Chapter Two

Ink

So Ga spent the next hour standing in an enclosed partition of his private quarters having mud removed from his clothes and then from his person. In addition to washing his face, he’d also had to put his head over a basin so they could wash his hair. Because So Ga was tolibin — because his royal father was tolibin — his hair had to remain uncut. The entire length of it seemed to have been coated in mud, which also seemed to dry very quickly and stick like paste to each strand. The prince’s scalp had been red and aching by the time they’d finished.

Hin Lan stood on the other side of an embroidered silk privacy screen which hung from the ceiling and dangled just an inch or two off the floor. So Ga could see the outline of him stiffly standing there while the maids took away his muddied silk golt and helped him change his linen inner garments. So Ga knew Hin Lan would not comment on his royal charge’s misadventure in the kitchens. His position as So Ga’s tutor and So Ga’s position as the crown prince made matters of correction difficult for both to navigate. Hin Lan had never scolded the prince. But he had developed the ability to convey the entirety of a lengthy and eloquent scolding by nothing more than the stiffness of his stance and the angle of his jaw.

And judging by the shape of Hin Lan’s silhouette, So Ga was being thoroughly scolded.

Presently, Hin Lan said, “They will soon bring Your Highness’s midday meal. Though I believe it might be,” he paused and So Ga held his breath, “a bit delayed.”

So Ga didn’t answer. As he shrugged into a soft, clean, linen inner shirt, he watched the shape of an attendant, who had emerged through the doorway on the far wall, approach cautiously. He carried something to Hin Lan, who examined it, thanked the attendant, and then dismissed him.

The maids draped a crisp, clean golt over the wooden stand that was used to hold the prince’s clothes and softly misted it with fragrant rose water. The room filled with the sweetness of roses and mint. There wasn’t much variation in the prince’s wardrobe, which was how he preferred it. He liked to keep things simple and predictable, even his clothes. The golt was the primary garment of all Láokothians, and had been for some two hundred years or so, despite its many variations over the decades. Hin Lan, for instance, favored a golt that was fastened from collar to hem in a series of small, shining buttons. The stiffness of the silk fabric doubled the tutor in size. His sleeves especially, which were wide and gathered a bit at the cuff, made his long arms appear almost comically large.

So Ga, however, preferred a loose golt that wrapped across his chest and then was fastened at the waist with a single ornate clip, though some of his golts used a tie — a style considered somewhat ascetic. The long skirts were open, like a coat, making it easier to move and more comfortable to sit for long periods of time. And though his sleeves were full and cumbersome, like Hin Lan’s, they were warm, and he liked that he could comfortably tuck his cold hands inside them.

Golts made of silk and heavily embroidered were common among the high families of the various Houses and in the courts of all the princedoms. Though, of course, the royal House of Sona was expected to maintain a higher standard. All of So Ga’s golts, despite being as simple as was permitted, were nevertheless the most exquisite garments in the palace, save for his royal father’s. The buttery green silk was as smooth as glass and shone like water. The fine needlework along the hem and cuffs was all but invisible, making the flowing fabric appear like thick ink spilled in clear water.

As today was growing colder — and because his wet hair was making him shiver — he asked the maids to bring out one of the heavier outer golts he favored in the winter, but they had not yet been prepared for the season. He saw Hin Lan’s shadow turn in his direction when he made that request.

To avoid any possible admonitions regarding his health, So Ga asked, “Is that from the Front Hall?” Referring to the item the attendant had brought.

Hin Lan replied, “It is from the Royal Historian, Your Highness.”

At these words, the prince felt a sudden rush of energy. “The transcripts from morning court?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

After they fastened the waist of his linen inner golt over his linen pants, So Ga asked Hin Lan to bring him the envelope. He couldn’t bear to wait for them to finish before he started reading.

Hin Lan’s shadow bowed, and then the tutor came around the screen with the cream envelope held in both hands. He bowed again and held it out to the prince. Eagerly, So Ga took it.

Every day the Office of Historical Records was obligated to send the crown prince a copy of the transcripts from the king’s morning court meeting with his ministers. Another of the many protocols of the Four Little Palaces, though So Ga knew that even if he was not confined to his Little Palace he would still be required to study the transcripts. It was the duty of the crown prince to educate himself in every available way prior to taking the throne.

Of course, with the protocols governing the Four Little Palaces, the Royal Historian had to make four copies of these transcripts every day, one for each Little Palace. Because of that So Ga did not usually receive his copy until the afternoon, even though the king’s morning meeting always concluded long before midday.

While the maids managed the folds and ties of his green silk outer golt, So Ga opened the envelope and began reading the transcripts.

The Office of Historical Records used long sheets of thin, rough paper for these copies, which were cheaper and of poorer quality. The official record was, of course, written on fine, smooth sheets of thick cotton paper and bound carefully like any other royal document in silk boxes to deter insects, the Royal Historian’s greatest enemy. But So Ga didn’t mind the quality of the paper. It was the contents that were so important to him.

The pages were covered in fine, meticulous lines of black ink text written in the hand of the king’s court secretary, or perhaps one of the historian’s many clerks, all of whom, according to their training, wrote in a way that was nearly identical. It was an exact transcription of all that had occurred and had been said at this morning’s court meeting.

Even if the crown prince had not been confined to his Little Palace, he would not have been permitted to attend his father’s court. The crown prince was, by law, unable to participate in government matters until he was twenty and married. Reading the morning’s transcription had always been a part of the royal heir’s day, for as long as the royal court of Láokoth had existed. And it had been part of So Ga’s daily life for the last nine years.

There was never anything especially thrilling about his royal father’s court meetings. In truth, the transcripts were quite tedious and rarely covered any matter of great importance. But the accounts were quite detailed and included descriptions of the ministers’ appearances and deportment, of their expressions and tones when speaking, not just their words. And, most importantly, the court secretary always described at length the appearance and behavior of the king.

The prince understood the practical importance of studying these transcriptions every day. But to him that was secondary. It was this brief glimpse of his father that made these dense, indigestible pages worthwhile. Every day he pored over every word, imagining the imposing figure and impressive countenance of his royal father. It was only in the last few years that he had even been able to understand the matters being discussed every morning, but ever since he was a child he had still read every word carefully, often committing to memory random utterances of his father and repeating them in private in an effort to imitate the regal figure that had been described.

While he read, the maids combed his damp hair and bound it loosely in the simple style he preferred.

“His Royal Majesty King Mŭ So arrived at court at precisely six thirty. All ministers summoned are present. Present, too, is the Housemaster of Lăsoth,^¹ Bo Han Lăsoth, who is also the king’s brother-in-law. His Majesty is upright and elegant and speaks in a strong voice. When His Majesty greeted his ministers, he seemed to be in good spirits. His Majesty’s face is a bit pale this morning. The Minister of Works, Soma Lin Renlin requests permission to speak…”

The maids, having completed their tasks, bowed and were dismissed by Hin Lan.

“Your Highness,” Hin Lan began.

“It says my royal father appeared pale.”

Hin Lan paused. “That is an observation of the court secretary, Your Highness. That is not to be considered a report of the royal physician.” After another pause, during which So Ga did not respond, Hin Lan added, “Your Highness, there are a few matters I must see to. I will return before you are done with your midday meal.”

“Yes, alright.”

“They will bring that to your study, Your Highness.”

“Yes, alright.”

Hin Lan bowed and took his leave. The prince was only vaguely aware of his surroundings, so engrossed was he in the pages. Remaining where he stood, behind the embroidered screen, he continued to read.

Given his restless mood, he found himself skimming the sections in between instances when the king was speaking. Later he could study the transcript in its entirety, preferably with Hin Lan by his side to help him understand the nuances of the court proceedings, but at the moment he found his focus only allowed space enough for the words of his father, which were fewer today than usual, a fact that surprised the prince given that his father tended to guide his court meetings directly and had little patience for lengthy speeches or prolonged arguments between his ministers. Perhaps there was something to the fact that the king had appeared pale. So Ga knew that his father had never completely recovered from the injuries he had suffered that night nine years ago. For just a moment, he allowed himself to worry, before pushing the thought from his mind and continuing to read.

It was the fifth page, however, that gave So Ga the greatest shock. When he reached this page he found himself staring at a sheet of paper that had been almost entirely effaced by black ink. The great quantity of it had almost doubled the weight of the page.

The sight of large blocks of black ink covering the faint texture of the original text was at first confusing to the prince, who stared at the page for a moment trying to determine what all the black could possibly mean. In time, however, he gradually understood that an entire section of the court meeting had been deliberately removed from his sight. That was the moment the shock set in. The idea that anyone in the entire Palace would attempt to plainly conceal matters from him was so strange and alien that the possibility had never even occurred to him. Not until he held the blackened page in his hand.

A great surge of anger rose up in him then. And anger was not an emotion with which the prince had much experience. Later he would wonder if his reaction to the sight of these pages was another manifestation of the changes that had been troubling his mind. But at that moment, whether because he was already uneasy or he was simply too shocked to check himself, So Ga reacted in a way that was altogether unusual.

Stepping out from behind his screen, the prince shouted into the corridor. He had, to his knowledge, never shouted in nine years. But the anger surging in his chest seemed to demand release. A startled maid by the open wall of his study dipped into an exaggerated bow where she remained even after the prince’s attendant rushed in. He was probably the same who had brought the pages. So Ga realized he didn’t know the young man’s name which meant he likely served the Front Hall as a messenger.

“Your Highness?” the nervous attendant said from a deep bow.

“What is this?” So Ga held up the effaced page, eyes wide and flashing.

With only a glance at the page in the prince’s hand, the attendant replied, “It is how the pages came, Your Highness. We have made no alterations.”

“It came this way from the Royal Historian?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Am I not the crown prince?” So Ga yelled, the effort burning his throat.

At this the servant began to tremble visibly. He seemed to be contemplating falling to his knees. “Of course, Your High—”

“Is it not the law of my royal father’s country that the crown prince is to study, every day, the transcriptions of the royal court meetings?”

The attendant stammered, “Y-Yes, Your Highness.”

By then Hin Lan had arrived. It had not taken long for him to be alerted by the surprised wave that had flowed through the entire Little Palace with the prince’s uncharacteristic raised voice.

So Ga waved the blackened page again. “And this? By whose order was this transcription altered? Surely not the Royal Historian. He, of course, understands that altering the historical documents of this court is a crime severe enough to have his entire House punished.”

His voice echoed violently off the low wooden ceiling as he flapped the page, gripping it tightly in his fist. Hin Lan glanced up from his bow, as if contemplating whether or not to intervene.

It was then that So Ga coughed, which took a great deal away from the severity of his outburst, but it also intensified the panic of his household. The crown prince’s health had always been poor, and they watched over it with the utmost caution. The cool breeze from the open wall together with his still-wet hair was chilling him to the bone, and his effort to suppress his shivering was making it all the more violent. The fact that he couldn’t even manage this situation without a coughing fit was making him feel even more frustrated. He was alarmed by the sight of the blacked-out page, and equally alarmed by his own dramatic reaction to it.

Hin Lan, who had also been in a deep bow, spoke then. “Your Highness, it—”

The crown prince interrupted him with another cough. While he coughed and clutched at his chest, he turned away from his tutor and the trembling attendant. He leaned against the corner of his desk and waited while the coughs burned through his lungs and his throat. The labor of it bent him like an aged invalid. But as the fit calmed at last, he gradually began to understand why he was so angry.

It wasn’t the Palace rules that he felt himself compelled to defend, it wasn’t even the sacred autonomy of the royal documents that had driven him to such an exaggerated reaction. It was the simple truth that he looked forward to reading these pages every day. Their contents were tedious and dull, but they were the only way he had been able to see and hear his father for almost ten years. They were as precious to him as the distant memories of his dead mother, sister, and brother. It angered him that even one page of that brief glimpse had been taken from him.

At last Hin Lan stepped in. Dismissing the attendant, he bowed deeply. “I will determine the source of the redaction, Your Highness, and acquire an unaltered copy of the transcripts.”

As So Ga continued to cough lightly, the maid, who had been bowing next to the open wall, left her place and brought the prince a small clay cup of warm water. He took it with a murmured thanks.

“Your Highness,” Hin Lan said, his voice firm but soothing. “I will have them bring your meal. By the time you have finished I will have the proper records and you may read them in the garden if you’d like. The afternoon is growing warmer.” He gestured to the sun-drenched garden.

“Thank you, Hin Lan,” the prince said, without looking at him. He heard his tutor’s silk rustle loudly as he bowed and then took his leave.

Determining the source of his anger made him feel embarrassed at the outburst. Like a child who had been prevented from playing with his father and had thrown a petulant tantrum. He worried that this matter would be reported to his royal father and that he would be disappointed in him. But then, how would his father even know which of the Four Little Princes had had such an outburst? He sipped his water.

Within a few minutes they had brought him his meal. A warm, brothy soup made of fish, tomatoes, and saffron from the south, a precious spice seldom seen outside the Palace; a dish of cucumbers covered in a minty cream sauce, and a plate of steaming sweet buns that smelled of cinnamon and cocoa: the Enlo cakes. He almost laughed when he saw them.

But just now the thought of eating anything turned his stomach. He sent the food away and went into the garden, not even realizing that he was still holding several pages of the court records.

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1. LEE-ah-soth