As always, not my world, just my playground.
Dinner with the Masago was more or less what Kankurou had expected. He felt oddly grateful for the get-up he'd been forced to wear – it wasn't half as garish as what everyone else was wearing. Fabulously elaborate kimonos surrounded him, beautifully tailored garments stuffed with the dullest, most unimaginative people he had ever encountered. At least his hakama pants didn't trail miles along the floor around his feet. He couldn't figure out how the men were walking with several feet of fabric pooling around their ankles.
The only people who looked at all presentable, in his opinion, were the Sentinels – the Grand Palatial Sentinels, he reminded himself firmly, with a quick look at Azami, who sat beside him. The hundred-strong company of palace guards boasted the most elite soldiers in the Crown's Thousand Greats, the formal name for the Sentinel body as a whole, and they served as palace guards. From this elite group, a ten-man unit of personal bodyguards was chosen for the reigning daimyo or queen, ten men and women whose loyalty was unquestionable and whose skills were deemed supreme among the tightly knit company. His vigilant eyes picked out at least a score of them, all wearing black kimonos, floor length black hakama, and black haori jackets noticeably similar to his. The resemblance forestalled any resentment a more superficial person might have felt, at having been so underdressed in the court of pretty, brainless butterflies.
"They're pretty, aren't they," the Second Tribune whispered at his elbow.
He shifted his gaze toward her, but said nothing.
"The courtiers, I mean. Not a brain among them, I'm afraid, but they are very pretty." She grinned tightly. "You think very loudly, Kankurou-dono."
Mind-reader? No, he thought, schooling his disgusted expression into something less revealing, moderately observant. Anyone here with eyes to see could tell he was revolted by the lavish display before him.
"Is there a point to those pants?" he said, ignoring her commentary.
"Yes, as a matter of fact. Wearing long pants in the presence of Wind's daimyo or queen is mandatory. The idea is that those pants will trip up a potential assassin."
He involuntarily shifted his foot – conspicuously unhindered by the "mandatory" long pants the courtiers were wearing. "Silly," he muttered. "A good assassin wouldn't be seen to begin with."
Azami's smile lost some of its tightness. "Of course not. But it's tradition. And courts just adore tradition." She glanced down at his feet. "You should consider the clothes the Masago sent you an expression of good faith. She assumed – correctly – that if left to their own devices, the servants would dress you up in something unbefitting a shinobi. Something like that, perhaps." He followed her gaze to a particularly ostentatious kimono and stifled a gag.
Azami's expression became softer still as her eyes settled on the young woman who sat enthroned at the front of the dining hall. "She was afraid you would be insulted if such a thing were to happen, so she chose your garments personally. I'm only sorry someone interfered with her gesture."
Although she didn't look at him, a note of warning, a non-specific but definite threat underlined her next words, and Kankurou felt an unfamiliar twinge of fear ripple down his spine.
"I'm sure you've noticed, Kankurou-dono, that other than yourself, only Sentinels have leave to forgo the long hakama."
Kankurou grasped immediately her unspoken messages. One, that the Masago had shown him profound respect in according him the same liberty as her personal guards. Two, that he had damned well better deserve her faith.
"About that interference," he began, but she raised a hand for silence. Her gaze on the dais where the Masago had been seated became very intent, and as he followed her eyes, he saw why.
The crowd of assorted nobility, vassals, and court functionaries fell silent as the queen-to-be rose, stately and magnificent, from her throne.
She was probably pretty. Royal types usually were, he'd noticed. Some were brighter than others, but most of them were attractive. It was hard to say, in Masago Mikkako's case, because her face was concealed beneath layers upon layers of black paint. Her hair was appealing, at any rate. Long and thick, it shone like burnished copper against golden rings that held masses of heavy auburn curls in twin tails on either side of her head. Several small ringlets had been artfully arranged around her face, softening the angularity he could see even under the paint. Her eyes were pretty too, a peculiar tawny gold that recalled the desert sand she reigned over.
Her lips and eyes had been painted a bright red, even brighter than the violet-red kabuki paint he usually wore, and the words 'life' and 'giver' were spelled out, also red, in thin, spidery calligraphy on her forehead.
She stood absolutely still, lofty and remote upon her dais, the embodiment of royal power. Only her eyes moved, drinking in the colorful, half-drunken crowd of flirts and idiots.
"It is my expectation that you all enjoyed your meals." She sounded the part, too; her voice was resonant like a man's, and nearly as deep. The rich, powerful sound carried through the hall like a sharp gust of wind, touching everything in its path.
A rousing cheer met her words, and for a moment she revealed her painted eyelids as they fell closed over amber eyes. "I am pleased. It is fitting that the condemned should enjoy their last meal."
Her eyes opened again, and narrowed into slits of molten gold, brilliant against the black and red of her painted face. "Your food was poisoned, ladies and gentlemen."
After a moment of stunned silence, panic struck. Screaming, shrieking courtiers bolted out of the seats, rushing the heavy metal doors that served as the only entrance, or exit, into the great hall. The doors would not budge.
Kankurou threw a sharp glance at Azami, who answered with a very slight shake of her head, then nodded almost imperceptibly to the dais, where nine Sentinels, presumably her personal guards, had formed a semi-circle around their Masago, each firmly planted into a basic battle stance.
Mikkako seemed to wilt a little, as if disappointed. "Why is it," her vibrating contralto demanded over the din, obviously amplified by some magic or other, "that these people I rely on to service my kingdom are so ready to believe everything they are told? If I informed you that the sky had suddenly turned green, would you run outside to inspect it?"
She shook her head, and her heavy copper ringlets swung ponderously over her black kimono. "Resume your seats."
Tentatively at first, the court of idiots returned to their tables, muttering darkly.
When the last fool had seated himself, the Masago raised an eyebrow, crinkling the painted symbol for 'life.' "The food is not, in fact, poisoned. But several of you will be subjected to the effects of a deadly toxin nonetheless, because of your disloyalty to Wind, and to the Sandstorm Palace. I have the antidote, right here in the room, and will be more than willing to administer it to anyone with the spine to admit to treason."
As the crowd gasped, Kankurou glimpsed a real emotion behind the paint as Mikkako's nostrils flared in aggravation.
"Ladymoss," she said, her voice quiet, but still reverberating through the room, "is a very rare spice cultivated in treetops in the Country of Fire, and served only in the most elite circles of Fire nobility. Alone, the spice is harmless, but coupled with fenwillow leaves, which contain trace amounts of heavy metals leached from the soil, it produces a neurotoxin similar to that found in green scorpions."
She smiled humorlessly. "Every dish before you was prepared with a fenwillow brew. It takes about three hours to take effect," she concluded. The dinner had begun just over two and a half hours prior.
"So, if you are among the traitors who attended the meeting with Matsutoyo Akihiko from Fire, I strongly recommend you turn yourself in. Those who come of their own volition will be given their lives, though you should know I will claim all else for the state. Those who do not come forward within the next three quarters of an hour will be dead, and their families will be exiled from Wind in perpetuity."
Silence met her matter-of-fact threat.
As the Masago waited, cold and unapproachable on her dais, Kankurou's mind raced forward. Country of Fire? That was Leaf's country – he had friends there – family, if you counted in-laws. Last he'd known, Fire and Wind were allies. What the hell had happened?
"This is a big part of why you're here, Kankurou-dono," Azami breathed. "Please relax. The Masago understands Sand's predicament."
He tried to answer her, but she shook her head and glued her eyes on her queen. Just then, a tall, good-looking guy came to the dais, head bowed. It wasn't hard to see, however, that his face was down-turned in barely suppressed fury, not fear.
"Harujiro, I'm shocked." The queen's tone said plainly that she was unsurprised. Golden eyes slid toward one of her Sentinels, who produced a vial. Another removed a pair of shackles from behind the queen's throne, and cuffed him before the antidote was administered.
As the good-looking guy was led away, fuming, six others slowly made their way to the platform where their betrayed queen stood, implacable and unmoved by their plight. By the end of the half hour, all of the traitors had turned themselves in, fourteen of them – three of them vassals. Mikkako assumed her throne to watch the last of them be escorted out.
"That was," Kankurou began in a grudging whisper, "incredibly well-executed. She forced them to reveal themselves, so no one could claim they had been falsely accused."
"She's very intelligent," Azami replied softly. "She's going to make an excellent queen." She frowned. "If we can keep her alive that long. She has some pretty unorthodox…" her voice trailed off as the girl in question began to speak.
"Today is a sad day for the Sandstorm Palace. Three of my great vassals, and not a few members of the lesser nobility, proved that Wind has been served for these seventeen years by traitors, and worse than traitors, by imbeciles."
No one dared answer her, and her golden eyes narrowed into red-painted slits again. "I told them – I told you all – not to believe everything you hear. Ladymoss and fenwillow are deadly together. But neither was involved tonight. Only treachery and foolishness.
"Despite such treachery, despite such foolishness, I remain well-served by a faithful few," she continued harshly. "I know those who are loyal to Sandstorm, and those whose loyalty falters at times."
With an elegant hand, she gestured to the paint on her face. "Do not forget who rules in Sandstorm," her narrowed gaze sought Kankurou's face, and then flickered away so quickly he doubted his own eyes, "and in Wind."
Temari lounged in her room, idly rustling through a stack of letters. This building needed repairs, Kazekage-sama. This mission hadn't been performed as efficiently as it could have been, and couldn't the Kazekage-sama please speak with so-and-so about their performance? These two children were acting up at the academy, and one of them didn't have any parents, and would the Kazekage-sama mind coming to give a lecture on the importance of academy work?
The blonde groaned and dropped the stack on her desk. Her new center of gravity caused her aim to be a little off, and the papers slid in an unpleasant, crackling waterfall to the floor.
She cursed. Gripping the edge of the desk and the arm of her chair, she slowly lowered herself to the floor.
"Temari!" Shikamaru strode – purposefully for once – to her side. Slipping an arm around her non-existent waist, he hauled her up on her feet and firmly pushed her down into her chair. "What did I get myself into, marrying such a difficult woman? It wouldn't kill you to ask for help, once in awhile."
Dropping to one knee, he gathered the papers, and winced. "I bet these were in a particular order, weren't they." It was not a question, because he knew her better.
Glaring at her suddenly too-helpful husband, she nodded. "I could have gotten them myself."
"You promised you would take it easy once we got here," he reminded her severely. "I don't think I can handle another episode like last time."
"Too troublesome?" she shot back, suddenly bitter. "It wasn't exactly the most pleasant experience for me, either, you know."
"Not troublesome," Shikamaru said, calmly, straightening the papers and handing them to her. "Frightening."
That took the sour taste out of her mouth. He always caught her off-guard, with the easy way he acknowledged his emotions. He was neither ashamed nor proud of them; they were simply there, to be dealt with as little effort as possible. Fighting a glare or a smile, or even tears, that simply was not in his nature. He probably considered hiding his feelings too much to bother with, at least until the stakes got interesting.
"Sorry," she said under her breath.
The press of soft lips against her cheek startled her, further defusing her irritability. With a sigh, she capitulated and settled the stack of papers on the desk, careful to push it well away from the edges.
"You're the troublesome one," she groused, as her husband slipped his hands behind her knees and shoulders, picking her up like a child. "I never wanted a man who treated me like spun glass."
"I never wanted an exceptionally beautiful wife," Shikamaru replied, eyes dancing with good humor. He made his way to her bed, and if the extra weight inconvenienced him at all, he didn't show it.
"Beautiful?" Temari snorted, and lightly flicked her bulging belly. "Yeah, right."
"I didn't say 'beautiful,'" Shikamaru corrected her, settling her into the bed and climbing in beside her. "I said, 'I never wanted an exceptionally beautiful wife.'
He untied her simple cloth belt and rested a comfortably cool hand against her bared belly.
"We both got exactly what we didn't want," he mused, sliding his hand further into her kimono. "I suppose that makes us both terribly unlucky."
"I suppose." Then Temari gasped, and suddenly the ill-behaved academy kids and the inefficient missions seemed very, very, very far away.
The remaining diners were dismissed, unharmed but badly shaken. Though clever, the Masago's ploy had seriously upset a number of her vassals and noblemen, and the aristocracy was a touchy bunch.
Kankurou didn't much care for politics. And he didn't much care for aristocrats.
"Come with me, please, Kankurou-dono." Azami extended her hand to him and crooked a finger toward herself. "Her Majesty wishes to speak with you."
"Azami." A deep, rough bass rumbled behind them. Kankurou turned.
A battered-looking, middle-aged Sentinel marched toward them, dislike evident in his craggy features.
"Ryouta-sama, please. Don't interfere." Though her tone was strong, her head was bowed deferentially, and Kankurou knew immediately who the man must be.
The Sentinels were the military elite in Wind. Companies of one hundred served under a Tribune, like Azami. There were various classes among the Sentinels; there were the Grand Palatial Sentinels, of course, whom Azami, as Second Tribune, was leader of, but there were others. Kankurou had long since forgotten the many classes and ranks of the Sentinels.
He did know, however, that the Great Thousand had been a rather less great nine hundred for almost two decades now. Each company of one hundred served a Tribune, but the First Tribune was not the head of any particular branch of the Sentinels; rather, he commanded the whole of the Great Thousand. For one thousand troops, there had always been eleven Tribunes.
The man who had served as the Eleventh Tribune had typically gone by a different name.
Kazekage.
Kankurou's father had been accused of ordering the assassination of the daimyo and his family; and, based on those rumors, the First Tribune had ousted the tenth company of Sentinels, a company that had been composed entirely of Sand shinobi.
Baki, Kankurou remembered, had been a Sentinel, once upon a time.
Azami and the man Kankurou knew must be the First Tribune of the Great Thousand were arguing, but both fell silent when Kankurou's fist plowed through the wall beside them.
"Kankurou-dono…" Azami said, wincing.
The First Tribune bared his teeth. "Let's go, you filthy, treacherous snake."
He opened his mouth to retort, but another's voice rippled into the tense moment.
"There's been more than enough hostility in the palace tonight. Stand down, Ryouta."
The First and Second Tribunes whirled around. Kankurou didn't bother. He recognized the voice.
"Kankurou, of the Hidden Village of Sand."
He turned around, slowly, so as not to seem either overawed or disrespectful. Bowing at the waist, he could see the hem of her satin kimono. "Your Majesty."
"Masago is fine."
Kankurou blinked and stood upright. The Masago was looking at him, an amused smile on her painted lips.
"Majesty," the First Tribune objected hotly, but she cut him off.
"Masago."
"That appellation is inappropriate, Majesty."
"It's my house, Ryouta. We follow my rules in my house, remember?"
"Yes, Maje – Masago, but he –"
"Is a guest who has traveled a great ways at my request," she finished smoothly. "If you wish to accompany us, at least be civil. I've had all the tension I can take for one day."
"He's that man's son!"
Those molten gold eyes flared briefly. "That," she said quietly, "is something we all need to discuss tonight." She turned back to Kankurou. "It is also why you haven't been permitted the sleep I'm sure you need. Please forgive me, and trust that I would be a better hostess were the circumstances less dire."
For the first time, she seemed to notice his kimono. She smiled. "I am pleased you saw fit to wear my gift, Kankurou. I trust it met with your approval?"
Azami caught his eyes and nodded.
"It does, now, Majesty."
"Masago," she corrected absently. "Now? What do you mean?"
"Someone sent him a kimono with the calligraphy for 'loyalty' stitched into it, rather than 'harmony.'" Azami crossed her arms and looked down. "I'm sorry, Masago. I should have caught it."
"Ryouta."
There was a sadness in the way she said the First Tribune's name that tugged even at Kankurou's heart. It was a little like the way Gaara said the word 'father.'
"Ah, ah," Azami started, startled, waving her hands, "I'm sure the First Tribune wouldn't have –"
But neither Ryouta nor the Masago were looking at her. Their eyes were locked on each other.
"If you're going to insist on having this piece of trash in your audience chamber, Majesty, I must respectfully request to be left out of the proceedings." Ryouta's voice grated out like sandpaper on flesh.
"Request denied. And watch your tongue. You're insulting me and my guest."
The First Tribune held his queen's calm eyes in a stony glare. Kankurou's fingers twitched involuntarily, responding automatically to his pent-up aggravation and strain, as if his soulless puppets had suddenly come to life to aid him.
Azami broke the silence with a placating tone. "Even if – especially if – Kankurou-dono meant Masago any harm, wouldn't you want to be nearby, to help her?"
Ryouta turned his glare on her, but in the time it took him to look away, his queen had swept past him and out of the hall. Her nine Sentinels followed after her, the only people left in the hall but Kankurou and the two Tribunes.
Fed up with the whole ordeal and seething inwardly at Ryouta's accusations, Kankurou followed them, leaving Azami whispering to a fuming First Tribune.
Beautiful. Oh, God, she was beautiful. Troublesome, oh, yes. But so beautiful. And so much more than beautiful. Smart, and brave, and loyal to a fault, and scrupulously honest when she could afford to be. She was so… so much more. His father had said something, long ago, about even a troublesome woman having a softer side, or showing her softer side, or something like that, and he understood it now. But he'd more or less figured out the best ways to get around her when she felt like making trouble for him, and all-in-all, their marriage was as smooth as could be hoped for.
She was sleeping quietly beside him.