Shangxiang wan'Heshi (2/2)

"What, Mamaqin?" he asked, but she knew that he had guessed, knew from the way his lips twisted below the crisp black line of his mustache. Her son might be pampered, indolent, and perhaps somewhat dissolute, but he was not stupid.

"It's been seven years now since Daqiao died," she said. "It's time. Time for you to marry again." His features scrunched as if he'd bitten into a sour marshberry, but she ignored the look. She'd seen it too many times. "Marriage is a stronger and more permanent weapon than a sword," she told him.

A barely-stifled sigh escaped him. "I know, Mamaqin. You've said that often enough. I thought of having the aphorism engraved on my saber." He sniffed, looking away from her and back to the painting.

"Then show me you understand," she answered tartly, pressing her own lips together in annoyance at his tone.

"Do I have a choice?" he asked, but didn't give her a chance to answer. "I take it you have candidates in mind? Someone appropriately connected, no doubt. Someone whose children might actually live."

Shangxiang sucked in her breath. "It wasn't your wife's fault that your children died. Why, little Pan was five and thriving when the Red Pox took him, and poor Shang ..." Her eyes filled with tears, as they often did when she thought of the granddaughter who'd been her namesake. Daqiao might have been of the fertile wan'Bu line, whose descendants governed Anhui, but she'd not had the luck of her mamaqin, who had nine children survive into adulthood. No, Shangxiang was fairly certain that the fault lay in the wan'Heshi seed. In Yong. Stout and plain herself, Daqiao had nonetheless performed her spousal obligations, giving birth to eight children over the decade of her marriage to Yong, but only two of those had survived past the second year: Pan, the eighth and last, whose long and difficult birth Daqiao had survived by less than a month; and Shangxiang, secondborn, who had been eleven and the Huangdi's favorite when the horse drawing her carriage had bolted unexpectedly and the careening vehicle had struck a tree. Shangxiang herself had nursed the terribly injured girl and the Guji had sent over—surreptitiously, since such a thing was heresy and specifically forbidden by the Confession—a torii skilled with healing chants, but still little Shang had not survived the night.

Shangxiang had gone to the stables afterward and killed the horse herself.

"I know, Mamaqin," Yong said. "It was Inari's will that they died. And what is the Huangdi's will, which is second only to Inari's? Who am I to marry, some cowled waif from Yunnan? Someone of those half-wild families from Hunan? Which of the provinces are causing problems? Have them send their daughters for your inspection so they may be subdued by marriage. Once more, rather than out-warring your adversaries, you will out-marry them. Tell me—who have you picked?"

"I don't appreciate your sarcasm, Yong."

"I'm certain you don't. And I'm certain that I care about your appreciation as much as you care about my feelings concerning this. When are you marrying, Mamaqin? How long has Papaqin been dead now? Twenty-three years? Twenty-four? What has kept you from marrying all these years?"

For a moment, Shangxiang feared that Yong knew about Zhong, but the slackness in his face told her that it was simple irritation in his voice. "You know why I don't marry."

"Yes, I know. 'The sword in the scabbard still threatens ...' I've heard that one often enough, too." Yong gave a sigh. His hands lifted and dropped back to his sides. "So who is it to be, Mamaqin? When will you make the grand announcement of my engagement, and when do I get to at least see a painting of this person?"

"I've selected no one as yet," Shangxiang told him. "I thought that perhaps you would like some input in this as the Huan." She saw the new grimace and could nearly hear the thought that no doubt accompanied it: You became Huangdi at eighteen, Mamaqin; I'm forty-seven and still the Huan, still waiting patiently for you to die... "But I do have a few prospects you should consider. The wan'Lu family, for instance, might be a good choice given their connections with the northern provinces, especially with the Mategician heresy spreading there. Or even someone with a strong connection to the Faith, such as the Guji's niece Luyu, who you've already met a few times."

She was trying to placate him, knowing how strongly he believed in the tenets of Inarian, but she saw that Yong was either no longer listening or disinterested. He was studying wei'Rang's painting as if answers might be hidden there. "You may make the decision, Yong, if that's what you want," she continued. "Find someone who appeals to you or not, as you prefer. Find someone who will understand that they need to look away from your... indiscretions with half the grand horizons of Orbis. All I require is that the person you choose also provide us some political advantage and you an heir or two, and that you make your decision by the end of my Jubilee. Otherwise, I will make the announcement for you. Do we understand each other?"

Yong sniffed, his nose almost touching the painting. "Yes, Mamaqin," he answered. "Perfectly. As always." As he spoke, there was a quiet knock on the doors. Yong straightened, taking a long breath, as Shangxiang scowled at him. "And perfectly timed as well. Mamaqin, I'll leave you."

"There is more I need to discuss with you, Yong."

"I've no doubt of that. But it will have to wait. Your painter awaits."

Yong started toward the door. "Yong," Shangxiang called out and he stopped. "I am your Mamaqin and you are my son, my only child. I am also the Huangdi, and you are the Huan. You will always be my son. As to the other... some of your cousins would love nothing better than to see me change my decision as to my heir. And I can."

Yong didn't reply, but went to the door and opened it. Shangxiang caught a glimpse of a tall man standing just outside: black robe, black hair, black beard, black pupils—a fragment of night walking in the daylight. Yong nodded to the man, who clasped hands to forehead as he bowed. "Miss wei'Rang," Yong said. "I must say I admire your talent very much. The Huangdi is waiting just inside. I hope you can capture all the complexities she hides so well..."