Golden Daughter (27 page)

A few hours later, much to Sairu’s surprise, word came to her by way of Tu Domchu that Lady Hariawan required her presence.

Sairu had spent much of the morning wandering in aimless frustration between the infirmary and her mistress’s chambers, unwilling to enter the one and unable to enter the latter. So when Tu Domchu delivered his message—spitting rudely at her feet even as he spoke—Sairu’s heart leapt inside her, full of renewed passion, renewed commitment.
This
was the whole meaning of her life: serving her mistress. She may now once more move and exist with purpose.

Lady Hariawan sat in a low chair near the window of her innermost chamber. Sunlight touched the back of her head, but her face, turned away, remained in shadow. It was impossible to see her expression enough to read it, but Sairu did not mind just then. As she bowed, the sleeves of her handmaiden’s robes brushed the floor.

“My mistress,” she murmured, “how may I serve you?”

Lady Hariawan opened her mouth. When her words finally came, it seemed as though she had conjured them from a great distance and they only now arrived upon her tongue. “I . . . need . . .”

“Yes, my mistress?” Sairu said, taking a step forward. “What do you need? Please tell me. I will do anything for you.”

“I . . . need . . .” Lady Hariawan paused and put a hand to her head as though it pained her. But she said nothing more, only closed her eyes.

Sairu was across the room in a moment. She gathered her mistress’s loose hair out of her face and gently began to braid it. She felt her forehead for a fever but found none. “Have you eaten, my mistress?”

Lady Hariawan shook her head sharply, and part of the braid came undone. Sairu caught it and finished it off quickly, tying it in place. “Well, that’s what you need then, before anything else. A proper meal. When was the last time you ate? My poor, dear mistress, you really can’t take care of yourself worth mewling kittens, can you? Here, let me adjust your robe. I’m sure I can find you some pudding, perhaps, and a cake. You need vegetables as well. I will have the monks cook some up for you, and I’ll find an egg or two.”

She prattled on, the relief of returning to her established role far outweighing any and all questions for the moment. Her lady seemed to respond to her voice and touch, permitting herself to be dressed in fresh garments and her hair to be properly styled; she even ate several mouthfuls of the large meal Sairu presented to her.

When this task was complete, she raised tired but lovely eyes to Sairu’s face and said, “Where is he?”

“Ah. I suspect you mean Jovann,” said Sairu. “Our noble prince is in the infirmary. Your slaves did nothing to help his healing process yesterday, but he will recover in time. You must forgive him his rudeness. He is most grateful to you, but slavery is new to him and does not wear well upon his shoulders. In time he will—”

“No,” said Lady Hariawan, waving a listless hand. “Where is he? The dog?”

Sairu blinked. “You mean Sticky Bun?”

A few minutes later she watched from across the room as Lady Hariawan made much of the lion dog in her lap, who whined and wagged in pitiful joy to be restored to her. It would have made Sairu jealous had she not been too preoccupied with other thoughts to care much about her pet’s loyalties.

She fingered the opals in the pocket of her robes. Somehow she hated to give them up. But Jovann’s wishes had been clear. They were not hers to keep.

“My mistress?” she said, her voice possibly more tentative than it had ever before been.

Lady Hariawan did not look up at first, so intent was she upon the cheerful dog in her lap. Sairu was obliged to repeat herself a few times before her mistress finally acknowledged her with a quiet, unquestioning gaze.

“This is for you,” Sairu said, holding out Jovann’s gift. Lady Hariawan made no move, so Sairu took her by the wrist and pressed the cluster of stones into her hand. “It is from the slave you rescued. He bade me give it to you and asks that you will . . . that you will remember him.”

Slowly Lady Hariawan opened her hand and gazed upon the stones. Her face was an absolute blank. Not even a flicker of the eye revealed a hint of what she might be thinking or feeling. Perhaps she truly thought and felt nothing.

Then she tucked the stones into the depths of her own sleeve and returned her attention to Sticky Bun. She did not speak again for many hours, and she held Sairu captive in her silence.

But the deed was done. The gift was given.

“How long it has been since I last set eyes upon this beauty! I shudder to think.”

Sunan stood half-bent in a bow, uncertain he dared straighten yet. He watched as Lord Luk-Hunad carefully turned the little treasure round and round in his old fingers. His nails were long and burnished gold after the current fashion among Pen-Chan great men—a fashion Lord Dok-Kasemsan had always scorned. They looked incongruous set against Luk-Hunad’s large, bony knuckles, and Sunan thought how like talons they were. He did not like seeing them handle Uncle Kasemsan’s priceless silver gong.

“This was in my family for generations,” Lord Luk-Hunad mused, tapping the gong with one fingernail so that it gave off a light, tinny sound. “One of the House of Luk’s great heirlooms since before the Kitar ruled Noorhitam, if you would believe it. It is of little value save in sentiment.”

Sunan knew that for the lie it was. But this was how the game was played, and he was determined to play to win. “My uncle seemed to believe you held it in high regard,” he said, choosing his words carefully. His uncle used to boast over the gong, which sat in a place of prominence in his study. He had won it in a gambling match right out from under Lord Luk-Hunad’s nose. Lord Dok-Kasemsan was not a man to crow, but if ever he did crow, it was the night he brought home that gong. “
I never saw his face more sick! He should learn not to bet family heirlooms on an ill-favored head.
”

Sunan knew he risked much in coming to Lord Luk-Hunad now. He also knew he never would have made it past the front door if he’d not brought along this treasure. He wasn’t used to offering bribes, and he hoped his lack of experience didn’t show.

Luk-Hunad’s face was a study, impossible to read behind his mask of wrinkles. The hairless brow above his left eye twitched as he glanced Sunan’s way. “I heard of your uncle’s recent demise,” he said. “Incarcerated in Lunthea Maly! What a sad end for a great man.”

“It was . . . unexpected,” Sunan said, and bowed deeper so that he would not have to look at the old lord.

“Unexpected? Ha!” Luk-Hunad set the gong down on a near table, watching the silver disc swing back and forth, suspended between two ebony pillars. The pillars were carved in the likenesses of Anwar and Hulan. On the face of the gong itself was etched a songbird. The whole figurine was no more than five inches tall, as though built by pixie hands. Despite its former owner’s declarations, anyone with eyes could see that it was a priceless work of bygone days, of craftsmanship no longer to be found even among the fine artisans of Nua-Pratut.

Luk-Hunad folded his hands into his opulent sleeves, the picture of Pen-Chan tranquility. “They say my dear Kasemsan tried to murder an Aja ambassador. They say he was hired for the task. Like a legendary Crouching Shadow come to life.” He laughed again, a thin, wheezing, delighted laugh. “The stuff of operas! The stuff of epics. But I know better. Ah yes, I know how it must have been. He always was a wretched man at the games, always too quick to know a winner, too quick to call a number. He angered a favorite of the emperor, no doubt, and now he’ll spend his last days rotting in the darkness beneath Manusbau. What a tragic fate for the head of the House of Dok! And he leaves no male heir, does he? The headship will fall to that cousin he hates. Too bad your blood is so tainted with Chhayan mud, or you would now be head of Dok, eh? Heheh.”

Sunan kept his face perfectly expressionless. It was a choice between courtesy or rage, and he knew rage would not benefit him now. So he waited until Luk-Hunad had quite finished his mirthful speculation. Then he said, as humbly as he could manage, “I know my uncle would have wished to see the gong returned into your care.”

“You know nothing of the sort,” Luk-Hunad replied. “Your uncle was my nemesis, and I his. Though I will admit,” he continued with a sudden far-off look in his old eyes, “sometimes a nemesis can grow dearer to the heart than a friend or even a lover. There is something . . .
foundational
in an enemy. Something that reminds one why one continues to live.”

Sunan felt his mouth go dry. He dared not speak, dared not even remind Luk-Hunad of the reason for his visit here, a visit he would gladly have avoided any other plan presented itself. But none had, so he stood quite still, bent at the waist, his hands folded in supplication. And he waited.

Luk-Hunad turned to the young man again, his face expressing more disgust than dislike. “So you want access to my library, eh?”

“If it please the gracious head of the House of Luk.”

“And why do you not instead visit the Center of Learning? Their library is far greater than my humble collection. Or did you not pass your Gruung, Chhayan boy?”

The bitterness of that pill was almost too much for Sunan. But he swallowed hard, forcing it down to fester in his belly, and responded with bland civility, “I find myself obliged to seek elsewhere for the information I need.”

“And what information might that be? You know there’s no trick to passing the Gruung. Either you have the brain for it or you haven’t. Unlike some, they don’t take well to bribes, still less well to threats.”

“I would neither bribe nor threaten to achieve my aim.”

Luk-Hunad barked a laugh at this blatant lie and once more turned to admire the little gong. The hammer had long since been lost, perhaps generations before Hunad’s time. Nevertheless, it was an object meant for reverence, though there was no reverence in Hunad’s avaricious face.

“I could just take this and send you on your way,” he said, eyeing Sunan to gauge his reaction. Sunan offered none but remained where he stood. Something about his stance bespoke a resolve that even the old lord could not completely ignore. He studied the young man, nephew of his rival, and his gaze, though sullied these many years by the malice of his spirit, still held a measure of discernment.

“You’re afraid,” he said. “What do you fear, Chhayan boy?”

Sunan said nothing. He could not risk another lie. One more, and he knew he’d be dismissed. His mind raced through the possible repercussions of his other options: the truth or silence. He opted for silence.

Luk-Hunad sighed, and his fingernail tapped once more at the gong, which offered back no more than a click in response. “You haven’t much about yourself that recommends you to me. I see little of your uncle in your eyes, nor of your poor, sad mother, may Hulan shine with pity on her. She had spirit, that one. They say she took up her father’s sword and went to battle alongside her brother when the Chhayans attacked. Had she not . . . had she remained in her father’s house among the other women . . .”

Had she done so, Sunan himself would never have been born. He held firmly to his silence, his last defense.

“Very well,” Hunad said, shaking his head as though disappointed. And there was, perhaps, a trace of sorrow in his wicked old voice. “Help yourself to my library. For today only. And don’t return to my door again, for the House of Luk has no welcome for you, son of the Tiger.”

With that, and with no bow or other form of acknowledgement, the old man hobbled from the chamber, leaving Sunan where he stood.

Sunan released his breath in a gust. And he snarled, but quietly for fear of being overheard, “May Anwar smite your bones to black!”

He wanted to tear something, to break something. But he dared not. He had humbled himself too far to risk losing his goal now. And the library of the House of Luk surrounded him.

Low chests lined the perimeter of the room, and in each of these were stored dozens of scrolls in no particular order. Histories, poetries, philosophies, speculations, natural sciences: all were jumbled together and must be carefully unrolled and inspected. With one day in which to do so!

Sunan fell to his work. After weeks of hiding in his uncle’s abandoned house, he had awakened this morning with a sudden, driving urge to act. To get out. To do something to prove to himself that he still had some charge over his own fate. He knew the Mask watched him, though he could discern no sign of him no matter how he looked. But surely if he did not speak his purpose out loud, the Mask could not guess it? And so long as he did not leave Suthinnakor City . . .

His hands trembled as he swiftly inspected and set aside as useless the first chest of scrolls. A vague part of his mind sighed indignantly at the knowledge that the House of Luk—famed for its distinct lack of scholarship among the learned houses of Nua-Pratut—should own such a collection. But the House of Luk was always one for gaming tables and races and wrestling matches, and they tended toward unnatural good luck. Most of this library, Sunan did not doubt, had been won from other houses. Possibly some of his uncle’s own collection now resided here, unread and disregarded save as a trophy. No wonder Kasemsan had gloried in the winning of that little gong!

The second chest proved as useless as the first. With the reverence due such a large amount of learning, Sunan carefully replaced the scrolls, wishing he had the time to catalogue them as they deserved. A proper task for a Tribute Scholar, he thought bitterly, and slammed the lid shut.

He moved on to the third one. And there on the top of the pile lay a scroll that looked fresh as the day it had been written, the paper pure white, contrasting sharply with the browns and yellows beneath it. Frowning, Sunan removed it and carefully undid the securing clasps on each end. He unrolled the parchment, and his eyes widened.

The handwriting was familiar.

He plunged his hand into his robes and pulled forth the much-battered little scroll given him months before on the steps of the Middle Court in the Center of Learning. The scroll given him by Overseer Rangsun. The scroll which had changed his life forever.

Kneeling, he propped the larger new scroll open on the floor before him, setting paper weights at its corners. He unrolled the little one and set it atop the larger, comparing the writing. It was the same. Absolutely the same; he would bet his life on it, even to a Luk man. He read the writing of the first scroll again, words which were by now so familiar to him he could have recited them in his sleep:

“Henceforth you will consider yourself in the service of the Crouching Shadows, assuming the role and duties of your honored uncle Kasemsan, Master of Dok, fulfilling his final purpose or perishing in the attempt. You will await further instructions and make no effort to leave Suthinnakor until otherwise directed.

Should you refuse, your life is forfeit.”

He slid the scroll away and looked once more at the one beneath, reading the hand as though he read the familiar face of his nearest enemy.

“Consider the Crouching Shadows, figures of mythology, as dear to the heart of a Pen-Chan as the Lordly Sun and the Lady Moon. Figures of mystery—mystery that one would never wish to see resolved. Figures of darkness, moving through our fears and our nightmares. Figures of comfort, heroes of old, blessed with powers beyond mortal comprehension. And yet, all mortal. All born of flesh and blood, but flesh and blood made so much more.

Assassins. A foolish idea, one which a scholar of your learning must have already dismissed. For what is heroic about a man trained to kill, however skillfully he may perform this talent? How could a band of killers so vitally, so profoundly affect the very fabric of our minds, like a dark thread running through a robe of red silk? There must be more, you say to yourself. There must be something you do not know.

And of course there is. For everything you have ever known of the Crouching Shadows, every tale, every rousing adventure of mysterious summonings, of furtive villains, of futile escapes and ultimate deaths—it is nothing more than misdirection. You have guessed as much.

What you have not guessed is the truth. The Crouching Shadows are not assassins. They are protectors. They are servants. They will guard their Mistress to the very utmost, to the ends of their lives and existence. They remember the Age of True Worship, beyond the symbols and sacraments now practiced in place of faith. They remember, and they protect what they know.

The Crouching Shadows are the guardians of the Goddess herself. They are the Lady Moon’s final defense in this world of Death and destruction.

And that is enough for you, Juong-Khla Sunan.”

Sunan gasped and sat back, allowing the scroll to snap out from beneath the paperweights and roll up on itself again. But no. He must be mistaken. He must have misread his name, caught up as he was, full to the brim of so many fanciful fears. He must have misread it!