(Warning: large quantities of bad poetry ahead! This story began because i read a book about Heian Japan, "The World of the Shining Prince" by Ivan Morris, and thought, "Hey, Ezra would like it there!" However this world is not that one, so please don't scold me for motifs that are neither Heian nor Japanese. You can, of course, scold me for borrowing the Magnificent Seven, since i know perfectly well they are not mine, nor were not, nor will be.)
SevenBorn I, by DarkBeta
The black haired servants were locals, as innocent of rebellion as they were of shoes. They gave him tea -- chilled and sugared to disguise the age of the leaf -- and vanished from sight (though not, unfortunately, from hearing). Esara was left to contemplate a travesty of a garden.
Boulders chipped into models of the Seven Mountains had whitewash poured over them for snow. The sand was raked in geometric figures. Artificial branches with pea-green leaves hung over the adobe wall. He managed not to shudder, and pasted on a contemplative smile.
Too soon for courtesy (and far too late for aesthetics) the servants came to lead him to the banquet hall. Crude murals showed pine forests, fields of cattle and horses, and a dragon like a horned toad plunging through the sky above the governor's seat. Esara bowed humbly -- a little too humbly.
"Seeking the favor of jan Cinrein, Governor of the Red Riverlands, comes the traveler Sutandisu Esara, a pilgrim to the twenty-eight Western shrines," the doorman announced, stumbling a little over the Highborn name.
"Be welcome, pilgrim."
Esara raised his head, observing the room even as he spouted the usual courtesies in the drawling accent of the Eightfold City. The first part of Teravisu's request -- discovering the regional governor's intentions -- was simple. Did Cinrein think he hid his ambition?
His coat was regulation indigo cotton, but an edge of gold silk lining showed when he gestured. The back of his bench curled into something close to a throne, and his manners were copied from a traveling player's court tragedy.
"Already the expense of your time puts this inelegant one in your debt, janGovernor. One can only plead for your indulgence of a traveler who has set the world aside. 'Cider will not stop this thirst . . . .'"
'Cider will not stop this thirst / so look for a hidden spring.' The verse Esara referred to a desire for enlightenment, but Cinrein clapped his hands sharply.
"Wine! Applewine for my guest!"
In the palaces of the Eightfold City the servants wore silk slippers so they would not be heard. Here their feet pounded like hail on the veranda outside the sliding doors.
The wine that came had been triply distilled, to alcohol with the smallest taint of apple scent. The decanters, cups and platter were a matched set, with a monotonous perfection of glaze and pattern. Esara really couldn't decide which demonstrated a greater lack of taste. Was the cash Teravisu offered really worth enduring this barbarian?
He praised the vintage anyhow, of course, along with the porcelain, the service, and Cinrein's utter condescension to a poverty-stricken traveler. As some slight return he offered a gilt breastplate set with turquoise, in the form of the firebird Enterprise carrying a Celestial mandate as an unfurling scroll. It was designed to please an over-ambitious outsider, and Esara recognized the greed in Cinrein's eyes.
He also recognized calculation. A Highborn's host-gift was supposed to match the guest-gift in kind or implication. How much would a greedy man sacrifice in the attempt to look courtly?
Cinrein muttered to a servant. Feet thudded back and forth on the veranda again, through several more rounds of applewine and ridiculous compliments. The rude menial returned. The governor made another expansive, artificial gesture.
"Sam Sutandisu Esara, accept an impoverished token of my regard."
Use of the honorific 'sam' meant Cinrein believed the mysterious stranger was Highborn -- and thus an imperial agent. For what other reason would Highborn travel so far from the throne city?
Esara bowed, his stance less humble than his words. The caper was proceeding well. He wouldn't turn down a flutegirl, or a few bales of the pounded fibre cloth the locals wove. His employer made no claim to any unconsidered trifles that might fall Esara's way in this venture.
The attendants pulled aside a screen between the dining hall and its veranda. Collared and bound, the beastborn made a pitiful huddle. Governor Cinrein had enough sense of presentation that they were washed and kilted, and given water at least. Esara doubted they'd been fed.
That Cinrein thought he could be considered worthy to give this gift was arrogance on the edge of madness. In the Eightfold City eight beastborn (seven, if one discounted the cub) would be an imperial gift. Of course those would be trained purebreds, not half of them mongrel and the other half feral.
Here on the borders the gift was valueless . . . almost. What use were beastborn without Highborn? Only Highborn could break beastborn to their use. Esara gulped at his applewine, gaining a few seconds to plan a response.
"Sam Cinrein, I am speechless, my breath lost in the radiant glory of your generosity, my words a frail and insubstantial smoke vanished in the gale of my overwhelming debt . . . ."
The gift was a test, of course. Esara had to accept it. No Highborn would pass by such a trove, and the Eightfold City had no concern for other than Highborn. A commoner could vanish with no questions asked.
It was a bribe as well. A man so unpopular at court that he was sent to the wilderness would find such a reward . . . persuasive.
Finally, even if the Highborn wouldn't stay bought, the beastborn were a distraction. Mindbreaking so many should take a moon or more. By then a caravan of the luxuries skimmed from Cinrein's tax revenues would be en route to his home province -- a nice profit for his years in exile.
The bribe put Esara on a tight schedule. A very tight one, if he hoped for any profit above his promised wage.
He showed no hurry. Guards took the beastborn away. The banquet continued. Tiny pale cups of applewine floated about the table, easy enough to spill out or share with the clumsy but enthusiastic flute-girls.
"These heifers are the best this wilderness can offer," Cinrein confessed, "but you and I have seen true grace, Sam Esara. Do you long as I do for the dances of the Imperial Flower Troop, or the hosts at Uran? Only the most beautiful youths of the noblest clans . . . but perhaps I speak of scripture to a monk?"
It was a trite reference. 'Unrolling these painted scrolls / one quotes scripture to a monk.' Alcohol lent Cinrein no gift of conversation. Esara distracted him with toasts to every notable of the Eightfold City, until lewd compliments trailed into incoherence. Esara had been careful to spread small gifts among the servants. For his reward they carried him back to his rooms once he'd slumped in feigned drunkeness.
At the door curtain Esara pretended to wake.
"Bring the beastborn here," he commanded. "The pale male, the angry one. And bring more wine!"
No-one else, so far from the Eightfold City, would identify a breeding pair of Larabi fighters with a cub, a grizzled Sankesu giant or a long-legged Chakusan courser. Two of the males and one female looked crossbred, but they were not unpleasing. The male Larabi was pack leader, of course. Larabis were bred for aggression.
He could do this. He'd sold sand in the West and rock in the East, as the saying went. Even if beastborn could smell a lie, he'd win their support.
Bright silk pillows and covers decked the sleeping platform. When the guards called for entry Esara was sprawled on the pillows, looking (and smelling) very drunk. The low table held another jug of applewine, with small cakes and sliced fruit.
Cinrein's guards dragged the beastborn past the door curtain, and choked and kicked him into position on the floor. He had not struggled. Esara could only assume they were showing off.
"Damage my property, and I'll have its value from you."
The look of Highborn contempt sent them backing out of the room, apologizing. Esara hoped that meant the other beastborn might receive gentler treatment. He stood up to circle around his new possession.
A breed tattoo on the beastborn's shoulder confirmed he was Larabi. He had the pale skin (livid with sunburn now), hair so pale it was almost white, glacial eyes, and the narrow build of a ring-fighter. In the late stages of withdrawal, with wrists and ankles tied to a ring on the floor, he should have seemed helpless.
Instead, like a pinon tiger in a cage, he was an incarnation of murder. He glared at Esara, looked once at the applewine, and then found the wall fascinating.
He lived up to the Larabi reputation for stubborn endurance. His uncollared throat was tanned as dark as his face. Mature beastborn were supposed to die within a few moons of losing their breaker. This one was gaunt beneath his scars -- by now every bite he swallowed had to be an effort of will -- but he was aware and apparently sane.
Like most luxuries from the Eightfold City, the cream Esara used to keep his skin supple was safe for beastborn too. He went to get it. Sunburn would be torture, to inhumanly sensitive skin. If he wanted the beastborn's attention, he had to eliminate distractions.
The beastborn didn't twist to watch. He couldn't escape. He chose not to throw himself against the ropes. Only the taut muscles of his back and shoulders showed distrust of the man behind him.
Even a feral Larabi couldn't wander alone this far from the Eightfold City. Some Highborn had brought the beastborn out where only exiles came. Esara couldn't imagine abandoning property so valuable.
"Highborn don't thrive in solitude, jan-beastborn. Did yours take the quickest way home?"
The quote was well known. Even a beastborn should recognize it. 'Mud, thieves, and shut gates / or the narrow shining road / the quickest way home.' Many Highborn chose death over exile from the Eightfold City and their own kind.
"Don't spout what you don't hold!" the beastborn snarled.
'Only the scent left / "Don't spout what you don't hold", said / the cup to the flask.' He spoke understandably, more than some beastborn managed. That was useful. Esara salved the areas the beastborn would find difficult to reach and wiped his hands on a small towel. The knot securing the leather cuffs was easy enough to undo. He turned back to the dais.
The world flipped over. He lay on the tile floor. At his throat was the dinner blade from his belt. The beastborn had him pinned.
"This drumming stream . . . ?" the beastborn said.
Out in the provinces, Esara missed hearing the allusive, indirect courtly speech. He hadn't expected it from so unlikely a source. 'Life weighs so little / like a shard of ice crosswise / on the drumming stream.' Thawing ice was a human life in the stream of time.
Until now he had not interpreted the poem as a threat of mortal injury. Rumor said the instinctive need in an unbroken beastborn meant he couldn't harm a Highborn, but that didn't shield Esara. This beastborn seemed quite able to cut his throat.
Esara should have been afraid. Without high stakes though, what interest was there in a game?
"Even the timbers . . . ." he quoted back.
The timbers referred to a Highborn's funeral pyre. 'Even the timbers / groan for the loss of that smoke / taken by the wind.' The heaviness of grief contrasted with intangible life.
The meaning was darker here. The death of a Highborn meant his beastborn died too. Custom sent them to his pyre. In the Eightfold City they were drugged or strangled beforehand, to avoid impropriety at a solemn rite. Cinrein was not likely to observe such niceties.
The beastborn's grip didn't slacken. His pack's best chance of escape lay in cooperation, but Esara couldn't say so. The other beastborn had to be listening, let alone what spies the governor set. Only the allusive quotes of courtly speech let him hint at accommodation.
". . .because the rain falls."
'Only because the rain falls / we are caught here together.' Like the lovers in the poem, he and the beastborn didn't have to put up with each other for long.
To break the flask of scent in his shirt cuff would leave the beastborn gasping. The blade beside it was more permanent. Using either meant the end of this night's game, even if he set aside the chance the beastborn would cut first.
The beastborn's retreat was as abrupt as his attack. Esara took his time in standing and straightening his robes. He turned around. The Larabi's glare was unamused.
"The plum tree expected spring," he said.
'Without promises / the plum tree expected spring / ice on flowered twigs.' Esara said nothing, only held a hand out for the return of his knife.
It hit his left shoulder -- hilt first, but hard enough to wake the devil sleeping there. He caught it with his right hand as it dropped. The blow wasn't chance. The beastborn read his stance to know his weaknesses.
Esara slid the knife back into its sheath. He turned his back on the beastborn again, and returned to the platform.
"What do you want?" the Larabi asked.
"Faithful servants," he said. "Cherry boughs are not enough."
'One faithful servant / lights the hearth and draws water / an eightfold treasure' referred to the service that allowed a recluse to concentrate on enlightenment. 'Greedy for treasure / cherry boughs are not enough / the sound of your flute' was the plaint of a woman waiting for her lover. Taken together though, Esara hoped the beastborn would understand his goal.
"A loyal soldier serves . . . ."
That was clear enough. 'Even a rebel / like a loyal soldier serves / with his death the whole.' The Larabi knelt, his arms behind his back as if they were still bound, and his head fallen back to show the throat.
The last, least use of a stubbornly unbroken beastborn was an example to the rest. Since the beastborn could not kill -- not if he wished his pack to survive -- he sought another escape. The insult was remarkably painful.
". . . like moonlight and soft breeze."
'Guests who come at night / like moonlight and a soft breeze / aren't asked their names'
Like much of court speech the words implied their opposite.
"Dust on the road," the beastborn answered.
'Dry dust on the road / rises to choke boasting men / that will be my name.'
Several small cups clustered about the applewine jug. The servants had expected flutegirls to accompany him back. Esara poured a cup for himself and set another at the edge of the tray. A gentle wave indicated where his attendant might be expected to kneel.
The Larabi settled himself to the left of the dais as a favored beastborn would -- as this one doubtless had, some time in the past. He gulped the applewine as if it was medicinal, and slapped the cup down with a challenging look. Obligingly Esara drank his own and poured the cups full again. It won him some payment.
"Kris. Kris the Larabi."
The beastborn drank again. Like most Larabi he'd been named for a weapon, a twisty blade. Again like most, he was proud of his derivation.
"Jan Kurisu," Esara said, giving it the Highborn pronounciation.
He poured for the Larabi as he poured for himself, ignoring the beastborn's saturnine smile. Alcohol was one drug that affected beastborn less than humankind. A Highborn should be unconscious long before the Larabi so much as swayed. That had to be Kris's plan.
Hunger, thirst, and random beatings, with the end-stages of Highborn-withdrawal, might tilt the balance more than Kris expected. Esara went on pouring the paired drinks. If his were imbibed with more care, or if his cup filled again before it was emptied, the beastborn didn't comment. Still, Esara began to think he'd have to call for more applewine.
"All day going from room to room / looking for something I lost," the beastborn whispered. "Sera!"
He swayed. Bewilderment turned to accusation. He glared at Esara. When he tried to stand, he couldn't untangle his feet. He slumped against the dais.
Esara put a hand on his head, gambling the beastman was too far gone to shake it off. Or bite it off. Cooperation would have eased the way, but Esara could make use of its lack as well.
"Sleep, janKurisu. Dream of your Highborn. Dream that you're happy."
Kris slipped to the floor. Esara guided the dead weight of his skull away from any hard surface. His hand stayed in place longer than it was needed.
He did not want to admire the beastborn. They were going to be his camouflage and tools. Their virtues were a matter of breeding not choice -- rather like his lack thereof -- and only a fool would envy anything in them.
Having rid himself of some applewine in the waste-closet, Esara sorted through his clothing for the collars every Highborn carried. He couldn't lie to beastborn, but Kris the Larabi was going to lie for him.
He sacrificed a couple of pillows to wedge the Larabi on his side, mitigating the effects if an over-sensitive stomach rebelled. Even deft hands couldn't tie the collar on an unconscious man easily. More than once the Larabi seemed about to wake. Esara whispered him calm, but it was all pretense. He couldn't supply what the beastborn needed.
All he could do was take them from Cinrein's hold. In the night and the cold, the fate every beastborn was born to still waited. Standing began to seem an arduous project.
With a hand still splayed on the beastborn's chest, Esara tried to remember why he had to move.