The Grass King’s Concubine (34 page)

“We aren’t Cadre.”

“No. But…” Yelena crouched close to her twin. “We are of this place. Stone-born. Shaped to reflect. We can shape again. Reflect the man.”

“We like this shape.” Julana was frightened.

There was a long silence. Then, slowly, softly, Yelena said, “We don’t need to lose this shape. Cadre don’t. They’re man-shaped. They’re other-shaped. As they choose.”

“As they choose,” Julana said. “And we could choose?”

“I don’t know,” Yelena said, “but I think we could try to.”

Where to begin? The twins remembered themselves always and only in ferret form: teeth and claws, lithe bodies, lively whiskers, all twitch and bounce, wriggle and pounce. Man shape was so much bigger, so much clumsier. They could not think their way into it. “So much space to fill,” said Julana, watching the palace servants at work. “No senses. Everything so flat for them.”

Man shape did not see the world in scent, did not fit through cracks, under chests, behind curtains. Man shape blundered, blunt and slow and hapless, barely registering the full spectrum of the world. Man shape slept through the soft rustlings of mice in the arras, failed to distinguish all the colored layers of smell, used dead steel tools to take its prey. “Man shape is no fun,” mourned Yelena.

“Perhaps we could teach man our shape,” Julana said. “That would be better. Better for him.”

“Better,” Yelena agreed. Then her whiskers drooped. “But he couldn’t learn. Humans don’t do that.”

They must change. The idea had taken root, burrowed its way into their deepest selves to remain, unshakable and awkward. They crept away from their vigil, afraid to practice where Marcellan might see and be alarmed. At the back of a half-empty granary, they struggled to stretch their bodies larger, to shake skin free of fur. All about them, the ground grew scorched, cracked with effort. Rice softened, began to decay, so that the granary masters cursed and muttered. In the Court of the Fallows, Marcellan wrote out page after page in his square script, all for Liyan and his word-hungry new machine. In Liyan’s workshop, the printing press thumped and rattled and churned out printed page after printed page.

“Man shape is man shape,” said Yelena. “Once we know it for this, we know it forever. Think.”

Julana could not think of a use for that. “Bad at hunting. Bad at hiding.”

“But we can talk to the man every day. Always.”

They had less time for Marcellan, preoccupied as they were. Each night, they slept deep, tucked behind his knees or under his chin. But they no longer followed him around the palace. “At least you still come for this,” he said to them one morning.

“He misses us,” said Julana.

“Man is ours.”

They sneaked into the Courtyard of the Cadre, through the many feet of bannermen, eluding Sujien’s traps. The Cadre changed as they would between man shape and domain, all save Qiaqia, who wore her nature inwardly. Pressed flat and breathing softly, the twins watched as Sujien stretched himself into the air, let limb and flesh dissolve into wind. They studied Liyan’s hands as they blended into flame to manipulate metals or sear rock. They stared and stared, seeking to penetrate the secret that allowed Shirai to go so readily from stone to flesh, flesh to stone. In her separate quarters in the Courtyard of the Concubine, the twins loitered under divans to observe Tsai as she drifted and dissolved into her waters.

It availed them not at all. Their bodies remained solid
and muscular and small. They were made by the Grass King to be ferrets, his fitches, indulged and petted and upbraided as he saw fit. They had access to all parts of his palace, they might steal and gnaw and play as they chose. But they could not change. That had not been described in the hour of their making. “We can’t,” said Julana, at last, flopping exhausted and disconsolate in the cool grass of the Walled Western Orchard Garden.

“There has to be a way.” But Yelena’s tone was equally bleak. They knew hunting and theft, games and escape, biting and running and writhing. They did not know learning. They had never tried it before.

Julana said, “We could ask the Grass King to change us.”

“He’d want to know why.”

“Might not.” Julana was not sure about that. “He might think it was a game.”

“We never wanted that game before.”

They could not tell the Grass King their real reason. Both were certain about that. Somehow, it felt wrong, felt dangerous. Julana said, slowly, “Perhaps man can teach us.”

“Man has only one shape.”

“He taught Liyan. About…about machines.”

“He used writing.” But Yelena was thinking. Her whiskers came forward. “We could study the man. His scent, his taste. Learn him from himself.” She rose, body quivering. “Hunt his shape through him.”

Hunting they knew. Side by side, they raced from the garden, shooting between the legs of clerks and maids, courtiers and bannerman, leaving in their wake a trail of dropped scrolls and spilled pitchers, bruised shins and smeared floors. They tumbled through the door of Marcellan’s room and came to a halt in a tumble at his feet. He laughed. “Is something chasing you, little ones?”

“Ideas,” said Yelena, eyes bright, ears pricked. And she batted at his ankle.

“Ow!” said Marcellan, pulling back. “Are you hungry? Here, this is nicer.” And he laid a handful of dried fruit down before them.

Food was always good. The twins nibbled on the fruit, all the while watching him. They burrowed their way under his garments, pressing as close as close to his skin, coating themselves in its scent, its textures. They chewed on his hair, licked his hands and face, bound themselves to him as far as they could. “Well,” said Marcellan, “I see I’m in favor again.” He rubbed a hand along one furry spine. “I’m glad you’re back.”

Yelena arched back against him. “We’re here to learn you.”

“Our man,” said Julana.

“Ours.”

They sat in his lap to watch him weave, heads following each movement of his hands across the loom. Out of the hanks of thread, the picture grew and grew, golden trees rising against a background of ocher and green, scarlet birds perching in their branches. “I should add you two,” Marcellan said, and his hands danced. There, curled up together in the very crown of a tree were two brown slim bodies. “Us,” said Julana, craning forward to look.

“Man has learned us.” Yelena sniffed at the fabric carefully. “Us and not us. Same shape. Wool smell.”

“Like a mirror,” said Julana. The twins knew mirrors, had long ago learn to ignore their lies. “A mirror made of cloth.”

“Like a mirror.” And Yelena curled back down into Marcellan’s lap. He stroked her head, and she pressed closer, eyes closing. Julana coiled against her, lulled by the rhythm of the loom. They remained there even when Shirai brought in food, poking their noses onto the tray to thieve small tidbits. Marcellan laughed and indulged them.

“They are perhaps better not encouraged, those creatures,” said Shirai. “They take advantage, sometimes.”

“They do no harm,” Marcellan said, scratching Julana under her chin.

“We do what we want,” Yelena said, baring her teeth at Shirai.

“Grass King says we can,” said Julana.

Shirai raised his brows at them. “They do chew things. You must take care over that.”

“I will. Thank you for the warning.” And Marcellan fed a lump of cheese to Yelena. Shirai smiled and offered a similar piece to Julana.

“Cadre can’t stop us,” Julana said, mouth full. “Not unless the Grass King tells them.”

“Perhaps.” Yelena said. “Good that it’s Shirai. Sujien would drive us away. And Qiaqia…”

“Qiaqia…” Both twins shivered.

Marcellan looked down into his lap, “What’s wrong, little ones?”

“Feed them and they’ll forget,” said Shirai.

Perhaps that ought to have been true. The twins were not built for enduring emotions. They bounced and played, fled and trembled, snarled and clawed and slept, and each thing was absolute and entire within its unique moment. And yet, ever since Marcellan had come before the Grass King, everything within them had begun changing. Hour by hour, they had come to circle him, focused on this entertainment that was somehow larger than any game they had ever played before.

If game it was. The twins did not know how else to act, fixed as they were on the moment’s goal. They did not know to count time or feel change, only to be themselves as those selves were found. Somewhere in the days and nights of lurking to watch, of following Marcellan about the palace and seeing it again through his questions, they had changed. They had learned love, without ever having a name for it.

That night, they slept in the crook of Marcellan’s arms, deep limp animal sleep, and their dreams were full of wide skies and stone buildings, of cramped and smoky dwellings, and the strange warm scent of humankind. They shifted and stretched, rolling in their sleep, restless and disturbed. Whiskers quivered and shrank back, limbs lengthened, fur retreated, patch by slow patch, revealing sallow cold skin. Under closed lids, eyes altered, noses pulled back. Bodies
grew large to crowd each other, bumping and nudging and shoving. One of them—perhaps it was Julana—pushed at a sharpness that pressed into her ribs and wriggled. The other turned, seeking space in which to uncurl. Feet caught, legs tangled, one of them pushed again, and they tumbled, an ungainly tangle, onto the tiles beside the pile of carpets and cushions on which Marcellan slept.

Blinking, startled, they leaped apart, ready to bite and bristle. Dark eyes met dark eyes and locked. No fur, no whiskers, dull senses…Yelena said, “Cold.”

“Cold and big.” Julana began to shake. “Can’t smell. Can’t hear.” She grabbed for her sister, knocked her down, hands clutching. “Not right. Not comfortable.” She shook her head. “Talking doesn’t work right.” Her ears were held back, ignoring her desires to twitch them. The ground was too far away. “Bad. Bad.”

Yelena pulled free of her. “Quiet now. Still now.” Her skin burned her, too thin for the air. The tiles were hard and chill. She curled to sit. “Think. Think.” Her breath came short and sharp and tight. Julana reached for her again, and this time she let her sister take her hands. “Listen,” Yelena said, and her voice was dark and harsh to her ears, “we learned. Remember. We wanted to learn.”

“Learn,” Julana echoed, and swallowed. She looked at her twin, at herself, at the long limbs and stiff torso. She said, “We changed…”

We changed,” Yelena said. “We learned to be human shape.”

The Mica Forest

J
EHAN WOKE WITH A BUMP and found himself sprawled in the bottom of the boat on top of the saddlebags. He pushed himself upright with one hand and blinked. “What?”

“Shore.” A twin perched on the boat rail, dressed and clear-eyed. “Boat found it.”

The boat had run straight into it, judging by his bruises. His neck was stiff. Jehan wriggled himself into a more comfortable position, rubbing at the ache. The other twin, still ferret-shaped, jumped into his lap. In the stern, Clairet chewed on a mouthful of something. The container that held her feed stood open. He leaned forward and closed it before she could eat too much, then asked, “What time is it?” and realized at once that the question was futile. The twins did not deal in the time that he knew. He wriggled some more, stretching out his shoulders. “Where do we go now?”

“Into the forest.” The sense of urgency was gone from the twins’ behavior. The one on the rail scratched at her arm. The one on his knee pushed herself under his hand, looking for attention. He stroked her head, and she cuddled closer.

He said, “What forest?”

“This forest.” The human twin put her head to one side. “Trees to echo the dead wood. It touches on the domain of darkness.”

He shook his head. He should have known better than to ask. “Are there people living in it? Animals?”

“Sometimes.”

“And what about food and water?” Which twin was this? “Umm, Yelena?”

“Julana.”

Did they do that on purpose? He did not know. It seemed likely. He said, “You fed the pony. Thank you.”

“She was hungry.”

He picked Yelena out of his lap and set her on the bench, then rose to his feet.

The boat had come to rest on a low, sloping wash of sand. It curved away on both sides, black and gray and brown, studded here and there with clumps of stiff grasses. In front of them, it mounded up into rolling dunes, held tight by more of the strange grass. He could see no trees. To his right, perhaps two hundred yards away, a strand of something darker glistened, snaking down into the moss. A river. Hopefully a river. Gathering up the canteen, he jumped over the edge of the boat. The moss drifted and sighed, making lazy forays for his feet as he walked along the strand. Underfoot, the sand creaked, giving gently under his steps, a little moisture seeping from it. Relief swept him, shivered into veins and muscles and skin. He broke into a jog, felt the air warm around him. Perhaps, after all, it would be all right.

He could smell water, a blue sharp smell unlike any other. At the lip of the stream he stopped, dropping to his knees. Most of the bed was dry, but a single stream still flowed at its center. There, the bed was brilliant with crystal sparks, blue and green and citrine. He dipped a hand into it and felt it explore him with its chill fingers. There was no hint of stagnation, no obvious contamination. He scooped a little in his palm and brought it to his mouth. Yes, the scent was good. Carefully, he sipped. Crisp, perhaps a little acrid, as if it had flowed over iron somewhere. He hesitated. It would be safest to make a fire and boil it before using it to refresh his supplies. And if there was water here, he
could hope—he could choose to hope—that Aude, too, had water, wherever she was. With enough water, he would survive and she would survive, and they would find each other.