The Red Threads of Fortune (Tensorate #2)

Mokoya entered the advisor’s receiving chamber to the sounds of strife. A voice, fortified by the arrogance of youth, rang out: “You can take your false concern and put it up your own behind.”

Princess Wanbeng and Tan Khimyan were locked in verbal battle at the center of a cavernous room decked with shadows. Hanging trees and thick vines climbed golden frames that lined the chamber. In the back a fine silver mesh caged swooping flocks of birds and a sleek pile of breathing, growling fur: a tiger, eyes yellow, paws huge and idle. A hand thrust into a slash in the wires would never emerge again.

“Princess,” said Tan Khimyan, “your lack of decorum will not serve you well in Chengbee.”

“Good, because I’m not going to Chengbee.”

Wanbeng had the solid, corded look of a person who spent her days running and climbing. The child in the framed pictures had grown into a formidable young woman. Her hair was gathered high in an efficient bun, and she wore a closed, disdainful expression.

And there was Tan Khimyan, the woman Mokoya had imagined as identical to her mother. The reality was deflating. A small, pale-skinned woman with narrow features, she was not half as physically imposing as Mother. Worse still, she lacked the Protector’s presence, instead appearing to be overwhelmed by her ornate surroundings, like a child playing at being important. Disappointment set in. Contempt, even.

Tan Khimyan said to Wanbeng, “My dear child, think of your poor father. This is his wish for you.”

“I care nothing for his wishes. When Mother was dying, did he care for mine? No, he did not.”

Tan Khimyan sighed. “As you grow up, you will come to find that you should treasure your father’s intentions. He means the best for you.” She looked at Mokoya, the first acknowledgment that she had seen her guest. “I’m sure the Tensor here agrees.”

Mokoya raised an eyebrow. “Best intentions? My own mother bore me because she owed the Grand Monastery a blood debt. Are those the best intentions you mean?”

Wanbeng smirked. Seemingly emboldened by Mokoya’s statement, she said, “Here is what I think of my father’s best intentions.” She pulsed through water-nature. Glass shattered; on the long workbench that occupied the left side of the chamber, fragile objects cascaded to the ground. Boiling vessels, pipettes, and jars of chemicals burst into glittering fireworks. A hundred thousand weapons with which to cut the skin, to impale the self.

Tan Khimyan’s face went tight, and Mokoya watched her knuckles press through the skin of her hands. Weak, she thought. Mother would eat her alive. No wonder she was expelled from the city.

It had been years, and still her mother’s way of thinking crept through her mind like an elusive, fleeting specter. She shivered.

“Don’t waste my time again,” Wanbeng said, and she spun on her heel to leave.

“Silbya,” Tan Khimyan said, her voice straining against spikes of emotion, “come clear this up.”

The woman obeyed without a word. Tan Khimyan turned to Mokoya, and her face shifted into a diplomat’s smile. “My apologies, Tensor. Come, let us retire to a more civilized location.”

Tan Khimyan vanished into the shadows on the right. Mokoya stepped after her, but when she glanced back, she saw Wanbeng brazenly lift a small jade carving from one of Tan Khimyan’s display shelves and pocket it.

She admired the girl’s boldness, at least.

Tan Khimyan took her to a large study lit by silk-screened windows. A carved desk and tall-backed chair in matching rosewood lorded over the middle of the room. The desk hosted a tea set, an inkpot, brushes, and a pile of scrolls, arranged into a neat pattern with religious precision.

“Would you like some tea, Tensor Sanao? I’ve been looking forward to this day for a while now.”

“Is that so?”

“Of course.” She made her way around her desk and picked up the teapot without waiting for Mokoya’s answer.

Tan Khimyan dressed her shapely form in finely fitted silk. Her hair, sculpted to arboreal intricacy, glittered with the insectile weight of jewels. Mokoya had almost forgotten the fanciful ways women in the capital were expected to paint their faces, the rouge for the cheeks and lips, the stone-ink in place of eyebrows. She didn’t appreciate this reminder.

“Children these days,” Tan Khimyan remarked. “More like wild horses than civilized beings. Wanbeng’s been a thorn in her father’s eye for quite some time now. She is of the age to further her education, but she is reluctant to leave the provincial lands she grew up in. She will come around. She is a sensible child, after all.”

Mokoya noticed the cushion on the floor in front of the desk. Two ovals on the shiny surface of the fabric had been worn gray by the knees of countless supplicants. “I don’t expect you to kneel, of course,” Tan Khimyan said. “That’s for the workers. You are different.”

“How magnanimous of you.” Mokoya wasn’t sure the sarcasm in her voice came through.

“I always thought it a pity that I was not an advisor in Bataanar when you last visited,” Tan Khimyan said, as she washed the teacups. “We could have met then. But of course, many things have changed since that time.”

Mokoya met her prattle with a wall of silence. She did not take the teacup when it was offered to her, and Tan Khimyan put the cup away with a peeved expression. She was so easily pushed.

Mokoya said, “Did you summon the naga to the city?”

Tan Khimyan sighed and settled on the edge of her desk with the weight of a brocaded curtain. “You’re a plain talker, I see. All right.” She crossed one knee over the other. “In the interest of honesty, I shall tell you: I did not.”

Mokoya snorted.

“You may find it hard to believe. But this is true. I had a hand in creating the beast, but someone else is controlling it.”

“So you admit to creating the naga?”

She shrugged. “I see no point in concealing that fact from you. Yes, Tensor, I admit it. I was part of the group in Chengbee that created this naga.” A dry, humorless chuckle followed. “It was what caused my exile from the capital, after all.”

Mokoya wasn’t buying it. “If you’re not the one summoning the naga, who is? Who else knows it exists?”

“Who, indeed?” The silky way she said it insisted she had an answer.

Her posturing was starting to grate on Mokoya’s nerves. “Speak plainly.”

“Think a little, Tensor, and the answer will become clear. You’ve met her.”

Mokoya squinted. “Who, Wanbeng?” Sarcasm masked panic: she didn’t understand Tan Khimyan’s insinuation, and a fear of losing the conversation’s thread swelled in her.

Tan Khimyan exhaled and capitulated. Mokoya’s unintended feint had worked. “I speak of Swallow.”

“Swallow?” A name? A bird?

Another deep sigh. “This coyness benefits neither of us, Tensor.” As cold water filled Mokoya’s spine like river water, she said, “Everyone’s seen the Quarterlandish girl who fights by your side. It’s hard to miss someone who rides a naga mount.”

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