Chapter Text
“You couldn’t come up with a better joke than that?” Maomao did not bother to look up from grinding her herbs while Lahan, the spectacles-wearing weirdo who carried around an abacus like it was a security blanket, attempted to shove a letter in her face.
“Dear Sister, please take this seriously,” Lahan pleaded, flapping the pages in his hand. Maomao would have stepped on his toes for calling her “Sister” if she hadn’t been sitting on her knees behind her worktable. She was manning the apothecary shop while her dad saw to a patient in a neighboring brothel.
Maomao heaved a sigh and gave the letter her cousin was holding a glance. The paper was very fine, and the flashy seal it bore did appear convincing at first glance, however...
“I’m supposed to believe the Emperor wants me for his harem?” Maomao scoffed. “Has the rear palace swallowed up literally every other virgin in the capital? Somebody is playing a prank on you.”
“Sis—Maomao!” Lahan slapped the letter onto her table, getting very much in the way of her herbs and forcing Maomao to look up again. “If you would only read the proposal properly, you would see that it refers to the Imperial younger brother.”
“Younger brother?” Maomao had no need to think about the Imperial family very often, and she’d actually completely forgotten the former emperor had a second son. This younger brother must be doing a poor job distinguishing himself, otherwise at least some gossip about the fellow would have made its way through the pleasure district. Maomao did find it hard to pay attention to things she did not care about, but she wasn’t that out of the loop on current events.
Frowning, Maomao finally took up the letter and gave it a cursory glance. The characters for “moon” and “prince” jumped out at her in particularly fine calligraphy.
“The Emperor has hundreds of the highest-born ladies in the country in his inner court,” she said. “He can certainly toss a few consorts his little brother’s way. He has no need of someone like me.”
“Please take this seriously and actually read it,” Lahan insisted. “That is a marriage offer you are holding.”
“A joke.”
“Anyone foolish enough to forge a royal seal for such a joke would surely be sent to the gallows, and deservedly so!”
Maomao read the letter.
Well, more specifically, she got about halfway through the first page before she abruptly dropped it and made a beeline for the window. Maomao had an abundance of experience jumping out this window, honed from years of fleeing the Freak With The Monocle’s surprise visits. This time, however, when she threw open the sash she found Ukyou on the other side, blocking her escape.
“Sorry, Maomao,” said Ukyou, the head of the Verdigris House’s manservants. “You’ve gotta hear the lad out. Madam’s orders.”
“Ughh.” Maomao was sure she could feel steam rising from her ears, even though such a thing was not medically possible. She slammed the window shut on Ukyou and trudged back over to Lahan.
“There is no reason for the prince of the whole damn country to even know I even exist, so why should he want to marry me?” she growled. “Is this your doing? Are you trying to sell me off in one of your hairbrained schemes? Because you’ll have to get in line behind Granny.”
“I would never do such a thing,” protested Lahan, who probably would have done such a thing if he thought he could get away with it. “Father would skin me alive.”
“Then this is the Freak’s fault!” Maomao stomped her foot so hard her pestle on the workbench clattered to the floor, and she didn’t even notice. “What the hell did he do? And why am I being punished for it?!”
“It is an honor to be chosen as—OW!”
Maomao had skipped crushing Lahan’s toes and gone straight to kicking him in the shin.
“Don’t kill the messenger!” Lahan was hopping now, trying to rub his leg and stay upright at the same time. “Our honored father has been trying for days to convince His Majesty to pick someone else for the Moon Prince. Truly, I’m concerned he’s going to cause such offense that he’ll get the entire family executed!”
Ordinarily, the head of a family could reject a marriage offer if the match did not suit him. But when it came to the Imperial family…well, that proposal letter was not really an offer. It was a summons. Even the head of a named clan could not get Maomao out of a royal summons. Maomao did not consider Kan Lakan her father, nor did she consider herself a member of the La clan, but it wasn’t as if she could march into the throne room and explain that to the Emperor.
“Shit,” said Maomao.
“Please mind your language,” said Lahan. “You’re going to be living at court.”
Maomao was about to kick him again when she heard the slam of the Verdigris House doors being thrown open (despite it being the middle of the day, and therefore when most of the courtesans would be asleep) followed by the unmistakable and terrible call of “MAOMAOOOOO! PAPPA IS HERE!”
This time, Ukyou let her out the window.
.
.
What Lahan had not told Maomao—and frankly, he planned on taking the secret to his grave—was that this whole thing was probably his fault.
It was a few weeks ago that he and his father had been summoned to a most discreet audience with the Emperor and a few carefully selected retainers. During this meeting, Lahan explained to them all his discovery of the strange financial records out of Shihoku province: the creeping price of grain, the movement of large quantities of iron, building materials vanishing into the North over the last few years, among other supplies.
“Lord Shishou may have a perfectly reasonable explanation, of course,” Lahan said diplomatically, though his smile showed what he really thought.
“So either the Shi clan is committing major tax fraud,” summed up the Emperor, stroking his beard, “Or they are building up an army, and committing major tax fraud.”
The ministers surrounding the throne murmured amongst themselves. Some appeared outraged, others not surprised at all.
“One must have proof, of course.” Kan Lakan came to attention then, after letting Lahan handle the numbers portion.
With speed that came from years of practice, Lahan and his father’s attendant Rikuson laid a map of the northern province on the table, along with jars of go stones and a box of shogi tiles.
“There is an old fortress in the mountains, here,” Lakan began, setting one of the Silver General tiles on the map. “Supposedly it’s been abandoned some generations, but I would say it is the most likely spot for producing weapons without attracting notice. I suggest His Majesty send his spies here, but also this port should be examined as soon as possible…”
The meeting proceeded from there, with Go and Shogi pieces moving around the map as everyone discussed where best to place spies, and which other lords might be colluding with Shishou. Lakan was in his element, alert and cunning and more than earning his title of Chief Strategist.
But as the hours dragged on, and discussion turned from military matters to potential political fallout, Lakan quickly hit his capacity for feigning interest. He started to fidget and yawn and scratch at his stubble. If they were in his office, this would be when Lahan would bring out the snacks and juice to energize his father. However, one could not eat if the Emperor was not eating, so Lakan began to physically droop.
Thankfully, the Emperor had known the Strategist long enough to understand there was a time limit to his company remaining bearable.
“Well then!” His Majesty slapped his hands on the ornate arms of his chair and rose to his feet. Everyone else scrambled to rise as well. “Let us wait for the first Intelligence report before we set too many plans in stone.”
The meeting was over, and just in time. Well, almost in time.
Lakan’s stomach growled audibly as Rikuson ushered him through the door, but just before they left earshot one could hear a rather petulant groan of, “I’m tired of all this! I want to see Maomao!!” It was a whine unbecoming of a man in his forties, particularly when that man was effectively in charge of half the military.
The other ministers, milling around His Majesty trying to get one last word in, grumbled and glowered.
“That man!” groused Lord He. “The Prime Minister might be planning a coup, and all he cares about is his cat?”
Lahan paused in cleaning up the game pieces left on the table, and forced a polite smile back on his face.
“I beg your pardon, Honored Sir,” he said. “But you are mistaken. Maomao is my younger sister. She…ah…is living away from the La household at the moment, so naturally our father misses her.”
The other men in the room, including the Emperor (and even the guards!) stared back at Lahan in plain stupefaction. There was a long, awkward pause.
“Oh!” said Minister Wei. “Your sister. He adopted a niece!”
“No, sir.”
Another awkward pause was finally broken by the Emperor’s bemused chuckle. “Now that’s some news. When did this happen?”
“My sister is seventeen, Your Majesty,” answered Lahan. From the look on everyone’s faces, they were clearly expecting him to say a much lower number. Lahan got a sinking feeling he should never have said anything to begin with.
It was not as though Maomao was a secret. Everybody at the La estate heard her name constantly, though she’d never come to visit. There was never any question of Kan Lakan acknowledging his brothel-born daughter—he would talk about her to anyone who’d listen! But even Lahan, math genius though he was, had underestimated just how few people were willing to listen to his father for any length of time if they could avoid it.
As the imperial spies headed north, the ministers who’d attended the secret meeting did an excellent job keeping Shishou’s possible treachery under wraps.
But the news that Commandant Kan had a daughter of marriageable age spread like wildfire.
Most people were too wary of the Fox Strategist to want him for a relative, but there would always be those who let their ambition overrule their survival instincts. Lakan took no notice when visitors to his office started casually bringing up their unmarried sons in unrelated conversation. When a request for a marriage meeting was mailed to the La household, he merely harumphed and tossed it aside. When a few more came, he fumed at the audacity.
“It’s only natural that these young men would want to marry my Maomao,” Lakan said. “But of course no upstart braggart is good enough for a darling girl like her!”
When the letter from the Emperor arrived, all hell broke loose.
.
.
“A prince, Maomao!” Pairin squeezed Maomao until she was practically drowning in her elder sister’s impressive bosom. “It’s so exciting!”
“Yes, it will be very exciting when some rival consort stabs me to death for daring to get bought out against my will,” Maomao deadpanned into Pairin’s cleavage.
Maomao had hid out in the nearby woods, picking herbs and waiting out the Freak. Unfortunately, that damned weirdo and the abacus-brain were still there when she returned to the Verdigris House near sunset. She could hear the yelling coming from Granny’s office even on the street. Maomao had wanted to turn back again, but it was a bad idea to be a lone, small-statured girl in the pleasure district after dark. So, she went in the back entrance and made her way up to her sisters’ rooms on the highest floor.
The courtesans were awake and bustling about, preparing for customers. As Maomao climbed the stairs, she felt eyes on her from all sides, and whispers followed her. They tried to be subtle about it, but the topic of today’s rumor mill was clear: Somebody bought out Maomao—and it wasn’t that crazy man with the monocle!
Joka had thrown open her door as soon as she heard Maomao’s distinctively light footsteps on the landing.
“Is it true?” she’d demanded at once.
“I don’t know, what have you heard?”
Pairin was already in Joka’s room, and Maomao had explained the situation to them both as best she understood it. But Maomao still could not explain why all this was happening. The Emperor could choose any lady in the country for his brother, and he picks brothel-born chicken bones? No way is this above board!
“I wonder if the imperial family practices human sacrifice,” Maomao mused.
Pairin pouted. “That’s pessimistic even for you, Maomao,” she said. “I know you hate Master La—that guy, but he’s pretty important in the government, isn’t he? There’s no reason you shouldn’t marry up!”
“A prince is too far up!” Maomao wriggled herself out of the hug and crossed her arms. “It’s suspicious. There are scores of hostage-consorts in the rear palace. If the Emperor wants to force that Freak to behave, why not throw me in with them? Or he could give me as a consort to the prince—but marriage?”
“I agree,” said Joka. “Sounds like somebody’s trying to pull something on the Old Fart, and they think it’s okay to use Maomao to do it.”
“That doesn’t mean it’ll be a bad match,” Pairin insisted. “I haven’t heard anything bad about the Moon Prince.”
“I haven’t heard anything about him at all,” said Maomao. “Have you?”
Joka and Pairin each put a hand to their chin.
“I think a customer once told me he’s sickly and keeps to his chambers,” Joka said.
“I feel like somebody said he was scarred in an accident, and that’s why he doesn’t appear publicly,” said Pairin. “But I might be mixing him up with a prince in a story I read…”
There was a rush of footsteps at the door, and Meimei entered in a burst of colorful silk scarves. Meimei was one of the few people on the planet who could stand Lakan’s company for over an hour, and he in turn was as polite to her as he was probably capable of being. She’d been downstairs all this time, trying (and failing) to keep everything calm in the Madam’s office.
“Well?” Joka asked.
Meimei shook her head. “I can sometimes follow along when he calls people shogi pieces,” she said, “but he keeps shouting ‘it’s that Takuki’s fault!’ over and over, and I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean.”
“So the wedding’s still on?” Maomao wilted.
“You had better go downstairs, Maomao.” Meimei squeezed her shoulder.
“Is he still—”
“Yes, but Luomen is asking for you.”
Her old man wouldn’t flippantly ask her to share a room with that guy for no reason, so down Maomao went.
The Freak tried to hug her as soon as Maomao stepped through the office door.
“Maomaooooo!” he shouted, leaping with arms out. Granny knocked Lakan out of the air with her broom as Maomao sidestepped away, putting the desk between herself and the weirdo. She did not acknowledge him. That would only make him worse.
“Thank you for coming.” Luomen patted her on the head. “It’s been a strange day, hasn’t it?”
“Do I really have to do this, Pops?” Maomao asked. Her dad was the smartest man she knew, and the small child in her hoped he would pull some genius solution out of thin air. But of course, Maomao was not a child, and Luomen’s sad shake of his head was what she expected. It still stung.
“One can’t disobey Heaven,” Luomen said.
From the ground, Lakan was muttering something. It sounded suspiciously like a threat to drag the Emperor behind a carriage by his beard.
Granny whacked him with the broom again. “You wanna talk treason, you take it somewhere else!” she snapped. “You’ve already caused enough trouble under my roof.”
“Father, perhaps you should tell Maomao how your meeting with His Majesty went,” Lahan prompted.
“Ah yes, of course.” Lakan popped back to his feet and brushed himself off, his face setting into more serious lines. “Both the Vice-Minister of the Board of Rites and the Emperor agree that the Moon Prince’s wedding must have an auspicious date. They’ve taken my suggestion for the day of a solar eclipse, ten months from now.”
“A lot can happen in ten months,” said Luomen.
Maomao nodded, understanding. Ten months was a long betrothal period, considering there would be little negotiation on this marriage contract, and both parties were of age. Ten months for the Freak to try and break it off. Maybe it would work…or maybe he would harass the Emperor to the breaking point, and Maomao would be sent to the gallows as an example.
“There is a stipulation, however,” added Lahan. “Maomao is to live in the rear palace until the wedding. Starting tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Maomao’s stomach twisted.
“No sulking,” Granny ordered, and gave Maomao a poke with her broom handle. It was only a little rough. “Royal consorts get paid more in a month than you’ve made in your life. If this sack of manure gets the wedding called off, you can take your money and run. If he can’t, you’ll still never go hungry. Don’t complain when a good thing’s handed to you.”
Maomao clenched her teeth and managed to hold in a groan, because she knew the Madam was right. Many courtesans in this building would be lucky if they were bought out by some old man who already had a wife and kids, if they got bought out at all. There were prostitutes on the streets outside who would call it lucky just to eat regular meals. Complaining about an opportunity most women would kill for would be selfish—even if there was a high likelihood some woman would try to kill her for it.
The blessings of Heaven are wasted on me. I just want to make medicine.
“She will receive a generous stipend, yes,” said Lahan. Maomao could hear the abacus beads clicking in his brain. “But of course, much of that will go to supplying the clothes, staff, and other such necessities of her station.”
“Ooh?” Granny slapped her broom handle against her palm, eyes glinting. Lahan flinched. “I believe it’s the family’s job to send a consort off with what she needs to begin with. If that louse wants to call himself ‘papa’, he shouldn’t be skimming from Maomao’s purse to buy her wardrobe.”
“OF COURSE I WILL BUY MAOMAO NEW CLOTHES! ALL NEW CLOTHES! AND SERVANTS!”
“Father—”
Luomen patted Maomao’s head again, and nodded permission for her to go. She left the lot of them to their negotiations, trudged out the Verdigris House doors, and carefully made her way home a block over to the shack she shared with her adopted father.
It was not much to look at. One room with a small stove. A couple sleeping mats. Herbs from their small field hung from the ceiling, and one of Maomao’s experimental medicines was still half-prepared on a slightly crooked table. The most luxurious items in the house were her father’s handful of medical books and personal case journals. Maomao had committed all of the ones in Lianese to memory, and had made some progress translating the notes written in a western language from her dad’s time outside the country.
Guess I won’t be finishing that project¸ Maomao frowned and lay down on her sleeping mat. It was too early to go to bed, but… I will give myself fifteen minutes to sulk, and then I’ll pack. Just fifteen minutes.
As she curled herself into a ball on the mat, Maomao stared at her crooked pinky finger and considered that this was probably one of those times most people would cry. But Maomao did not cry. She hadn’t cried for as long as she could remember.
It wouldn’t do any good, after all.