The Prince of Shadow (52 page)

“I take it that means no, you are not acquainted with such luxurious surroundings.” Habiba grinned at him, a slash of sharp white teeth cutting through his whiskers like a secret spoken in the dark.

Llesho grinned back, aware of the lesson he had just taught himself. “It means that to a Thebin, this is not luxury at all,” he answered. It wasn't true, exactly. All of the silk traded in the West passed through Kungol, and the Thebin people were certainly familiar with its worth. But they didn't covet such overnice luxuries as others did.

“Remember that when you meet with the emperor,” Habiba said, and this time Llesho couldn't tell where his amusement was directed. He was about to ask when the bearers slowed their pace. Llesho heard tramping feet coming toward them—attack! His conversation with Habiba suddenly forgotten, he cursed himself for having left his bow and arrows in the camp. Ambassador Huang's guards had returned his knife for the journey, however; Llesho reached for it under his coat.

Habiba did not appear distressed. The witch finished his peach and threw the pit onto the road, and then took hold of the low railing that ran around the sides of the litter.

“We are about to change bearers; make sure you are secure.”

Llesho gave him a wary look, but followed his example and reached for the railing instead of his knife. He did so just in time.

The newcomers had lined themselves up parallel with the litter and were beginning to match the slowed pace of the bearers. Suddenly, the litter pitched and tilted, bounced and jolted. “What are they doing!” Llesho wanted to know.

“We have reached the first relay station,” Habiba explained. “The bearers we came with are trading places with the bearers who have been waiting at this outpost.” The witch rolled with the uneven motion. He didn't look sick; he didn't even look uncomfortable. Llesho wished he could say the same.

“As we approach the city of Shan, the relay posts come closer together, so we should make very good time in our journey,” Habiba finished his explanation and reached for a pear.

“How much farther do we have to go?” Llesho asked. At the moment, the length of their journey was the most urgent thing he could think about—that and the rolling pitch of the litter that carried them. He felt the color drain from his face.

“I'm going to be sick,” he whispered.

Habiba threw down the pear. He reached for the water pipe and tossed it out onto the road as he had the peach pit, and then tucked the bucket-shaped base under Llesho's chin.

“Master Huang has shown you a great honor by putting the post relay system at our disposal,” he chided while holding the bucket. “Only the most important officials on the most urgent business of the empire may command such travel. Is this any way to repay his kindness?”

“I would gladly decline the honor and ride to Shan on horseback,” Llesho offered. His gut swung queasily in its own direction, completely at odds with the beat of the running feet that jolted the litter.

“But Master Huang could not ride so far, nor could Master Den,” Habiba reminded him. “And we would have to leave our horses on the road in trade for fresh ones that we did not know as well, just as we have done with the bearers.”

All true, Llesho supposed. But they had only a few li behind them. If Habiba were correct, most of the journey remained ahead, and already Llesho wished himself dead. He leaned over the bucket and was thoroughly sick.

When he had finished, Habiba handed him a silk handkerchief with a smile. “It is the simplest I have about me,” he offered in a mild joke about the riches of empire. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Nooooo,” Llesho moaned, and was violently ill once again. When he was through, he fell back on his cushions with a woeful sigh. “What is the point of all this haste if I wish I were dead already?”

Habiba shook his head. “The point? Why, putting you in front of the emperor as a live supplicant rather than as a dead pretender, I suppose. Or did you look forward to Markko plotting your demise at his leisure?”

“Do you think he'd kill me now if I asked nicely?” Llesho perked up. The possibility almost gave him hope.

Habiba gave him an exasperated sigh. With a finger tucked under Llesho's chin, the witch lifted the prince's head out of his bucket.

“How long have you felt sick?” Habiba asked him.

“Since we started out.” Llesho wanted to ask how the witch managed to cope with the motion, but to think the words was to remind himself of how he felt, and that only made it worse.

Habiba frowned at him. “I could probably make you up a potion if we had an hour or two, and a fire.” He considered Llesho for a long moment. “But we cannot spare the time.

“Look at me, Llesho.”

Llesho looked, and flinched at the change that came over the witch. Habiba's eyes were wide and fixed; the irises almost vanished while the pupils grew to fill all the space with darkness. He closed his own eyes, but that only made the sickness worse.

Habiba gave him a sharp tap on the chin with one finger.

“You are not a prince yet, my fine young gladiator,” Habiba snapped with more humor in his voice than the words merited. “Now do as you are told.”

“What are you going to do?” Llesho asked in a whisper.

“Nothing to hurt you. Not after all the trouble I've had getting you this far! Now look at me!”

Llesho looked.

“It is night, very dark, and you are in your own bed in the palace at Kungol. There are no raiders; your guard stands watch at your door to keep you safe. Your bed is warm, the breeze through the open window brings the scent of snow off the mountains, and below, in the city, the bleat of camels and the bark of dogs fill the night with their music.”

Llesho knew that none of it was real, but in spite of himself he felt his shoulders relaxing, his head growing heavier, his eyes closing . . .

“You are safe, you are comfortable, and you are so sleepy. You cannot stay awake any longer . . .”

 

 

When Llesho awoke, the litter had come to a halt, and beyond the tent curtains he heard the harsh calls of servants sorting themselves and locating their charges, From the hollow echo and the clack of wooden-soled sandals against paving tiles, he guessed they stood in a walled courtyard somewhere, but he didn't know how far they had come or why they had stopped.

“Where are we?” he asked groggily, but Habiba was not there.

“Come, come!” One of the servants pushed his head between the curtains and gestured for Llesho to follow.

Llesho shook his head. “Where are we?” he asked again.

The servant disappeared, muttering something about crazy Thebins, but he was soon replaced by Master Den.

“What are you still doing in there, boy? You can't see the emperor looking like that!”

Llesho paled in dismay, but climbed out of his litter as Den demanded. “Has the emperor come to meet us on the road?”

“We're not on the road, Llesho. This is the inner courtyard of the Celestial Palace at Shan.”

“It can't be!”

It certainly didn't look regal. They had come to rest in a large walled courtyard with a cobbled square and plastered walls that rose well above Den's head. It was dark, with not even a moon to brighten the square. The few torches carried by servants did little to light the space beyond the circle of the three official litters, but from what Llesho could see, the courtyard was empty except for themselves. There were no plants on the edges of the wall and Llesho could see no trees bending their branches over it as might be the fashion in Farshore Province. Of course, with no trees or vines to climb, a spy or saboteur would have a difficult time getting over the wall. Kungol Palace, he remembered, hadn't had a wall at all. Who, after all, would invade the privacy of the goddess' own beloved family? Llesho found himself looking at the courtyard wall in a friendlier light.

A stranger—no, not a stranger, but General Shou; Habiba had introduced him after the recent battle with Master Markko—interrupted his thoughts with a slap on the back. “Indeed, you've been on the road for two days,” General Shou confirmed. “Did Habiba put you to sleep? He's a sly one. You have to watch him every minute!”

He figured the general meant it as a joke, because the man laughed and slapped him on the back again, but Llesho decided to take it as a real warning. After all, he had lost two days to the witch's spell. What if they'd been attacked? He could have died without a chance to defend himself.

“As for meeting the emperor in your present state, I wouldn't worry,” General Shou added, “even emperors have to sleep.

“If you have time during your visit, I'd like a chance to talk with you about Thebin.”

That was more seriously said, and Llesho's curiosity perked up. “Do you know Thebin?” he asked.

“I visited it once, long ago, with a caravan to the West,” the general confirmed. “That was before my duties kept me closer to home.”

Spying, no doubt, Llesho figured, and whatever he'd seen hadn't persuaded the Shan Empire to step in when the Harn raiders attacked. He found it a little more difficult to be polite after that, but fortunately, General Shou turned his attention to the others in the party.

“I am very glad to see you again, Master Den.” He slapped the master on the arm—something Llesho had never expected to see. “Very glad indeed.” He left them with instructions to have a comfortable night, and entered the palace by a small door from which a steady stream of guards and visitors in various degrees of official dress seemed to enter and depart.

“Come on, boy,” Master Den called to Llesho, and together they followed the servants through a more imposing public entrance. Habiba, Llesho noted, had disappeared, as had Ambassador Huang. Markko strode before them like a conquering hero; Llesho wished he had his bow and arrow handy, or barring that, a snowball. But it was not yet winter, and a servant led Markko away before Llesho could devise a more pertinent attack.

Chapter Thirty-one

MASTER Den nudging him with a strong hand between his shoulder blades, Llesho followed a servant into a vaulted entry hall bigger than the audience chamber at Kungol. In front of them a broad stairway of inlaid marquetry rose halfway to the carved and painted ceiling, where it opened into a gallery that ran the length of the entry hall. The staircase resumed at either end of the gallery, disappearing into passageways at opposite ends of the hall.

The servant stopped on the first landing and wordlessly directed them past a sliding panel into a long corridor, dark except for a few scattered lamps set into the smooth plastered walls. When it looked like they could go no farther without bumping into a blank wall at the end of the passage, the servant turned right and disappeared.

Llesho followed and found himself in a narrower, darker passage that curved in a long arc, so that he could not see more than a few feet ahead of him. He stopped, unwilling to follow any farther until he knew where they were going, and Master Den bumped into him.

“What if it's a trap?” Llesho whispered urgently.

“It's the back way to the private bedrooms,” Master Den assured him, and added tartly, “Some of us didn't sleep the entire journey away and are anxious to get to our beds.”

Llesho began moving again, but he wasn't much comforted. “Where are Habiba and Master Markko?” He figured that the ambassador had his own home to go to, but he didn't want to bump into Markko in a dark corridor.

“They've been taken to official guest quarters in another wing of the palace,” Master Den informed him. “They don't know where the guards have taken us, and they don't have access to the private quarters from their own rooms.”

Master Den clearly had some connection to the royal household that would merit a personal invitation, but Llesho wondered why he hadn't been sent off with the others. The washerman who, if one were to believe the ambassador, had once been an imperial general, seemed to read his mind. “Official quarters are for those who have an official claim upon the empire. Until the emperor decides what claim he is willing to acknowledge toward you, it is better that you remain a guest in an unofficial capacity.”

“You will be watched, of course.” Master Den laughed under his breath. “And keeping you close like this is bound to make Markko nervous.”

Llesho wasn't certain he wanted the overseer nervous—Master Markko was bad enough when he thought he had the upper hand—but he said nothing. The narrow passageway ended in a door which the servant opened with a big iron key that groaned in the lock. He threw the door wide and ushered them into a lavishly decorated hall lit at every point by lanterns with soft gold shutters. Creamy light gleaming off of gilt carvings dazzled Llesho's eyes, and he blinked away tears until his vision had adjusted to the glow.