The Courtesy of Kings | ☑ Queenkiller, Kingmaker #2

03.2

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Not many lunched at the dining cabin. Most preferred the open decks, marvelling over the calm waters of the Kapuluan Raja, shaded under abaca and batique tents, fanning themselves with ricepaper fans. They were all dressed in the higher fashions of the Eastern Isles. Thick ossa—long tunic dresses split at the outer thighs and worn with a skirt or trousers; or robes over the traditional yi-sang—cross-collared tops worn under pleated skirts. Isla and Tam Mai were considerably underdressed in their simple syarong, even though Isla had tied the wrap-around in one of the most complex styles she knew.

The cabin was amply lit, the air sweet and savoury. Sunlight streamed through large, panelled windows on all sides. Isla removed the shawl from her shoulders and draped it around her sister's face. The tables were fashioned in what some highborn ladies admired as the Tsunai style: low and perfectly square, surrounded by large sitting cushions, and hollow in the middle where it dipped into a sunken hearth. A thin chimney extended over each hearth, through which dangled several hooks and chains.

They took a table in the only available corner, where the crook of the fluted walls offered shade from direct sunlight. Beside theirs was a table of four merchants, each trying to outshine the other in their tales of finaglery. Isla hooked a kettle over her hearth and listened.

Two Surikh, a Napoan, and a Porasawan, judging by their accents. She sniffed under her breath. It sounded like the opening to a bad joke. They talked over rice wine, debating the best markets, most profitable price points, and other nonsense that had her tuning out within seconds.

It's like I'm in Intercontinental Trade again with Master Chendra. She chuckled at the thought of her old mentor tossing a miniature trade ship across the room at her.

'What's so funny?' Tam Mai sidled her cushion closer.

'Just a grouchy old man I once knew.'

'Uncle Bart?'

Isla laughed aloud. 'Oh, no. Someone much more miserable than Uncle Bart.'

Her sister's eyes furrowed in disbelief, but Isla was spared an explanation when the attendant came with a platter and laid it upon their table. Thin-sliced meats, fruits and vegetables in a basket, small bowls of various dips and sauces ... Tam Mai did not wait for the man to set the grill on their hearth. She fumbled with the dining reeds and reached for what looked like fish slices. The attendant listed off their choice meats and seafoods while Tam Mai chewed, Isla pretended to listen attentively while trying to eavesdrop on the merchants. One of them—the Porasawan—had started bragging about his wares: exotic medicines he had supposedly acquired from across the Eastern Isles.

'Here is but a sample.' He held a tiny jar between his fingers, turning it against the light of his hearth. Isla barely saw it in her periphery; no larger than an inch, filled with white powder. 'And this alone is already worth a fortune. This, my friends, is a remedy made of only the finest, strongest dji-ran horn in all the Eastern realms.'

The Napoan snorted. 'I suppose you tracked and hunted them down yourself.'

'I didn't need to. I saw the uncut horns, attached still to their heads.'

'Pah, these days even a modestly trained seamstress can sew an oryx horn to a horse and make it look like the real deal.'

'You reveal yourself, Hanchu. Are you telling me you aren't able to distinguish the horns of a desert-dwelling oryx to those of the flesh-eating dji-ran? How about the alpine ibex and the bull-horned rhino? Well, don't worry about it too much. I did not become master apothecarist by cruising on pleasure ships all year round, after all.'