the crush of the market and the warm air, rather than her own fear. Taeshin was not a cruel master, especially compared to her first household. Yet he was as oblivious as any of the ruling lords when it came to his food and clothing. He expected a meal to be there on the table when he returned from training. He probably thought his undergarments grew unbidden in the drawers by his bed, like mushrooms in the dark. Marias found herself smiling at the thought. She had greater concerns that day, but it helped her to think of him as she navigated through the press. Worst was when a sly hand pinched at her. A free woman might have slapped it away or shouted in outrage. Marias dared not accuse a Shiang free man. At the first sight of a slave mark, she would be whipped for such insolence.

  She had been introduced to the market by a neighbour from the first house she’d known with Taeshin. Amoy had been a slave as well, of course. There was not much call for paid domestic servants in Shiang. Yet the woman knew her own worth and had settled into a gentle relationship with a man and woman twenty years younger than her, looking after their children and managing a small household that might have been poor if not for the status of owning a slave. Marias had admired the older woman for her humour and stoicism, seeing in her a model for accepting the unbearable.

  As she pushed through a busy junction of four alleys, Marias remembered walking the same tiny streets with Amoy, through clouds of cooking smoke, always guarding their bags from the hands of thieves. Marias had learned early to beware of wonders – while one child played with a monkey, another would snatch an earring or a coin and vanish into the crush.

  Amoy had introduced her to the family businesses, long established – those who owned a reputation they would not willingly see destroyed. Such things mattered to the great nobles like Lord Hong, but they mattered just as much to the stallholders who traded on their word. Most of them, anyway.

  Amoy’s young master had died of some fever or other, Marias recalled with sadness. It seemed he had run up great debts in pursuit of a fortune. His wife and children had been sold into slavery themselves and, of course, poor Amoy had been sent back to the market blocks by the creditors. Marias remembered the way her cheeks had flushed as she walked streets where she was known – and the fear in her eyes. Marias had told herself then that she would never forget she could be sold on a whim or a debt, that she could be gambled away or given as a gift. If Taeshin killed her, he might be reprimanded or fined, depending on his status. The life of a slave, perhaps one accused of disobedience or laziness, was not held to be any great loss.

  Marias stopped by a door she knew. Amoy had taken her there twice before, to see the old woman who made a living in that place. Marias raised her hand, but hesitated, afraid to knock. She breathed all the way in, steadying herself. Before fear could strengthen its grip on her, she twisted the handle and went straight in.

  The parlour was bright and warm, with pine dark as honey all around, from the floorboards and the beams above to the table and chairs. A single log flickered in the grate, as if close to going out. Marias bowed to the old woman straightening from the task of prodding it with a poker of black iron.

  ‘Mistress,’ Marias said, giving her the greeting of a slave to a free woman.

  ‘I know you,’ the old lady replied. She came around the table and peered up at her, taking Marias’ hands in hers. She smelled of woodsmoke. It was a hard gaze to meet.

  Marias could see no change in the years since she’d last stood in that room. Little Mung was as wrinkled as a palm, with deep seams and skin mottled with flaps and growths. Yet her back remained straight and her brown eyes were clear. When she smiled, her face folded on itself, as it did then. Marias felt tears come, though she could not have said exactly why. P
erhaps it was the warmth of the room after the cold wind outside.

  ‘You came here with Amoy, is that right?’ Little Mung said. She was a tiny figure, though Marias could feel the strength in the hands that still held hers. She nodded mutely and Little Mung sighed. ‘Yes. I was sorry to hear about her. The spirits can be cruel, or perhaps men can be cruel. The result is the same.’

  ‘Have you heard from her since she was sold again?’ Marias asked.

  The tiny woman looked away as a shadow crossed her face.

  ‘I heard she died. A new household and a new master who left her out in the rain as a punishment – at her age! She took a fever and went like that.’

  Little Mung released one hand to snap her fingers, her eyes glittering. The old woman turned away then, leading her visitor to the table where a pot of tea and two old cups steamed. Marias frowned at the sight. Had they been there when she entered?

  ‘Were you expecting a guest, mistress?’ she asked.

  ‘I would be a poor seer otherwise,’ Little Mung said with a touch of smugness. ‘Sit, dear. Let me see if I can read the leaves for you. We’ll take what comfort we can.’

  Marias lowered herself to a seat and accepted a mug of tea, watching in amazement as Little Mung poured milk and sugar into hers until it was a shade of muddy brown. The old woman sensed her appalled glance and chuckled.

  ‘I prefer it so. Would you like to try it? Or I have lemon. It makes no difference to the leaves, Marias.’

  Marias was flattered to be remembered. Had she said her name? She did not think she had, though perhaps the old woman had remembered it from before. It felt, somehow, as if the usual rules had been suspended from the moment Little Mung held her hands. With a start, she realised she could no longer hear the noise of the street traders hawking their wares and she began to rise from her seat.

  Little Mung reached across the table and touched her arm. The grip was surprisingly warm.

  ‘Don’t worry, Marias! We’ll ask. There’s no harm in asking. We’ll see what there is to see. Just sit and sip. Let the tea warm you.’

  Marias nodded, feeling tension drift away. She accepted milk and saw how tea leaves swirled on the surface. The drink was sweet and comforting. She felt some part of her fear ease.

  ‘There we are, dear,’ Little Mung said, cheerfully.

  She patted Marias on the arm and they sat in companionable silence until the tea was drunk. Marias put her cup back on the golden wood, and when Little Mung spoke, she heard the voice almost as a breeze, from far away.

  ‘Ask your question. Hold the cup as you speak and then hand it to me. I’ll see if there’s an answer. You might be lucky. I feel strong today, dear.’

  ‘I want to know how to heal my master, Taeshin. He has black lumps on his side, like nothing I’ve ever seen.’ Marias held the cup and spoke dreamily, then handed it over.

  Little Mung bit her bottom lip at the question, though she said nothing. A slave fool enough to fall in love with her master would know more pain than anyone should endure. Little Mung could see the girl’s adoration in the way she said his name.

  The old woman sighed to herself as she swirled the leaves three times clockwise, then peered into the depths. Marias had a kind heart. If the world had been a different place, there might have been better times ahead, amidst all the sorrows and disappointments. Yet Shiang could be a hard place, especially for a young woman, especially for a slave. There would be no justice for her, Little Mung was sure. She stared at the patterns of leaves in the bottom of the cup. They seemed reluctant to settle into shapes she could interpret. The young woman’s gaze was on her and so she closed her eyes and began to mutter a charm. Tea leaves could not tell the future, of course. Tassomancy was merely a way of drawing on the spirit, of using other eyes. It did not hurt to use the ordinary eyes she had been given, either.

  Little Mung stiffened suddenly. Marias leaned closer as the old woman’s sinews tightened, so that they stood out like wires in her neck and forearms.

  ‘No …’ Little Mung said sharply. ‘No, he must not!’

  Her eyes flew open and Marias saw them clear and refocus in the room, as the old woman came back from wherever she had been.

  ‘Did you find an answer?’ Marias whispered, dreading what she might hear. ‘Can he be saved?’

  Little Mung stared at her, looking suddenly older and exhausted.

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry. I saw a great darkness.’

  ‘Have you no herbs for him then, no medicine? Please!’

  ‘I saw only death,’ Little Mung said. ‘There’s nothing more I can do.’

  The hands that raised her cup were shaking visibly, a tremble that made her teeth click against the porcelain. Marias stared at her, unable to accept it. The old woman rose to her feet with sudden briskness. She ushered Marias up and back to the street door as if the young woman had brought contagion into that house. It seemed mere moments since Marias had entered it, but she found herself out in the weak sunshine, blinking and overborne by grief. As Little Mung turned back to the gloom of the interior, the old woman hesitated.

  ‘Forget about him, dear, if you can. Death rides him. Look to yourself now.’

  The king’s father had been an impressive man, Taeshin remembered. The son might eventually grow into the same authority, but at eighteen, Yuan-Choji’s cheeks were smooth and unlined. At times, he seemed almost a boy, though he held power over every man, woman and slave in that hall. It was not a comforting thought on that day. In the past Taeshin had found it exhilarating to be held to the highest possible standards, his own life as the stake. He had not known weakness then, nor the sense of being slowly eaten from within by some blind and champing worm.

  Taeshin marched alongside Lord Hong and his son, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He knew the men around him as well as brothers, after thousands of hours of practice and sparring. He knew, too, that he was no longer able to hide his pain from them. They moved forward at double time, a jingling lope in a phalanx around the two noblemen they served. In the same way Taeshin could have read the slight hitch in step of a torn muscle, the personal guard of Lord Hong felt something was off in him – and in turn, he sensed their discomfort. He steeled himself, though pain radiated from his side and brought nausea flooding through him. The idea of vomiting in that hallowed place, in front of not only his master but the king and all the other lords, made him light-headed with fear. Lord Hong would never live it down, Taeshin knew. He was suddenly aware that he had put his master in danger by hiding his illness. Lord Hong had too many enemies who would delight in his humiliation.

  The ritual of approach was deliberately noisy. There could be no sense of armed men stealing into the king’s presence without his knowledge. The rattle of armour and weapons came to a halt only long enough for Lord Hong to call out his arrival.

  ‘In honour, the house of Hong attends His Highness!’ Hong roared.

  Though he was approaching sixty years of age, the man still had a voice to fill that vast hall. Echoes rippled back from the web of arches far above and every other party froze. Taeshin felt the urge to smile in pride. Hong was a good family, well respected in the realm. Taeshin had chosen them carefully as a house where he could rise quickly to a position of authority. There were richer families of course, with armies of Mazer swordsmen in their service. Taeshin had considered those as well, indeed been courted by them after his trials. He thought he’d made a clever choice back then. He had planned for three or four years with Lord Hong, then a transfer to a senior role, perhaps to command a hundred for another house. Some preferred to remain in the same family, while others bartered their contract like any other object of value. Both paths were understood in Shiang.

  Taeshin’s life had been laid out, ready to be plucked. Yet he stood in perfect stillness in the king’s court, trying to breathe while a red-hot bar touched his ribs.

  ‘Hong estate! Hong estate! In peace of realm, on pain of death, approach!’


  The king’s seneschal had lungs to match even Lord Hong as he bellowed back. Conversations ceased as he made the ritual reply, then went on as soon as he had finished. Taeshin gave a small grunt as the small party of armed men lurched into movement again. He saw his master turn just a fraction at the sound, identifying it as a concern, or more likely in rebuke. Lord Hong missed nothing, especially when it came under the scrutiny of the young king.

  The practice of being allowed to approach the king and other lords as if for war was ancient – the bond of trust and honour that kept the families of Shiang together. Taeshin had read of dynasties where no man was allowed to carry a blade in the king’s presence. The idea was ludicrous, not least because there were so many weapons that could be concealed. He wore a number of them himself, fitted imperceptibly into his armour and belt.

  Honour bound them all, so that the gathering of lords looked more like a war camp than a peaceful discussion – and was all the more polite for that. No one raised their voice where loyal swordsmen watched for the slightest insult. Taeshin had actually seen two men of opposing houses excuse themselves from the king’s presence just a few months before. They had left with perfect dignity, but only one had returned and the point was considered settled between their masters.

  The young king came to greet Lord Hong and his son, as if they were not surrounded by fanatically loyal swordmasters. Yuan-Choji wore white leggings and a long tunic cut square at the neck in some sort of gold silk. Taeshin took his hand from his sword hilt as his master and Lord Anjin dropped to one knee with bowed heads, their armour creaking. In that moment, Taeshin was the eyes of the house. He could feel sweat dripping cold from his armpits. In normal times, he did not enjoy the king’s immunity. No other adult male could approach Lord Hong without his guards being ready to attack.