The imperial messenger was sleek and elegant, dressed in three overlapping silk robes, each heavily embroidered. Briar’s fingers itched for an eastern-style ink brush and a pad of paper sheets, knowing that his foster-sisters would never forgive him if he couldn’t describe imperial fashions and decoration perfectly. He wondered what such plain dressers as Dokyi and Rosethorn made of the messenger’s yellow, green, and black garments, or of the black silk cap with wings that were stiffened to stick out straight on either side of the man’s head. It was impossible to tell from their faces, which were as blank as any stone. Dokyi wore the plain brown habit of the Earth temple here in the east, with the black border of the initiate, or mage. Briar was relieved to see that Rosethorn had cleaned up from her morning’s work with plants. She wore a clean habit in the Earth green of the western Living Circle temple, also with the initiate’s black border. Her short, dark red hair was still wet. Months spent indoors had kept her skin the ivory shade she preferred, while she held summer suns and wrinkles at bay with a large selection of creams she made herself. Her large brown eyes missed nothing, ever. That was why Briar kept Evvy half hidden in back of him now. She ought to have been stone like the rest of the people in the room, but instead he felt her shake with silent giggles. If he had to guess the source of her merriment, it was the messenger’s hat. It did look silly, but Briar could control himself.
“Rosethorn’s watching,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. “Do you want to spend another week washing our clothes yourself?”
That calmed Evvy down. She respected Rosethorn like no one else, not even her first teacher and friend, Briar.
As if she knew she was being discussed, Rosethorn moved until she stood next to them. Dokyi came with her.
The Gyongxin guards stood at attention. Two of their number struck a pair of large brass gongs, while one of the rotating number of priests from Gyongxe’s many temples cried, “The God-King is here!”
Together with some residents of Gyongxe and a handful of other visitors, Rosethorn, Briar, and Evvy bowed low. The boy ruler walked briskly into the room through a side entrance and climbed the steps to the backless pile of cushions that served the God-King as a throne. There he sat, lotus fashion, propping an elbow on one knee, and looked at the Yanjingyi group. As soon as he was settled, his advisers ran up the steps to stand on either side of the throne. Dokyi remained with Rosethorn and the two young people, a gesture Briar appreciated.
The moment they took their places, one of the Yanjingyi group, a barrel-chested man in black silk trimmed with yellow satin, stepped forward. He began to speak in a deep, thundering voice that boomed in the huge throne room. Briar didn’t recognize the language. He glanced back at Evvy, who looked as confused as he felt. Briar didn’t check Rosethorn’s face. He doubted that this was a language she knew, since he actually understood more languages than she did.
“It’s the language of the imperial court in Yanjing,” Dokyi said in a voice that went no farther than the four of them. “It’s as old as the imperial line, that’s what they say. If they caught anyone not a noble or not of the imperial household speaking it, that person would die the death of ten thousand cuts.”
Briar looked down so no one could see the face he made. He tried to remember if he’d ever heard of anyone dying for a language before.
The herald stopped speaking. At the sound of rustling cloth, Briar looked up again. Everyone in the imperial party, led by the chief messenger, had knelt on the floor. Now, in unison, they placed their hands on the floor, leaned down, and touched their heads to the cold tiles. They straightened, then repeated the head-touching exercise seven more times. Finally everyone but the messenger halted, their heads against the floor. The messenger straightened and began to speak to the God-King. He did not stand, and the language he used sounded much like that spoken by the herald.
Evvy could stand it no longer. Speaking quietly, she told Briar in Chammuri, “Only eight bowings and touchings! They insulted him! They give the emperor nine bowings and touchings!” Chammuri was the language she had spoken when they first met. She was taking a chance on it being unknown to anyone from Yanjing. Traveling messengers might know Imperial, which was spoken over many western lands.
“Maybe they think they were complimenting him, giving him almost as many as their own master,” Briar murmured in the same language. “Now hush.”
“Your accent is a delight to the ear, and your facility with words a pleasure to any listener,” the God-King told the messenger in tiyon. “You will forgive me if I ask you to favor us with what I do not doubt is equal mastery of tiyon. My guests, whom you seek, have never been granted the opportunity to study the golden phrases of the imperial speech, nor will they have the years it takes to master it as you have done.” Briar noticed that he said nothing about his own obvious mastery of the Yanjingyi language.
The messenger bowed first to the God-King, and then, half turning, to Rosethorn. “Forgive this unworthy servant of a great and glorious master,” he said in perfect tiyon. “If offense was given, I offer my life to blot it out.”
“A bit extreme, don’t you think?” Briar heard Rosethorn murmur to Dokyi. Briar turned his snort of laughter into a cough. By the time he had gotten himself under control the messenger was making a flowery speech in tiyon to the God-King, passing on greetings from the emperor in the east. Briar ignored the fellow, who added half bows and gestures as he talked, to look at Rosethorn. The corner of her naturally red mouth was tucked deeper than usual, a sign that Briar knew meant she was contemptuous of the messenger’s overwrought manners. At least she had not crossed her arms, the signal that trouble was brewing behind her brown eyes.