Free Shattered Pillars by Elizabeth Bear

her calligraphy, the ladies uncovered the windows to let in the light and air. The brazier that had been necessary to warm the damp from the air when the chamber was closed up and Yangchen was nude was carried out by the same brawny servants that had handled the bathtub and water. Songtsan’s other wife, Tsechen, and the ladies of the court began to arrive, each with a subsidiary lady bearing her calligraphy, or reading, or embroidery. If they came in neat order of precedence and began filtering in as soon as the doors opened for the removal of the brazier, that was only because each of them kept a servant stationed in the hall from sunrise onward.
    Tsechen wore crimson and snow white, egret feathers dazzling against the glossy blackness of her hair. She, like Yangchen, was also the wife of condemned Tsansong. She, like Yangchen’s body servants, took in Yangchen’s choice of garb with an impassivity that could only hide condemnation. Yangchen met her silent outrage with a smile, hiding how she might otherwise have quailed before it.
    Yangchen had done what she had done, and she was pleased with the outcomes. Whatever hard and ruthless choices she had made to ensure her victory … they were the price of protecting the empire and her emperor—and her children, not only Namri but also those she had yet to bear.
    One who did not deal by heartlessness in the arena of politics did not live long enough to see one’s lofty ideals lead inevitably to the ruin of nations.
    Tsechen had no child, and Yangchen would see to it that she stayed barren. As long as that was so—as long as Tsechen’s blood remained unmingled with that of the emperor—Yangchen did not fear Tsechen, and so Tsechen did not need to fear Yangchen. Of course, it might be safer to remove her entirely—but Yangchen preferred to be merciful where she could. And there would inevitably be other wives, as time passed. Such was the course of empire.
    Even if Yangchen could find the stomach to remove them all, the pattern would inevitably become noticeable.
    The ladies breakfasted within the hour. For some time after that, they sewed and practiced their painting and read aloud by turns. Namri was brought to Yangchen again so she might nurse him—this time, comfortingly, he cooperated—and before the midday meal she excused herself for her appointment with the wizard.
    Another day, she might have waited for the doorkeeper to bring her word that Hong-la had arrived. But she had seen a large strange bird, gray and long-necked like a heron but with a raptor’s beak, beat heavily past the window. So she required that rarest of commodities for a royal person: a few moments completely alone.
    A series of painted screens concealed the corner in which Yangchen slept from the rest of her chamber, where the ladies gathered. She rounded the flimsy barrier on some pretext—a fan or scent, she wasn’t even quite sure herself what she said. But she had to wave two of her ladies back to their cushions when she stood in order to fetch it herself. Unable even for the moment to dispense with her awareness of politics, she wondered if her independence would increase her legend or serve to remove some of the awe of her under which her subjects should rightfully toil.
    Whatever the effect, she would have to adapt it to her needs. This was not a task she could safely abandon to any hands but her own, nor one she could perform under watchful eyes.
    The brassy-gray bird perched on the window ledge beside Yangchen’s bed, peering suspiciously this way and that. Papery eyelids blinked and opened with each turn of its crested head.
    A bit of indigo ribbon bound a copper-bright capsule to its ankle. Her swift, short strides constrained by the whisking hem of her robe, Yangchen crossed to the window. Her fingers fumbled the capsule at first, but she managed to twist it open. The note within—on western-style paper—was ciphered, but by now Yangchen could read those symbols as easily as