Of Dragons, Feasts and Murders Page 3

  Most of Kim Diep’s face didn’t move, but he saw her blink, slowly. “I’m not too sure what this is.”

  “A coin found on a corpse,” Thuan said. He kept his voice light.

  “I’m not too sure why you’re coming to me.”

  “Ah,” Thuan said. “As one of Second Aunt’s… favourites, I thought you’d want to know I was looking into the matter.” He shrugged. “Or rather, my husband is. He’s so dreadfully bored, poor thing, and this has caught his interest.”

  Fortunately Asmodeus wasn’t there to make forbidding faces.

  “I see.” Kim Diep sipped her tea, watching him for a while. “Looking to find the owner of this fine coin?” She reached out for it. Thuan didn’t stop her. A thin, stubby hand wrapped around it, lifted it to the light. “It’s a pretty trinket, but a rather ineffective one as currency goes.”

  “Certainly not at the current time,” Thuan said. A sharp intake of breath from the eunuch. He went on, “It would be dreadfully inconvenient if my husband or I ran into trouble, wouldn’t it? A diplomatic incident of epic proportion with a House that’s nowhere as ruined or as disunited as the dragon kingdom. Hawthorn always avenges its own.” He smiled, brightly.

  Kim Diep was still holding the coin in front of her. She grinned, too. Thuan’s message had been clear: touch him or Asmodeus, and he’d lead them straight back to her. “You’re very clever,” she said. “But it’s just a coin, in the end. And corpses don’t really have stories to tell, unless that dreadfully bored husband of yours has a way to raise the dead.”

  As it happened, he did. It was a costly spell and relied on the victim being a Fallen, which wasn’t going to work there. Thuan debated lying about it, and decided not. It would be easy enough to see Asmodeus wasn’t doing necromancy. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “But he’s full of surprises.”

  Mostly the nasty ones that came at the end of a blade when one least expected it. “Hmmm,” Kim Diep said. “You’re staying until the New Year is over, aren’t you?”

  “Family visits,” Thuan said, brightly. And teachers, if Old Bao was still alive. If they all survived the next few days.

  “Such an exciting time.” Kim Diep smiled.

  “I haven’t had a proper New Year’s banquet in years,” Thuan said. He watched her face, carefully. “The cook in House Hawthorn does her best, but the banh tet just never come out tasting quite right.”

  “Well, I do hope you find a chance to enjoy the banquet.” Kim Diep said. She used a peculiar tense, something that wasn’t the future but something a great deal more uncertain. A slip of the tongue? “After it’s all over, I’m sure we can find some time to walk into the gardens.”

  Thuan smiled. “Ah. I didn’t know you enjoyed the gardens.”

  “I don’t,” Kim Diep said. “But they remind me of home.”

  The accent she put on the last word was too sharp and too wounding to be a coincidence. A bait he was meant to take? But the anger didn’t seem feigned. “I thought home was the imperial citadel.” Once taken inside the Purple Forbidden City, concubines wouldn’t be allowed to leave—even after the death of the current empress they would live in her mausoleum, performing the worship of the dead.

  Kim Diep laid the coin by the side of Thuan’s untouched tea cup, eyes not leaving his face. “Fish yearn for the sea, and birds for the sky.”

  The fish and the birds were common metaphors for the concubines. “And some make their own sea and sky, don’t they.”

  A bright smile, from Kim Diep. “Sometimes mulberry fields turn into the sea.” A metaphor for profound upheavals.

  “The trees die,” Thuan said, sharply.

  A shrug, from Kim Diep. “They die in cages anyway, don’t they? Some of them have a chance, no matter how small, to take root elsewhere—drifting upwards like the banyan tree to the moon.”

  “Upheavals,” Thuan said, swallowing bitterness on his tongue. “I see.” She wanted to escape the imperial citadel and she was hoping to use the confusion to do that. “There are other ways.”

  A level gaze, from Kiem Diep. “I should think it’s too late.”

  That was as good as admitting the battle lines were drawn, and no favour he could beg on her behalf from Second Aunt was going to solve anything. And her remark earlier suggested that whatever was going to happen would take place long before the banquet, which meant he was running out of time. He rose, pocketing the coin. “I see,” he said, again. “Home isn’t always everything you expect.” Asmodeus would have pointed out she’d got there because her own family had sold her for money and status. Thuan already knew it would be cruel and pointless.

  Kim Diep laughed. “Says the man who lives away from the imperial citadel.”

  Thuan thought of the library and the books, and the way the shelves would tower over him, a reassuring, constant thing that made sense and didn’t try to utterly consume him. “I’m not saying I don’t understand.”

  “No.” Kim Diep sounded almost regretful. But then her face set again. “But it won’t change anything, and we both know it. Go back to your House, child. There’s still time.”

  But not much, not anymore.

  * * *

  Thuan got back to their rooms, and heard the low, steady voice of Asmodeus softly talking to someone. Someone from the kitchens he’d got to befriend? That didn’t really seem in character, but why not?

  He pushed open the door, and found Asmodeus in the bedroom, kneeling on the floor, quietly talking to a hunched, shivering form by the bedside table.

  What in Heaven—?

  It was a crab woman, and she was wearing chains linking wrists and ankles—and she’d drawn so far back into herself he could barely make out her face. She was hurt, too: the blood had dripped on the cracked tiles and the smell of it saturated the room, covering even Asmodeus’s usual perfume of orange blossom and bergamot. “Asmodeus, this really isn’t the time for your pleasures—”

  “Ssh,” Asmodeus said, barely looking up. He extended a hand towards the woman. “You can come out. I’m not going to harm you. I don’t need a plaything currently.”

  Thuan had sharp vision, and he didn’t really need much light: when the woman shifted, he saw the brand on her upper arm—an old, faded thing of cracks on the vivid orange of the carapace patches on her skin, and its matching twin on the other arm, not quite as faded but no longer red or angry, or recent. Furtive theft. A plaything, Asmodeus had said. “A gift,” he said, aloud. Of course. A recidivist condemned to death: Second Aunt’s idea of an expendable person, to keep Asmodeus sweet. Or a barbed gift from Kim Diep to betray them. “You really shouldn’t—”

  Anger sparkled in Asmodeus’s eyes. “Be silent. You’re making it worse.” And, turning again to the woman. “May I?” When there was no answer, he reached out, fingers of one hand touching, lightly, the manacle on the wrist. It sprang open. The woman watched him, slowly and carefully, as he undid the other one, and the two on her ankles. “There.” He held out his hand again: she still didn’t move, though everything spoke of arrested flight. At length he rose; walked to the reception room under the gazes of both her and Thuan, and came back with the large tray of candied fruit and tea that had been on the table. He laid by her side, a clear offering. “Try one. They’re quite good,” he said, gravely. “If you’ll excuse me, I need a word with my husband here.” He grabbed, seemingly absent-mindedly—except of course he seldom did anything absent-mindedly—a candied soursop which he ostentatiously nibbled on—offering permission? Telling her it wasn’t poisoned? Both?

  Then he turned to face Thuan.

  Thuan let out the breath he wasn’t aware of holding. “Not here,” he said.

  Asmodeus shrugged, and walked with Thuan to the reception room. Behind him, the woman was reaching out for the tray, face screwed in concentration. “You weren’t far behind me.”

  “I take it you didn’t bring her from the kitchens,” Thuan said, his heart sinking.

  “No. I found this delightful
surprise when I opened the door. Whoever sent her our way thoughtfully added boxes of loose tea which I assume are for you, but which do have the advantage of being a little less embarrassing to deal with.”

  “That’s not the point.” Thuan’s voice was more forceful than he’d thought. “You should send her back.”

  A raised eyebrow. “You’re the squeamish one, usually.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  A pause. “Do you really think our mysterious benefactor would take good care of her?”

  Oh. They’d kill her, or—at the very best—send her back to prison to complete her sentence. Thuan opened his mouth, closed it. “She’s a condemned thief.”

  “I take it condemnation doesn’t mean a sharp warning and told to go home and sin no more.”

  “It’s a death penalty. Strangulation, or the slow death if the last theft was by force.”

  “How delightful.”

  “Look,” Thuan said, frustrated, because he’d really wanted to have another kind of conversation and this was so not the subject he’d wanted to be tackling while exhausted. “Are we really going to be arguing about the kingdom’s legal system?”

  Another raised eyebrow. “I wasn’t under the impression that was what we were doing.” A pause. “You realise you were the one scaring her?”

  “You’re the one—”

  “The scariest one?” His voice was grave. “In this place, in this time? You’re a prince of imperial blood.”

  “I’m not sure I need reminding of this.” Thuan looked for something to sit on, found only a high-backed, uncomfortable wooden chair. Everything smelled of mildew, and the carvings were covered in greyish algae: a familiar, almost comforting smell that was less aggressive and less sharp than Hawthorn’s rotting stuffed couches.

  “Because the imperial court was unpleasant for you?” Asmodeus’s voice was sharp. “It doesn’t change what you do to others.”

  How dare he? “Asmodeus—”

  “Behave,” Asmodeus said, sharply, which seemed completely at odds with the previous sentence. What—?

  “Please.” Thuan whipped round. The woman was standing against the partition screen, shivering. “Please don’t send me back, my lord. They will—” She paused, then. “They will hurt me.”

  Asmodeus smiled, which spectacularly failed to be reassuring. “I’m not in the habit of returning gifts. What’s your name?”

  “Van. Cham Van, my lord.” She audibly swallowed.

  “You’re not helping,” Thuan said. And Asmodeus didn’t care one jot for Van, either.

  “And neither are you. This is really not the time for grandstanding.”

  “Grandstanding? You’re being unpleasant.”

  “That’s generally what I do, yes. Why don’t you go have a look at the tea to see if we know who sent it? It’s on the bedside table.” It was imperious enough not to be a question, and Thuan was halfway to the table before he realised it and stopped. Asmodeus had turned to Van, “Why are you here?”

  An expansive shrug. “I didn’t pick. They grabbed me and left me here, my lord.”

  Asmodeus watched her for a while, face cocked. “Thief,” he said, finally.

  “My lord.” She didn’t look up, or offer anything more.

  “You’re worried about Thuan. I can assure you he’s not going to judge you.”

  Thuan was, in fact, feeling very much like he wanted to leave altogether, but demons take him if he followed Asmodeus’s strongly worded suggestion. He settled for going into the bedroom and going fishing for the tray of candied fruit. Coconut, lotus seeds, papaya… he grabbed a lotus seed and sat down in a chair—and finally found himself drifting towards the boxes of tea.

  They’d been aligned on his side of the bed—just as the woman—Van—had been on Asmodeus’s side of the bed. If nothing else, that had been pointed. He couldn’t see a message or a crest: rummaging didn’t seem to yield anything much, except that the tea was of mediocre quality, the leaves far too large and with an astringency he could almost taste. Hong Chi or Second Aunt would have access to something better.

  By the time Asmodeus came out of the room, Thuan had come to a not wholly pleasant decision. “I think it’s from the society. A, ah. Distraction. Or a bribe.”

  “I’m finding the whole murder investigation entertaining enough, unfortunately for them,” Asmodeus said. “And seriously, boxes of tea? They price you quite low.”

  Thuan raised an eyebrow, and stopped himself from saying anything about the worth of a person’s life in the presence of Van. She was behind Asmodeus—she was busy bandaging the last of her wounds with a patch of embroidered cloth that looked suspiciously like one of Thuan’s shirts. When she was done, she looked up, throwing Thuan a glance that was filled with fear, a split second before she seemed to remember something and relax.

  Thuan had the unpleasant suspicion that it was Asmodeus’s frank admission that he wouldn’t find her death entertaining enough. “We don’t need a hanger on,” he said, stiffly.

  “You haven’t even asked what she stole.” Asmodeus sounded chirpy and cheerful, with that wide smile suggesting he was seconds from driving the knife in.

  Thuan didn’t really like being on that end of the blade.

  A pause that was all for show, then: “It was rice,” Asmodeus said.

  Thuan opened his mouth, closed it.

  Van said, in the silence, “The barriers around my town didn’t get their spells renewed, so the currents didn’t flow the right way for growing rice.” She spread her hands, wincing when her bandages shifted. “The officials at the tribunal said there was no money for repairs, but the seedlings all came up rotted through and through, and I didn’t know what else to do. My mother and my wife were starving to death. Your highness,” she said, almost as an afterthought.

  It was wrong to steal. He’d been told, over and over, by a succession of tutors at home and then later in the imperial citadel, that honesty and loyalty were the foundations of a society. That stealing was against the order of things; but worse than that, that it was utterly unnecessary because everyone was provided for. That thought clashed, in his mind, with Van’s white face, utterly drained of blood. She was looking straight at him, with none of the reverence he’d expect—but she was braced for him to strike her down.

  “It takes time,” he said, finally, and felt terrible, because time wasn’t going to give her rice, or make her family better. He leant against a chair, opened his mouth to say none of this was helping, and then realised how utterly self-centred and callous that made him seem. “It shouldn’t have happened to you or your town.” And if he had any say in it, he was going to have a rather sharp word with Hong Chi.

  Van didn’t move, but she visibly relaxed. Asmodeus laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezing briefly. “You’re staying here for the time being.” And, to Thuan, “I’m satisfied she has absolutely no idea of what’s going on.”

  Thuan’s heart sank when he saw that Asmodeus had absolutely no intention of sending Van out of the room. “Look, I get that it’s a hard and unfair time for her, but really, what we’re doing is confidential—”

  “Oh, she knows she shouldn’t blab or I’ll cut out her tongue.” Asmodeus’s voice was matter of fact. He looked entirely too smug.

  Thuan said, coldly, “Are you done lashing at me? Because my bribe wasn’t a person to torture to death, and last I checked half of Paris was starving, so it’s not like you have any claim to moral superiority.”

  “You misunderstand. This isn’t about moral superiority.”

  Probably not, which made it worse. It was merely his seeing open wounds and unable to resist pushing where it hurt, for all his professions of caring earlier. Thuan should have known better than to trust his husband—and he really, really should, but it hurt all the same. “Fine. Do you want to discuss the actual investigation?”

  “The concubine.” Asmodeus’s voice was sharp.

  “Well, the good new
s is that if I was placing bets, I’d definitely put a lot of strings of cash on Kim Diep being not only aware, but in charge of the plot.”

  “So your cousin isn’t completely out of touch. Good. Anything else?”

  “Other than her knowing we’re onto her?” Thuan shrugged. “It’s going to happen before the banquet. Long before, I think.”

  “Is that a bet?”

  “A less… certain one. And I know some of the way she feels, so whatever it is will cause massive disruptions in the citadel, which doesn’t really narrow down the field.”

  “Mmm.” Asmodeus looked thoughtful. “What I learnt in the kitchens is mostly that it’s nothing to do with the kitchens. That powder in the pouch doesn’t poison food.”

  “Let me guess, you know this because you tried it on someone.”

  “Close, but no. No one had seen a similar powder, but we fed it to one of the pets—those salamanders that are everywhere in the citadel.”

  “So the powder doesn’t do anything?”

  “I didn’t say that. As an unguent, or a blood contaminant, it might still have nasty properties. I handed it to Madeleine.”

  Madeleine was House Hawthorn’s alchemist, and she’d come with their delegation looking rather more enthusiastic than usual. She’d barricaded herself with Véronique and Xuan Thao, two of Second Aunt’s aides, excitedly comparing alchemy and the stasis khi-water spells, and they had all looked rather unlikely to emerge, even for the promise of a festival banquet.

  “All right,” Thuan said, grudgingly. “If anyone knows how to make powder talk, it’ll be Véronique, Xuan Thao and her.”

  “I have faith in that, if nothing else,” Asmodeus said. “Everyone agrees Ai Linh probably picked up the pouch somewhere outside of the kitchens. She was really preoccupied the last few days, though. It’s quite likely she was making up her mind to denounce whoever she’d taken it from.”

  “Except they caught up with her first.” Thuan fingered the coin in his sleeves. “That still leaves a lot of options, though.” The citadel was gearing up for New Year, and a lot of ceremonies were taking place at the same time: even living in the citadel Thuan had barely been able to keep up with them, and he half-suspected a host of planners at the Ministry of Rites were the only ones who knew all of these at once.