CHAPTER 2

The Market of Vimaya

As the Apsara dancers resumed their performance, the field south of the Victory Gate returned to its chaotic buzz. A crowd of all sorts—spear-bearing guards, wealthy merchants, and rowdy boys—jostled through the humid air. Near the gate, Pin the gatekeeper struggled to maintain order as a stream of young nobles and palace guards pushed past him, refusing the entrance fee with a smirk and a haughty reference to their office. Nearby, a group of minor nobles had already staked out a spot on the dry ground, the rhythmic clatter of their short blades ringing out as they practiced a sharp exchange while waiting for the gallery to fill.

The market buzzed with a dozen smaller dramas. In the shadows of the stalls, servants huddled over games of dice or whispered about beeswax candles pilfered from their masters’ stores. A guard laughed as he caught Mali, the snack-seller, by the waist, drawing her into a corner despite her half-hearted protests. Drunkards unpacked baskets of rice wine and food, their boisterous laughter drawing glares from Pan, a merchant who led his young son Noi through the mud with a look of profound disgust.

“One would think we were in a den of thieves,” Pan muttered, pulling Noi away from a group of boys plotting to fish for noblemen’s turbans with hooked strings. “To think that in such a place they once performed the masterpieces of the old poets.”

“And the greats of the capital,” Noi added, trying to look sophisticated as they navigated past pickpockets signalling their targets and pages throwing dried peas from the upper galleries. Pan merely gestured toward the stage with his cane, where the troupe from Yasodharapura was now performing The Heavenly Apsara.

“Light the lamps!” someone shouted.

The boys on the ground pointed. “Mali!”

Mali appeared behind a long wooden table. “Sweets, milk, fruit water, juices!” she called out as the roar at the entrance grew.

“Make way, you brutes!” a high-pitched voice commanded.

“The nobles!” a servant whispered. “Even in the mud?”

“Only for a few minutes,” a noble’s lackey replied as a group of young dandies pushed through.

Wut, a sharp-featured man, surveyed the half-empty area with a frown. “What! We arrive like common drapers, disturbing no one? Without stepping on any toes?” He spotted his friends in the crowd. “Sak! Seng!” They exchanged dramatic embraces.

“The faithful ones!” Sak laughed. “Yes, we arrive even before the torches are lit.”

“Do not speak of it,” Wut sighed. “I am in such a mood.”

“Console yourself, Khun,” Korn added, pointing toward a servant moving with a long taper. “For here comes the lamplighter!”

The crowd let out a collective “Ah!” as the first [Fai Phao](#) braseros were lit, their warm glow reflecting off the mud and the colourful silks of the upper galleries. Among the people entering the ground level was Chai, appearing slightly dishevelled and smelling of rice wine, leaning on Sorya. Sorya, dressed cleanly, but so simply that it was shouting scullion, looked around with a worried expression, her eyes scanning the nobles in the gallery, over the moat of Lord Okya’s compound.

A Circle of Friends

“Chai!” Sak called, catching the eye of the man leaning on the younger woman’s arm.

“Not yet grey with wine, I see!” Seng laughed.

Chai chuckled, breath heavy with rice wine. He leaned toward Sorya. “May I present you?” At her nod, he turned to the others. “Ladies and gentlemen, the noblewoman Sorya.”

The crowd roared as assistants hoisted the first great [Fai Phao](#) toward the bamboo rafters.

Sak leaned closer, eyes on Sorya. “A charming face, truly.”

“Pah!” Wut dismissed with a wave. “Pretty enough, perhaps, but look at her [Pha Khao Ma](#). That sash isn’t even silk—I believe it’s cotton.”

Chai continued. “My dear, the Khun Sak and Seng.”

Sorya inclined her head. “Enchanted.”

“The lady just arrived from the southern frontier,” Chai explained.

“Yes,” Sorya said, her voice steady over the din. “I have been in Vimaya for twenty days. I join Lord Okya’s retinue tomorrow. As a scullion both and a femalle guard apprentice.”

Wut’s interest shifted to the nobles gallery. “Look there! The Lady of the North.”

In the background, the snack-seller’s cry continued: “Green Mangoes! Milk! Sweets!” High above, flute-players warmed their fingers, a thin note cutting through the noise.

“Quite a crowd,” Sak remarked.

“Many,” Sorya agreed, her gaze fixed elsewhere.

“All the refined air of the plateau,” Wut added. The group named the nobles entering their boxes, draped in fine silks. Greetings were called out; fans fluttered.

“The wives of the border lords…”

“And the writers who love them…”

“Is the Court Council here?” Noi asked.

“Indeed,” Pan replied, pointing out figures. “Scholars, monks, elders of the Temple, scribes. Names that live in our songs.”

Wut straightened his tunic. “Attention! The refined gentlemen take their places.”

“Ah, Gods! Their titles are exquisite,” a noble sighed. “Khun, do you know them all?”

“I know them all,” Wut replied.

Chai pulled Sorya aside. “My dear, I came to do you a service, but the gentleman you seek is not appearing. I shall return to my vice.”

“No!” Sorya caught his arm. “You know every song and scandal in the village. Tell me for whom I am dying of love.”

The lead musician tapped his baton; the flutists began a soft melody. Mali passed with a tray.

“I am afraid he is too refined for me,” Sorya confessed, her voice dropping. “I do not dare to speak to him. The language they speak today, so full of flowery words—it troubles me. I am a simple kitchen maid.”

“Look… he is always there, on the right, in the back. But the box is empty. I am leaving,” Chai said.

“Stay!”

“I cannot. The drinks await. One dies of thirst in this mud.”

“Fruit water?” Mali asked, stopping.

“Fie.”

“Milk?”

“Ugh.”

“Rice wine?”

“Wait.” Chai eyed the tray. “I shall stay a moment longer.” He sat by the buffet; Mali poured a cup.

A shout went up as a stout man pushed through. “Bun!”

“The roast-master,” Chai explained to Sorya.

Bun, in a festival tunic, hurried toward them. “Khun, have you seen Yaa Moo Hring?”

“The butcher of actors and poets,” Chai announced.

“Too much honour…” Bun muttered.

“Be quiet, you patron of the arts!” Chai laughed.

“Those gentlemen do frequent my shop,” Bun admitted.

“On credit!” Chai added. “He is a poet himself.”

“They have told me so,” Bun said.

“Mad for verses!”

“It is true that… for a short poem…”

“You give a tart,” Chai finished.

“A small pastry,” Bun corrected.

“And for a song?”

“[Khanom](#).”

“With milk,” Chai added. “Do you love the Apsara Dances of the Celestial Nymphs?”

“I idolise it.”

“You pay for your seats in cakes. Your place today—what did it cost you?”

“Four custard tarts. Fifteen buns,” Bun admitted. “Is Moo Hring not here?”

“Why?”

“Serey is playing.”

“That mountain of a man,” Chai remarked, taking a sip. “What does it matter to Moo Hring?”

“Are you ignorant?” Bun asked. “She took a hatred to Serey and forbade him from the stage for a month!”

“And so?”

“Serey is playing anyway.”

Sak, who had drifted back, shrugged. “No longer. You missed the action.”

“I came to see what happens,” Bun insisted.

“Who is Moo Hring?” Wut asked.

“A woman well-versed in the arts of the blade,” Sak replied.

“Enough. A cadet in the Guards.” Sak pointed to a gentleman, Kla, pacing the floor. “Kla can tell you more. Kla!”

Kla hurried over. “Are you looking for Moo Hring?”

“I am worried.”

“Is she not extraordinary?” Sak asked.

Kla’s expression softened. “The most exquisite of human beings.”

“A rhymer,” Bun added.

“A duellist,” Sak said.

“A scholar,” Seng chimed in.

“A musician,” Kla added.

“And such a strange appearance,” Chai remarked.

“I do not think any painter could capture her,” Bun said. “She wears an embroidered [Pha Khao Ma](#) loincloth, and her kitchen blade lifts her sash from behind like an insolent cock’s tail! They call her the Hog Badger, for she has the same probing snout and the same fierce pride as the beast of the deep woods. And her nose! Ah, my lords, what a nose! You see it pass and you think, ‘She is exaggerating!’ You smile and say to yourself, ‘She will take it off…’ But Moo Hring never takes it off.”

“She wears it,” Kla said. “And she strikes down anyone who notices it.”

“Her knife is half sword of Kali,” Bun declared.

“She will not stay,” Wut said.

“She will! I bet a [Gaeng Oom Gai](#)!”

“So be it,” Wut laughed.

A murmur of admiration swept through the crowd. In the gallery, a young man had appeared. He sat at the front, his elderly tutor behind him. Sorya, busy paying the snack-seller, did not look up at first.

“Ah, Khun! Terribly ravishing,” a noble breathed.

“A mangosteen that smiles with a flower,” Wut added.

Sorya looked up; her breath hitched at the sight of Preah Ponhea Chan. She seized Chai’s arm. “It is he!”

“Him?”

“Yes. Tell me quickly. I am afraid.”

Chai took a slow sip. “Preah Ponhea Chan… they call him the Prince. Precious.”

“Alas.”

“Free. An orphan. And a cousin of the Khmer rightful king.” An elegant aristocrat, draped in a sash of high office, entered the box.

Sorya shuddered. “That man?”

“Luang Borommanantakkawongsapanawisut Borirak,” Chai chuckled, eyes narrowing as the wine took hold. “He is infatuated with him. But he is married to the niece of a prominent minister. He desires to have the Prince ‘married’ to the daughter of a certain sycophant, Luang Sorasakdidecha… a man of minor rank and great compliance. The Prince does not consent, but the Governor is powerful. He can persecute a simple exiled prince, cut off from his protectors. Besides, I exposed his scheme in a song… he must hate me for it. The ending was quite wicked.” He wobbled as he stood.

“No. Goodnight,” Sorya said, turning away.

“You are going?”

“To find Luang Sorasakdidecha. Maybe strangle his daughter.”

“Take care,” Chai warned. “It is he who will kill you.” He pointed toward the Prince. “Stay. He is looking at you.”

“It is true.” Sorya remained, her gaze fixed on the box. A group of pickpockets moved closer.

“I am the one leaving,” Chai said. “I am thirsty.” He stumbled out.

Kla, having finished his circuit of the area, returned to Bun. “No sign of Moo Hring.”

“And yet…”

“Ah! I hope she did not run into more troubles!”

“Start! Start!” the crowd chanted.

The Governor’s Shadow

Luang Borommanantakkawongsapanawisut Borirak descended from the Prince’s box, crossing the dirt floor followed by a swarm of sycophants. Among them, Luang Sorasakdidecha wore a look of smug satisfaction.

“A fine court you lead, Luang!” Wut called, bowing low.

“Pah!” Korn whispered. “Another ambitious man from the capital. The King’s Council has promoted Vimaya to a Class-Three city, and with it comes a Governor who does not care for the traditional rights of the local Lord Okya.”

“A man who succeeds,” his friend replied. “He has the King’s ear, while the Okya has only his ancient mud.” They moved toward the Governor.

“Such fine ribbons!” Yot remarked, gesturing to the Governor’s elaborate sash. “What colour is that? ‘Soured Cream’?”

“The tint is recorded as ‘Belly-of-the-Doe’ in the current Palace inventory,” the Governor replied, his voice a flat administrative monotone.

“The colour does not lie,” Wut added with a calculated grin. “Thanks to your valour, the foreigners will soon feel quite ill on our borders.”

“Our presence is required at the stage for the formal opening,” the Governor said, dismissing the flattery. “We shall proceed. Sorasakdidecha, maintain the pace.”

Sorya, poised for every word, stiffened at the name. “The Khun! I shall throw dust on his hair…” She reached into her pocket, but her hand met something else: the cold, quick fingers of Dam, the pickpocket. She whirled, catching him by the wrist. “What is this?”

“Ay!” the thief cried, trying to pull away.

“I was looking for dust!” Sorya spat.

“And you found a hand,” the thief replied with a pathetic smile. His tone sharpened. “Let me go, and I will give you a secret.”

Sorya kept her grip. “What secret?”

“Chai… the one who just left you…”

“And so?”

“…is approaching his last hour. A song he wrote offended a great man. A half-dozen roughs—I am one of them—wait for him tonight!”

Sorya’s eyes widened. “A half-dozen! Posted by whom?”

“Discretion…” the thief said with mock dignity.

“Where are they waiting?”

“At the Victory Gate. On the path he takes home. Warn him!”

Sorya released him. “But where can I find him?”

“Run to the kitchens! The eateries… leave word in each one!”

“Yes, I’m going!” Sorya cried, her anger at Sorasakdidecha forgotten. “The cowards! Six against one!” She looked back at the Prince’s box. “To leave him… now!” Then her eyes narrowed at the Governor’s pet. “And him! But I must save Chai!” She turned and sprinted toward the exit.