Lords of Grass and Thunder (31 page)

“Visiting an old friend, of course.” The woman smiled conspiratorially, sharing the sort of secrets that had gotten Sechule’s grandmother murdered.

“I don’t know you.” Sechule made a warding sign behind her skirts. This creature spoke as if she were the Lady Chaiujin, but she wore a different face.

“Come now. We were friends once.” The air around the woman swirled in a thickening mist, in which her face ran like water, changing.

“Lady khaness!” Sechule bowed deeply, as subject to ruler, burning to know what the demon wanted of her, and her son. She had met the Lady Chaiujin from time to time when gathering herbs of the kind neither wanted known about them. But Chimbai’s second wife had never declared herself a friend to anyone.

The lady held out her hands to be kissed. Sechule hesitated only a moment before she brushed her lips upon the backs of the lady’s fingers. In the form of an emerald green bamboo snake the lady had sunk her venomous fangs into her husband’s breast, murdering Chimbai-khan in their bed. Her fingers seemed perfectly normal, but beneath her sleeves the skin shone a pale green, with a faint tracing of what might be the reflection of the pattern of her green dress, or might be scales sheathing her arms above her wrists. Sechule wished briefly that she hadn’t turned the mirrors, but the khan’s palace had many such and they hadn’t stopped the lady’s magic. But today, perhaps, she meant no harm.

“Do you mind?” With a graceful gesture in the air, the mist returned. When it had lifted again, the lady wore a stranger’s face, spoke with a stranger’s voice.

Sechule wiped her hands nervously on the apron she wore. She had never liked it. Mergen had given it to her when she still had hopes of him. When she promised to put it safely in her marriage chest, he had chastised her, saying that could never happen between them. After so many years, stains splashed the embroidered birds nesting on vines curling sensually at her breast and she wished she had put on something more fitting a visit from a khaness, even if she were a murderess.

“Be at peace,” the lady encouraged her, “We share the same hope for your son, Qutula.”

“My son? I don’t understand . . .”

“Of course you do. You saw me leave his sleeve and invited my presence with your turned back. We both want the best for your son. Mergen’s son. The rightful heir.”

The lady smiled, as if this must be the most obvious thing in the world, that she should take an interest in Sechule’s blanket-sons. “I cannot say I know him well. But . . . intimately . . . He knows of my interest in him. The spirits will approve, once it is done; his father sits on the dais as khan, after all. What could be more natural than that a son follow his father’s path?”

Sechule blinked, but otherwise showed little of the feelings that bubbled inside her like the stewpot on the firebox. Qutula, khan. She had dreamed it, but to know that others felt the same, that her son had attracted the support of supernatural forces to his claim—

“His father has not acknowledged him.” The most bitter reminder of Mergen’s treachery burned in her heart. Until his father claimed him, Qutula—and Bekter, for that matter—would be heir to nothing.

“An obstacle, I know, but one I trust him to overcome.”

Not all the years of his young life had taught his father how to love him enough to name him son. That left little, in Sechule’s estimation, but murder. Not the khan, of course, since that would put Chimbai’s heir on the dais. But if some accident were to befall Prince Tayyichiut, to whom else would Mergen turn?

The lady followed all Sechule’s thoughts with a smile on her lips. “You see it, too,” she said, though neither spoke aloud the words that would seal the pact between them.

Many questions remained unanswered, but of them all one troubled Sechule most: “Surely Qutula must value the support of the spirit world, but how does his place at his father’s side help you?”

“His father will not live forever.”

Sechule guessed that the lady would make certain of that.

“As his gift to me, Qutula has promised to return me to my rightful place on the dais, as his wife. I have come to assure you that I welcome your presence at my side there, as the mother of the khan.”

“But how . . .” She didn’t mention the potion she had given her son to feed the prince. It would begin the process, but not end it. They needed illness over time, she thought, not another suspicious sudden death. The lady seemed to know all that, however, and set it aside with an undulating wave of her hand.

“That is for Qutula to decide. We are only women, after all. We may advise, but men must wield the sword and the spear in our names.”

War? Qutula had ambition, surely, and followers, but she had hoped to limit the conflict to a few judicious murders. Sechule shrugged a languid shoulder. “We women don’t wear the stag’s horns, but we have our own quieter ways to set things right again.”

“Exactly.” With a pointed look at the empty jar that had lately held the death’s-head mushrooms, the lady added, “I can teach you more.”

It seemed pointless to dissemble with an ally. “Yes,” Sechule said, and returned her guest’s smile. “Would you like some tea? From the other chest, of course.”

“That would be very nice—” The lady sat in a place of honor while Sechule pulled out cups and offered honey or butter for the tea.

Eluneke slept, and in her dreams the king of the toads came to her with all his followers behind him. “Queen of the humans,” he said. “Queen of the toads,” and bowed to her. When she tried to raise him up, he turned into the prince and kissed her, but his kiss was deadly and she swooned. He reached to catch her, but she passed through his arms, falling as if from out of the sky, and above her she heard the gods thunder their anger that she had disturbed them at their rest.

When she struggled out of dreams, Bolghai was there to pat her shoulder and tell her, “Sleep.” It seemed much easier than waking, so she did as she was told.

“Butter,”the false Lady Chaiujin chose, while snaky thoughts of juicy rodents and her hostess’ beating blood slithered through her mind.

Sechule poured. “You know my son Qutula has ambitions,” she said as they sat to drink. “Bekter worries me, however. He hesitates; that’s his way. He needs persuasions that a mother can’t apply.”

The emerald green bamboo serpent demon drank, though she had no taste for tea. “I suppose I could whisper inducements in his ear.”

And if he remained unmoved? Did Sechule intend for him the fate of the serpent’s late husband, Chimbai-Khan? A mother in the demon realm had many young, and ate them to sustain her when other prey was scarce. She hadn’t noticed such behavior in humans, though they seemed quick enough to send their young to be slaughtered by others.

“We think alike,” Sechule agreed. “I knew I could depend on you.”

“Of course.” Lady Chaiujin nodded, though she suspected the woman was very wrong in her certainty

“For myself,” Sechule continued, offering an opportunity. “I think I will make a brief visit to the ger-tent palace. My son will be singing a new song he wrote for the khan.”

“I suspect the khan will grow tired very soon thereafter.” The lady gave a smile a bit too mocking.

As is the way of allies who need but do not necessarily like each other, Sechule kept her objection to herself. Only the brief flicker of anger in her eyes gave her away. “You will have only my sons to attend you tonight, whichever bed you choose. The palace is full of fine young men with strong arms and an appreciative eye. I’m sure I can find one with a warm bed as well.”

“Enjoy your young man, then, as I shall enjoy mine.” Bekter was not as handsome as his brother, nor as sharp of wit. Qutula had come to the desired conclusion about his cousin the prince on his own. All she had to do was encourage him. Bekter, like a dumb beast who adored his master while that master sharpened his butchering tools, still hoped that a steadfast nature would win for him his father’s love. She anticipated no great pleasure from the encounter, but trusted the young man to be quick.

The boy’s mother must have picked up some of the lady’s hesitation, because she stopped in the doorway with a warning. “Don’t hurt him. He is not, perhaps, the hero a lady dreams about when she sleeps alone, but he has a good and willing heart. And whatever you may have thought you understood of them, remember this about mortals. They mourn each other more in the loss than they may love each other while living. If you wish to bind Qutula to your will, you would not hurt his brother.”

So, she didn’t mean for her demon conspirator to eat him after all. “You worry too much,” the stranger who had once been the Lady Chaiujin assured her. “I value my alliances. But if it makes you feel better, I promise to be kind to your son.” She wondered what other reassurances the woman needed, but that seemed enough. With a final bow to acknowledge their pact, Sechule departed.

Alone in the unfamiliar tent, the lady poked among the herbs and poisons and examined Sechule’s clothes with a sneer. Finally, she returned to her serpent form, coiled in a nest she made of Sechule’s best silk coat. Deep within her slumber, she felt the promise of a snaky egg slowly taking shape. Soon she would need to find a father. But not Bekter. Her child must be the heir to a khan.

Mergen wouldn’t do. Another man in his place might have been grateful for the opportunity she had given him. But he hadn’t wanted to be khan and he’d been a lot angrier about Chimbai’s death than she’d expected. Sechule must be right about brothers.

Prince Tayy was just as useless to her. The boy saw more than skin-deep and he had never forgiven her for his mother, let alone his father. So that left Qutula, who had a mind for strategy and a heart for conspiracy. And later, when her place at his side as the mother of the heir was secure, she would make it seem that Sechule had committed his murder.

Thinking such thoughts, she slept.

Chapter Twenty

T
HE GER-TENT PALACE was lit with many lamps reflecting off the mirrors on the lattices. It looked like the hunters of the Qubal had captured little moons Han and Chen and put them in cages to reflect their holy light upon the khan. Sechule slipped in at the back, where the light was dimmest, and gradually worked her way toward the brightest glow around the dais. There were those among the nobles and Mergen’s advisers who eyed her with a speculative gleam, wondering if she planned to entertain them with a scandal tonight. Would she confront the khan, spitting curses like a deserted wife? What would the khan do when he saw her? Bekter had begun to play, however—she recognized his playing by the slightly off-key G—and his presence in front of the khan gave her reason to be there.

“Sechule.” A hand reached out, stroked down her arm as she passed. Altan, that was, a friend of the prince in Qutula’s age group. He had graced her bed on a few occasions, but neither had sustained the other’s interest for long. She heard his family had chosen him a young wife from a wealthy clan. Still, if nothing else presented itself, he seemed willing to take a walk to the river. She returned the caress with a warning tap of her finger against the back of his hand. Discretion, that warned, and promised, “Maybe.” He smiled, and drifted away to take his place among the prince’s guard. Later, she knew, he would look for her in the half-light below the firebox.

There were other men. Powerful men, who stood almost as close to the ear of the khan as Yesugei had, would bed her for her looks and perhaps to challenge the khan, if he still cared. Young men who believed that sleeping with the khan’s mistress—even an old one—put them closer to the khan himself would pretend to an attraction they didn’t feel. In the dark, they would doubtless manage. The sheep never suffered for lack of company, after all.

No one hindered her passage through the crowd of followers and hangers-on, past the guardsmen with their blue coats and their backs to the lattices. They should, perhaps, have stopped her as she neared the dais. She had exceeded the limits of her rank. But Bekter was her son, and the whole court appreciated his songs, if not his playing.

The usurper, Prince Tayyichiut, was there, trying to pay attention, though his gaze seemed distant and given to restless sweeps over the crowd. Mergen seemed to be doing a better job of listening to his blanket-son, though sometimes a smile threatened to break over his face at inopportune moments in the song. Bortu was watching the khan with her own secrets simmering in her eyes. Sechule wondered what that was about. Then Mergen caught her gaze. He didn’t turn away.

The ger-tent palace was hot tonight, almost crowded, especially nearest the dais of the khan. Farther back, the crowd was thinning as it did late at night. Those below the firebox had less to lose at his displeasure, as if he wouldn’t have done the same in their places. Mergen took it all in with an ironic eye.
All this belongs to me
, he thought. A little bit of pride touched his lips. He’d kept the Qubal alive, after all, and together as an ulus in spite of murder and war. For the rest, he wondered what fate had put him here when he knew himself to be singularly unsuited to rule.