The Grass King’s Concubine (39 page)

“Then how can I do whatever it is you want me to do?”

He rose and began to pace, marking out the length of the carpet that covered the center of the room. Like the walls, it was colored in blues and grays, swirling patterns like clouds. Aude watched his feet. Bannermen, Cadre, guards of the lords of the domains. What did she know of them, other than that? Qiaqia in her robes of mourning, Liyan in his workshop. Kind Shirai, who nevertheless did not answer her questions. Stone guards in the corridor, in the gallery. Water. The painting of the steppe in the Concubine’s rooms.

She said, “It’s the steppe. It’s something to do with the steppe, isn’t it?”

He looked down at her. She went on, “The steppe is dry, so it’s dry here, too. Drying.” Four Cadre, not five. One banner for each element…She said, “The Concubine…she’s one of you, she’s the one for water. But because of the steppe…” She stopped. She could work that puzzle no further. She chewed on a fingernail, thinking. Sujien came back to the table and sat down again. Four of them…She
said, “You’re air.” She gestured at the pattern on the walls and carpet. “You made the great wind. You brought me here.”

“We all brought you.”

“But it was you first.” Why would that be? Another puzzle without most of its pieces. She said, “You’re air and Qiaqia…” Qiaqia, who had died…“She’s darkness.” Which left Liyan and Shirai. She looked down at her knife. The working of metals, the use of flame to forge, to make. “Liyan’s fire and Shirai is earth.” He was watching her, his face calm and level. She said, “You think I had something to do with it, with the steppe, with whatever’s happened to your other one, the Concubine.”

Softly, he said, “Her name is Tsai.”

“To Tsai. But I didn’t. I swear it. I don’t know anything about it.”

“You came.”

“Yes, but not for that. I was looking for something. The steppe was already dried up; it had been dried up for years and years. Before I was born. Long before that. It couldn’t be to do with me.”

“It is.” He held out a hand. She stared at it, suspicious, unwilling. He said, “I promise no harm.” Swallowing, she reached out a hand herself, placed it next to his palm down. He said, “Turn it,” and she twisted it over. He pointed to the blue veins where they ran close to the tender surface of her inner wrist. “Human blood is human blood. Ask Qiaqia. It passes from generation to generation, but it remains the same. Your blood took from us. We sensed it. We remembered. At first it meant little to us, a small imbalance that would soon be righted. But it grew worse. It spread. Things here were broken, changed. I wanted to stop it, to hunt down those who’d caused it, but Shirai forbade me. He wanted to wait, to let the Grass King decide. But the Grass King…” His voice trailed off. He shook his head, went on, “It took me a long time to convince Shirai. But at last, he agreed, and I began to search for it. For you. I called to you. Once, almost, I had you. But you got free somehow. I kept
calling, and finally you came to the steppe. And Shirai finally let me bring you here to face what your blood had done.”

She said, “But…” and stopped.
Once, almost, I had you.
The dancer in her shining place, reaching out to her all those years ago. Her dreams, over and over. It had been no vision from the gods, only Sujien and his hunger for revenge. She said, “It was you? You made me dream of you. You
pushed
me into coming here?” He made no response.

Blood through the generations. She went on, “You mean you’ve been looking for someone I’m descended from, an ancestor?”

“For your blood. Your forebear. You. It’s the same to me. To us.”

For a crazy moment, she wanted to laugh. She had come to the steppe in search of her past and of her shining place, of the line and deeds that had begotten her wealth, her status, and of the dream she had clung to. She had expected to find records, memories, old tales. Instead…The past, the myths she dreamed of, had been looking for her, too. She bit down on a bubble of hysteria. One small woman could not be so important in the scheme of things. This was chance, some stupid vast coincidence. She said, “It’s not possible,” knowing already that it must be. This was not what she had wanted. She had sought an answer, something simple and clear to do with luck or judgment. Not this insanity of otherness. She said, “I don’t know anything about that. About my ancestors, what they did. That’s why I came.”

Sujien considered her, fingers still resting over her wrist. Then he said, “You came because I made you. Your ancestors incurred the debt. You must pay it.”

This time, she did laugh, despite herself, picturing the yellow walls and wooden gates of the Silver City Debtor’s Prison. The laughter choked her, filling her throat, making her hiccup and gasp, bringing tears to her eyes. To come so far to be seized for debt! Gulping, she said, “That’s ridiculous,” and lost all words in another burst of laughter. How
could she reach her footmen, her funds, from here? What would her uncle say if bannermen swept into his comfortable house to demand payment from him? She pictured him, red-faced and outraged, and howled all the more. Between her gasps, she managed, “He…he won’t believe it.”

Sujien’s brows had drawn down into a straight line of puzzlement. That was funny, too. He said, “Who?” and she shook her head at him, too breathless to reply. He said, “This isn’t helpful,” and rose. The hem of his tunic brushed her shoulder as he left the room. She leaned on the table, limp with her own mirth, half blind and shaking.

Cold water dashed over her, splashed into her mouth, ran down the neck of her tunic, soaked her hair and shoulders. She coughed as it got into her mouth, clutched at her chest, fighting for breath. Raggedly, she said, “What?”

“It was necessary.” Sujien came around the table and set down the basin from which he had drenched her. “You were losing yourself.”

She shook her head, still struggling to breath comfortably. “You didn’t have to…to drown me.”

“I didn’t. I merely calmed you.”

She was soaked from head to foot. It was a wide basin and deep. Her clothes clung to her, chill and unpleasant. “I need a towel.” She glared at him. “Well?”

“I am not,” Sujien said, “at your service.”

“You soaked me.”

Again, his face worked. Opening a chest, he fished out a sheet of tight-woven cotton and threw it at her. “There, then.”

“And dry clothing?”

He clenched his fists, breathing hard. She tensed against a blow. Instead, he turned away with an oath and pulled a robe from the same chest. “Here.”

“Thank you.” Gathering up the towel and garment, she rose and headed for the stair.

He said, “Where are you going?”

“To change. I don’t want an audience.”

“Your body doesn’t interest me.”

She might, she thought, have concluded that without his aid. Her soaked tunic and trousers clung, hiding nothing, but his eyes on her had shown nothing save irritation. Nevertheless, she said, “Good,” and began to climb.

The stair emerged in the floor of a pentagonal chamber. She gazed around her, intention forgotten. Each of the walls was made up almost entirely of a vast window. The center of the room was occupied by a long divan. Latticed shutters stood open, looking out onto a vista of roofs and treetops, cupolas and turrets and pagodas. She dropped her bundle and went to the nearest, leaning out. The Rice Palace unrolled itself before her in a sequence of courtyards and long halls, closed chambers and pavilions. The scent of oranges washed over her. Everything was still, silent. She walked slowly around, noting how the vista changed. There was Liyan’s clock, tall and dark in its stone yard. Over there must be kitchens, judging from the roasting pits and domed ovens. Beyond those a vast court was filled with troughs and channels, racks and lines. The laundry. Another window, and the view filled with fine-worked tiled roofs, balconies, and hints of fine draperies. The palace was vast, a city in one complex, stretching out toward the horizon on four sides of the chamber. Partly open shutters in other buildings gave her glimpses of libraries and countinghouses, bedrooms and salons, music rooms and armories. Farther out rose the vanes of mills, the high sides of silos and barns. On the fifth side, the side with the finest buildings, roofs gave way to vast gardens studded with empty pools and silent fountains. She could not tell, in all this extent, which of the courtyards was her prison. She could not see the outer walls, though doubtless they must exist somewhere. To escape this place on foot might take days. She looked around for stables and found a range of buildings that might be them. They were as still as everywhere else. In all this vast array of work and dwelling places, nothing moved save the occasional breath of wind in the tree boughs. No voices, no servants hurrying with trays or flagons, no scullery maids at work in the sluices, no music, no courtiers strolling in the
gardens. No lapdogs or hounds, no dozing cats, no birds.
Your blood took from us
. She sank to her heels. The Rice Palace was as barren, as deserted, as the steppe.

It could not be her doing. Nothing in her life could give rise to such destruction. She had been sheltered, that was true, and privileged. But she was not cruel. She had ordered nothing that could lead to this. She shivered, and remembered that she was wet. Rising, she began to dry herself absently. If the steppe and the palace were bound in some way, what had that to do with her? It was true, her family held land on the steppe, but surely they were not alone in that. There were many other rich families in the Silver City and elsewhere. She would not, could not believe so simple an equation. There was more to this than Sujien and his fellows had told her.

Well, if she could not escape, she could find out. She wriggled out of her soaking garments and pulled Sujien’s robe over her head. It dropped to her ankles and a little below, and the sleeves hung over her hands. She rolled them up, felt the cotton rough on her skin. It smelled of outside, the fresh blast of clean air on a brisk morning. Her hair was a tangled mess—she needed a comb. She wrapped the towel around it. What was it the Cadre were hiding from her? She sat down on the edge of the divan, rubbing at her hair. Water…No water on the steppe and it, seemed, reduced water here. Dry fountains, empty conduits, Liyan’s clock standing idle without the stream that had made it move. In the Brass City, foundries and mills and workshops relied on the river to power their engines and cool their forges, to transport raw materials and final product, to carry away industrial effluent and human sewage. The river nourished both cities, bringing employment and wealth along with water. Floods were feared because they washed away livelihoods along with dwellings. Sujien believed that her family had caused the drought somehow, had stolen the water both from the steppe and from WorldBelow.

Water and magic. Aude hugged her knees. Was the tale Nurse had told her, long ago, of her ancestor’s bargain with
witches true?
People make myths of things they do not understand,
said the voice of her governess.
Tarnaroqi magic is tricks and sleight of hand, nothing more
. Remembering her shining place, Aude had never been so certain. Her governess would not credit where she was now. WorldBelow and its Rice Palace existed. In which case…

For all her reading, she still knew pitifully little of magic. She would have to find out. Gathering up her discarded clothes, she headed downstairs. She had questions. She would hunt and ask until she had uncovered their answers.

The room below was empty. The beaded curtain was hooked aside; beyond it, she could see Sujien sitting on the edge of the bathing pool, his back to her. She looped her wet clothes over a hook set in the wall next to the arch and leaned out. She said, “Do you have a brush or a comb?”

“On the second shelf of the cupboard by the stair.”

Going back into the room, she found both brush and comb. She gathered them up and went out to join him. The tiles were warm under her feet; when she sat on the rim of the pool, that too seemed heated. He did not look around, his head bowed, feet dangling in the water. She sat sideways and shook her hair free from the towel. She said, “Tell me about Tsai.”

“I don’t see why you need to know.”

“You think this is my fault.” She waved a hand at the room. “You think I’m stealing your water, hurting her somehow. Of course I need to know.”

He sighed. Then he said, “Tsai is Tsai. She follows her nature.”

“And that is?”

“Water.” He turned, met her gaze. With a hand, he gestured at the pool. “Like that. It feeds, it flows, it changes. It’s not my domain.”

She stared into the pool. It was deeper and wider than the one in the Concubine’s rooms. A ledge ran around its inner circumference, forming a curving bench. There were
no faucets; instead, water swirled through it from low-level pipes. It was carved from a single great slab of dark stone, flecked with points of iridescence. The water glimmered and shivered, refracting light, never still. She dipped a finger into it, found it warm. She said, “What heats it?”

His lips twitched. “There are fires in the earth. Shirai helps. Sometimes Liyan.”

“It’s all interconnected.” She considered that. Fire to heat the water, stone to retain that heat. Water to feed the land, to nourish crops and animals. She said, “Why is she fading?”