The Poison Prince by S. C. Emmett

Author:S. C. Emmett [EMMETT, S. C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 2020-11-17T00:00:00+00:00

THE INSULTED MAIDEN

My lady,” Daebo Nijera said, softly. “There is a visitor.”

Sabwone rather liked this new side of the Daebo maiden aunt. The elder woman crept quietly in, gave her news, and fussed over her princess’s silence. It was far more enjoyable than being trapped in a palanquin all day. For one thing, the bed was just as soft as her own despite being a Shan-style box with no short compass-pillars at the corners; the rooms were the best for several miles and the innkeeper’s family was relegated to the stable while their royal visitor recuperated. For another, several of the physicians could be bribed to send letters home.

“A visitor?” Sabwone took care to make her question tentative, despairing. It was more than worth a few moments of pain and a fraction of her humors splattering a palanquin for such a satisfying turn of events. She should have done this before the border, maybe she could have been sent home.

“Yes.” Nijera hesitated. “There must be a screen.”

So. The visitor was a man, maybe one of the Shan lords. That would be entertaining. “Of course. What does this visitor wish of me?”

“I am sure I cannot say. I have written to your mother.”

“Have you?” Sabwone wriggled her toes luxuriously. The rai was not sticky now, and when Nijera brought it she offered each bowl with both hands like a servant. There had even been walanir with breakfast, sharp and pungent so early in the season but very welcome in both greens and tiny red-rimmed slices. Imagining Mother reading shakily brushed characters and bursting into tears was satisfying, but highly unlikely. Still, she might have a pang or two of conscience at sending her daughter off in such a fashion. My baby, bleeding in a palanquin— just like in a novel, indeed.

“The dispatch rider carried little else; it will be swift.” Nijera’s skirts rustled as she moved. Travel did not agree with her, she was losing whatever pleasing plumpness she had found as a poor cousin eating another family’s rai. “They will see to the screen now, First Princess.”

In short order, servants had hauled the plain but serviceable item into the darkened bedroom, arranging its joints around the bed with Nijera supervising with a sharp word or two and plenty of tiny tch-tch sounds, like a peasant girl preparing for motherhood by play-wrapping a doll. With that done, the maiden aunt went to the door and spoke softly into the hall; a man’s footsteps and the creaking of leather half-armor— a familiar, tame sound, reminding Sabwone of her brothers— intruded on the bedroom.

“First Princess Garan Sabwone.” His Zhaon was quiet and cultured, but the burring of the Shan dialect would win him no prizes. “You brighten Shan with your presence.”

“Many thanks for the compliment.” She could afford to play the wilting reed now, and made every word soft and melting at its edges. “Whom do I have the honor of addressing, my lord?”

He was silent for a moment. “I bring news, and a question.

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