Page 16 of Prima
She brushes it aside. “So I don’t come back. But in ten years, you’ll still be a bachelor?”
He shrugs. “Or I may be one of the lucky ones who’ll have not only a wife but three concubines by then.”
She also takes a sip of her tea—there’s nothing like the vegetal scent of steam-processed tea mixed with the clean salt of sea air. “Do men actually look forward to having all those wives and concubines? Or maybe I should ask, is it all that it’s cracked up to be for men who can afford all those dependents?”
He shrugs again. For a moment, it seems that is all he will say on the subject, but then he adds, “I ask myself the same question.”
And looks annoyed at himself, as if he’s said too much.
She knows, of course, that the people of Dawan must be careful about what they say in public—and sometimes even in private. But he already pronounced Dawan “rotten from top to bottom”. What assertions can he make that are worse than that?
Now she’s really curious. “And?”
He bites the corner of his lips, the first remotely boyish expression she’s seen from him.
“Do you know how many children the Potentate has?”
As he asks this question, his fingers tighten around his teacup, so much so that the veins on the back of his hand become prominent. She too is taken aback. Anything involving the Potentate is a sensitive topic in Dawan; any speech that isn’t a geyser of praise might draw unwanted attention.
But the ruler’s number of offspring is an objective figure, right? “Fifty or so?”
He lowers his voice, even though they are the only two people in a radius of five kilometers. “The Potentate has a wife, two noble consorts, and forty-some concubines. And over the years there have been over one hundred and ten live births in his palace.”
Her jaw drops. If what he says is true, the mortality rate among the princes and princesses runs at a horrifying 55%. Not everyone in Dawan has access to vaccines and antibiotics, but the Potentate’s progeny must. What then is causing so many of them to die?
“Believe it or not, things have improved in recent years: The oldest of his children are grown and capable of fending for themselves, and the little ones, unless they turn out to be great favorites of the Potentate, stand a better chance of reaching adulthood because they present a lesser challenge to those princes currently vying for succession.”
“Does the Potentate realize that his children are dying at an unnatural pace?”
It’s a stupid question—the Potentate is obviously aware of their survival rate. He just doesn’t care enough to change the way things are done.
“The Potentate himself is the product of such an upbringing. His mother, the esteemed dowager, is said to have been responsible for the deaths of more than twenty of his half-siblings. Similar behind-the-scenes power struggles take place in the households of all men important or wealthy enough to practice polygamy—to a smaller scale, of course. You can’t kill off fifty children unless there are at least fifty children in residence.”
This is for sure information not openly discussed in Dawan. Now she understands his initial reluctance. Either he trusts her implicitly or he is feeling remarkably reckless—and he does not strike her as reckless.
Her stomach flutters, but she doesn’t let herself read too much into it. He might simply be counting on her imminent departure from Dawan, safe in the knowledge that she won’t have time to betray him.
Still…
“Lieutenant, may I ask how you know what you know?” She saw him in uniform for only a moment, but long enough to recognize the rank insignia on his sleeve.
He shrugs—he seems to have anticipated her question. “I was a palace kitchen boy for a while—inside information, I suppose.”
“Ah, good you clarified. I was going to guess that perhaps you grew up in the palace too.”
He looks at her askance. “And then became a lowly patrol?”
She taps a fingertip against her chin. “If you are one of the Potentate’s sons, there must be at least ten of his surviving sons who are older than you. If I were one of them, I would be extremely wary of you: You’d make a strong rival—and you’d be difficult to kill. But someone who is difficult to kill can be exiled. Or perhaps you yourself seized the opportunity to escape the palace—and its deadly power struggles.”
He leans back and looks her over as if seeing her for the first time. White is a very nice color on him, she decides—the white tunic a beautiful contrast against the bronze of his skin.
So beautiful she wants him to take it off right away.
He turns his teacup a few degrees. “You know all that because I said kids die in that palace?”
“And because you told me you drink from cups of gold and jade when you’re at home.” Not to mention a tri-hull like his can’t be that easy to come by.
He finishes the rest of his tea. For a moment, she senses reticence on his part again, as if he’s thought better of what he’s about to say. But then he asks, “Are you the next Sea Witch?”
