Spin the Dawn(13)

I pondered the way the shansen’s daughter had spoken to Lord Xina—was the bitterness in her tone for her lover or for her father? Or both?

Longhai capped his flask. “Did you see her fur coat? Rabbit, fox, wolf, at least three different bears. Northerners only wear what they hunt—Lady Sarnai must be quite skilled.” He heaved a sympathetic sigh. “She won’t have an easy time adjusting to life here.” He leaned closer to me, as if to share a secret. “But she does seem to enjoy aggravating His Majesty. She wore breeches to tea with the emperor and his ministers of war.”

Lady Sarnai had nerve. I didn’t know whether that made me respect her more—or less.

“I’m sure we’ll hear about it tomorrow,” Longhai said as we approached the hall.

I wished Longhai’s station were next to mine, but he was on the opposite end of the room. So I returned to my table alone and took out my sketchbook to start designing a shawl, not bothering to greet the tailors around me. I had a feeling they resented my presence.

To my relief, they ignored me, too. Since I was the last tailor to arrive for the trial, I’d been assigned the worst table—farthest from the windows and toward the middle, where my work was practically on exhibit for everyone to see.

None of the tailors except for Longhai had introduced themselves to me, but through scraps of their conversations, I caught some names I recognized. Like Longhai, they were masters whose styles I’d grown up studying and emulating; these were men who’d been sewing since long before I was born.

Master Taraha and Master Yindi came from different schools of embroidery, but both were geniuses: Taraha specialized in flowers, and Yindi in double-sided embroidery. Master Boyen was brilliant at knotting; Master Delun wove brocades unlike any others. Master Norbu was a favorite of the nobility.

And me? When we’d lived in Gangsun, Baba had asked visiting friends to teach me their regional styles and crafts, and in Port Kamalan, I’d picked up techniques from every merchant and tailor who’d speak to me.

But I was no master, and I had no reputation.

“You!” a man barked, interrupting my worried thoughts. “Pretty boy!”

The hairs on my neck bristled, but I turned my head. Master Yindi was plump, though not as fat as Longhai, with a pudgy nose that seemed to be always wrinkled at something. He was bald, too, save for the gray sideburns slinking down his cheeks. Ironic, since his beard was so long it almost touched his knees.

“Look here,” he said. “Can I have your silk? You’ll be going home soon anyway, so you might as well give it over to someone who can use it.”

Laughter erupted. It seemed they all agreed I’d be the first to be sent home. My mouth set in a thin line.

“Leave the boy alone,” Longhai said above the noise. “If all of you are so great, you shouldn’t need extra silk.”

“Befriending the rabble, eh, Longhai?” Yindi said. “Wouldn’t expect any less from you.” He turned back to me. “Are you sure you won’t prick yourself with a needle?” he taunted. “My chin hasn’t been that smooth since I was a child.”

“What happened to that leg of yours?” another tailor chimed in.

The ink on my page smeared. I flipped it and restarted my sketch. People will see what they want to see, I reminded myself. Better a girlish boy than a boyish girl.

“Are you deaf, pretty boy?”

“Or are you only crippled?”

Now I stopped sketching. “I fought in the war. And a broken leg doesn’t mean I can’t use my hands,” I snapped defiantly. “I’d wager I can sew faster than any of you.”

Master Yindi laughed. “We’ll see about that. When I was your age, I was still washing shirts for my master. He wouldn’t let me anywhere close to a loom.” He snorted. “Let me see those hands of yours, pretty boy. I can tell a tailor from a washboy.”

I spread my fingers wide to show my calluses. My brothers used to tease that I’d never find a husband because my fingers were rough as a man’s.

“So?” I said. “A tailor or a washboy?”

Yindi harrumphed and, pinching his beard in one hand, returned to his stool.

Longhai came to my station, resting a hand on top of my screen. “Don’t worry about Yindi,” he said. “He’s all bark.”

“Master Longhai speaks wisely,” Norbu interrupted, to my surprise. He had been quiet, and I hadn’t seen him approach my table. “We won’t get any work done if we waste our time picking on the boy.” He gestured at the statues of the Three Sages. “The gods are listening to us, masters. Do you want to invoke their wrath?”

One by one, the tailors shook their heads. Even Yindi, whose desk dangled with charms to ward off demons and bad luck, frowned.

“Then get back to work.”

Norbu had influence because he owned a shop in the capital, Jappor, with over a hundred tailors under his command. He was the wealthiest of us all, and the most powerful. His daughter had married an important official. He was practically nobility.

“I trust they’ll leave you alone now,” Norbu said once the chatter faded. He smiled at me, and I got the distinct sense I now owed him something.

“Thank you,” I said.

He toyed with the threads I’d set on my table. Norbu reminded me of an overstuffed lizard—his body was long and thin, but his stomach was round, his eyes half open and half shut so they looked deceptively sleepy. He wasn’t mean like Yindi, but I still wished he would leave my things alone.