The Wall of Storms

^{CHAPTER TWENTY} THE MAGIC MIRROR

The veneration of the Hegemon had begun with his death on the shore of the Big Island, across the channel from Farun.

Eight years earlier, Mata Zyndu, the greatest warrior who had ever walked the Islands of Dara, had committed suicide along with his faithful consort, Lady Mira, after being betrayed by his erstwhile friend, Kuni Garu. When news arrived that the Hegemon had refused to cross the channel because he could not bear the shame of facing the people of his homeland, many had vowed to fight Kuni Garu to the bitter end to avenge their lord.

However, instead of sending an invasion force, Kuni had pardoned all of the Hegemon’s followers and planned a lavish burial outside Çaruza to show his great affection and admiration for the man. The gods of Dara had also cooperated by intervening at the last minute to take the body of Mata Zyndu into the realm of myth and legend.

In the rest of Dara, people whispered of the generosity of Kuni Garu, now known as Emperor Ragin. Scholars competed with each other to write biographies and compose odes to the emperor, celebrating his friendship with the Hegemon and the tragic flaws of Mata Zyndu that had made the breach in their friendship inevitable.

But in Tunoa, commanders of the last army units loyal to the Hegemon reminded the common people that those who were victorious by sword and horse never lacked willing accomplices who wielded the carving knife and the brush. After all, the greatest flaw of Mata Zyndu was trusting that wily Kuni Garu, the bandit-of-a-thousand-lies, too much.

Then the emperor announced that the Tunoa Isles would not be enfeoffed to a noble, but would remain directly under Imperial administration. To honor the man the emperor had once called brother, the people of Tunoa would not have to pay taxes for five years. The palace would buy all the dried fish it needed exclusively from Tunoa at guaranteed prices as well as offer positions in the palace for the women of Tunoa to work as Imperial embroiderers. Finally, Zyndu Castle would be renovated and turned into a mausoleum for the Hegemon, and the Imperial Treasury hinted at a large roster of local masons, carpenters, blacksmiths, and general laborers who would be employed.

It was a transparent ploy, as was the wont for vulgar Kuni Garu. Still, people needed to eat and drink, and children needed to be fed and clothed. The Hegemon’s remaining captains and lieutenants found fewer and fewer people who echoed their calls for vengeance, and eventually, they stopped. Quietly, their soldiers deserted the garrison forts, sold off their uniforms to collectors, and faded into the fishing villages.

By the time the emperor’s emissaries arrived at Farun harbor, bearing the headless body of Réfiroa, Mata Zyndu’s famous black steed, and his weapons, the magnificent bronze-iron sword Na-aroénna and the fearsome toothed war club Goremaw, the people of Tunoa stood onshore silently to welcome the relics of their lord. Without having to fire a single arrow or spill a drop of blood, the emperor’s emissaries accepted the surrender of the Hegemon’s last commanders.

Réfiroa was buried in the family cemetery for the Zyndu clan, and, after months of work to renovate and enlarge the ancient structure, the sword and the cudgel were installed in the highest room in Zyndu Castle, a place of honor they shared with the weapons left behind by past generations of Zyndus. Priests and priestesses of Rapa and Kana, paid a stipend by the emperor himself, maintained an everlasting flame in the ancestral hall, and pilgrims came from everywhere in Dara to hear about the deeds of the great man and to view the weapons that had transformed Dara.

The emperor had carried out his promise, and the people of Tunoa smiled as copper pieces jangled in their pockets. There was no more talk of vengeance or honor.

That was the way of the world, wasn’t it?

But keeping alive the memory of a spirit had its costs: It was hard to keep such a spirit confined.

Mota Kiphi had grown up hearing stories of the brave deeds of his father, one of the Hegemon’s original Eight Hundred warriors.

He had been born after his father had already left Tunoa with the Hegemon for the Big Island seventeen years ago to join the rebellion against the Xana Empire. It was said that Mota’s father had killed twenty Xana soldiers at the siege of Zudi and that he had fought by the Hegemon’s side during the charge at Wolf’s Paw, killing three Xana hundred-chiefs and earning the rank of hundred-chief for himself.

His father had never returned, which only made the stories truer.

What boy didn’t wish to emulate his father?

But the two men in front of him now didn’t look like deposed Tiro kings. In fact, with their ragged clothes and scraggly beards, they looked like desperate robbers who had turned to begging. The Tunoa seaside cave in which they “held court” was small and dank, and the stuffy, hot air was infused with the stench of briny sea and rotting garbage.

“I was the first to discover Kuni Garu’s treachery at Thoco Pass,” said one of them, who called himself Doru Solofi, King of South Géfica. He seemed insulted that Mota did not know who he was.

“Did you really know the Hegemon?” Mota asked, skeptical.

Solofi chuckled. “What a time we live in that a king could be interrogated by a child.”

“Any fraud could claim to have known the Hegemon,” said Mota. “I used to play at being the Hegemon myself when I was little.”

“Here, I’ll show you proof,” said the other man, wiry and dark-skinned, who called himself Noda Mi. From somewhere deep in the cave, he retrieved a long bar of jade carved with intricate patterns. “This is the Seal of Central Géfica, the Tiro state created by the Hegemon for me.”

Mota examined the jade bar carefully. Though he couldn’t read any of the Ano logograms, he could tell it was very valuable and the workmanship was exquisite. He decided there was a chance that these men could have been nobles—or at least they were pirates or robbers who had stolen this artifact from nobles.

“If you were Tiro kings, how did you end up here in this cave, not even able to afford to pay me for the food I brought you?”

“We didn’t ask you here to talk about food and money!” snapped Doru Solofi. “I saw you showing interest at that dancing troupe’s performance honoring the deeds of the Hegemon, and I thought you might be willing to serve the Hegemon again.”

“What do you mean? My family already venerates the Hegemon. Not only do we go to the mausoleum in Farun once a year, but we have a private shrine set up behind the house—”

“That isn’t serving,” an impatient Solofi interrupted him. “Are you willing to fight for him?”

Mota backed up a few steps. “That is talk of treason! I won’t join some plot against the emperor, who’s been respectful of the Hegemon’s memory.”

“What if the Hegemon himself told you that it’s your duty to avenge him?” asked Noda Mi, a cold glint in his eyes.

“Wh-what do you mean?” Despite the heat, Mota felt a chill going down his spine.

Noda walked to the back of the cave, where a crack in the ceiling let in a single beam of bright sunlight that fell against a natural ledge. He knelt at the bottom of the ledge as though at a shrine, retrieved a silk bundle, and reverently unwrapped it.

“Come,” he said, beckoning to Mota. “Gaze into this.”

Gingerly, Mota walked closer and picked up the mirror. It was made of bronze and very heavy. The back of the mirror was carved in relief, and by the illumination of the beam of sunlight, he could see that it was the figure of the back of the Hegemon, standing tall with Na-aroénna in his right hand and Goremaw in his left, both pointing at the ground. He flipped the mirror around and looked into the smooth, brightly polished surface. A reflection of himself stared back. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“I’ve seen mirrors like this all over the place,” said Mota. “This is better made than the one my mother has—”

“Be quiet!” said Noda Mi. “Now, watch.”

He placed the mirror under the beam of sunlight and tilted it until the reflection, a much larger circle of light, fell against the opposite wall of the cave.

Mota stared at the image, his eyes wide open and his jaw hanging. Then he fell to his knees, and he touched his forehead to the ground. “I am yours to command, Hegemon!”

Noda Mi and Doru Solofi looked at each other and smiled.

On the wall of the cave was the clear projection of an image of the Hegemon, this time from the front, a grim, determined look on his face. Both weapons were raised in the air as he prepared for another immortal charge. A line of zyndari letters curved around him like a halo:

Kuni Garu must die.

As word of the magic mirror spread, more bold young men and a few bold young women came to the mysterious cave to gaze upon this apparition. They examined the mirror carefully and could find no flaw in its perfectly smooth surface. Yet when placed under a beam of sunlight, the ghostly image of the Hegemon in battle invariably appeared.

The only explanation, however improbable, had to be true: The Hegemon was speaking to them from beyond the grave.

Noda Mi gathered them into groups to practice what he called “spiritual dancing” at night, where the young worshippers had to follow certain choreographed steps that were a blend of traditional sword dancing and parade-ground marching. After they worked up a sweat, Noda handed out bowls of hot soup that smelled strongly of medicinal herbs, and as they drank, the ghost of the Hegemon watched over them from a projection against the mountainside, cast there by a bright full moon or the light of a flickering torch.

And as the medicine took effect, the image of the Hegemon would start to move before their eyes, leaping, dodging, charging, rushing. The worshippers would start to chant, falling into a hypnotic trance:

“Excellent take tonight,” said a satisfied Noda. He loved the sound of coins jangling in his purse, the collected donation from the evening’s congregation.

“Don’t we already have plenty of money?” asked Doru. “I’m sick of dressing like beggars all the time. When can we change into clean clothes and go visit the indigo house again?”

“Patience, my brother,” said Noda. “We don’t want to draw the attention of the Imperial governor or Kuni Garu’s spies. We’ve been lucky, but let’s not push our luck too far. The funds we’re gathering must be turned into weapons.”

They had indeed been extraordinarily lucky. After several failed rebellions and months of running and hiding from Duke Coda’s spies, they’d decided to make their way to Tunoa, where they hoped the strength of the cult of the Hegemon would provide them with fearless warriors.

The farseers pursued them into the isles, where they suddenly seemed to lose interest in the two deposed Tiro kings. Not only did they fail to capture Noda and Doru, but, perhaps overconfident with their past successes, Duke Coda’s agents began to make mistakes.

In teahouses where Noda and Doru thought they were trapped, the hunters spoke of their plans in voices loud enough to be overheard by their prey and departed without making an arrest. Careless and lazy, they left behind in hostel rooms maps and orders signed by Duke Coda himself, from which Noda and Doru gathered important information about the movement of Duke Coda’s funds.

At first, the two kings could not believe the intelligence revealed by these documents. According to what they read, a few of the convoys shipping precious jewels for the duke were practically unguarded, relying for protection on the fact that they were disguised as garbage haulers. Noda and Doru tried their luck by raiding one of these and were rewarded with a large haul of treasure without any loss of life—Duke Coda’s drivers practically ran away the moment they realized they were under attack. The two kings had a good laugh over the cowardice of the emperor’s spies.

The money allowed them to extend their reach, to hire spies who infiltrated noble courts and Imperial magistracies across Dara. It was delicious to use money intended for spying to spy on the spymasters.

Their luck had taken an even better turn as they visited an indigo house, where a pretty girl with dark hair chatted incessantly of her skill and boasted of the gossip she had heard from her important clients. But her face flushed red after just a single cup of plum wine, and she was asleep before the flask was even empty. Noda had then searched her room and found her trunk unlocked, confirming his suspicions that her foolish clients had made her quite wealthy.

Noda grabbed the money purse and left in a hurry, and only later did he and Doru realize that the satchel contained more than jewels. There was an herbal recipe for inducing a hypnotic trance—no doubt one of the girl’s tricks—as well as a discarded draft in beautiful calligraphy critiquing the emperor’s policy of decreasing funding for the armies of the independent fiefs—perhaps a memento left by one of the girl’s customers.

Noda had immediately concocted the plan to approach the nobles for surplus weapons. With the reduction in Imperial funding, the nobles had no choice but to reduce the sizes of their armies, increase taxes, or begin selling weapons on the black market, and he was sure more than a few would choose the last.

But the luckiest find of all had been a mirror, which was packed at the bottom of the girl’s money purse, wrapped in a sheet of paper. At first, they had thought it another piece of jewelry, as it was made with a gilded handle and back. But one day, while idly admiring himself in the mirror, Doru Solofi discovered that the mirror cast an image of a naked woman onto the wall despite its perfectly smooth surface. The wrapping paper around the mirror had given the name and address of the mirror maker, an obscure shop in Haan.

Noda had immediately dispatched trusted messengers to the place, and, as he suspected, found out that the shop had a secret technique for mirror making that they had developed only recently. Though the shop owners were reluctant to produce words of treason, a combination of money and threats against the family had persuaded them to collaborate and make the mirrors that would play a key part in the shows that Noda and Doru put on for their followers.

“Do you remember how we thought the gods might be in favor of our plan when we pledged to be brothers in Pan two years ago?” asked Noda.

Doru nodded.

“I’m beginning to believe it.”

^{CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE} MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

“The emperor agrees with me that adding more biography to our curriculum is a good idea,” said Zato Ruthi.

A spring breeze wafted through the instruction hall, bringing with it the fragrance of early-blooming flowers.

“As the sons and daughters of the emperor, it is my hope that the great deeds of important historical figures will inspire you to greater virtue and that the patterns of the past will warn you of pitfalls for the future. I want each of you to spend the next month focusing on a figure of your choice from the recent past. You will study that person’s life in detail and explain his rise and fall, connecting that experience with the broader patterns of history.

“Fara, why don’t we begin with you? Who do you want to study?”

“I want to hear stories about Lady Mira,” said seven-year-old Fara. Three years had passed since the first Grand Examination of the Reign of Four Placid Seas. Though she had lost the baby fat that had once charmed the Lords of Dara, her eyes remained full of mischief and insuppressible delight.

“The Hegemon’s consort?” Ruthi pondered this request and then nodded approvingly. “Lady Mira tried to mitigate the Hegemon’s more volatile tendencies, and in the end she died to demonstrate her faith to her beloved husband. She was a paragon of virtuous womanhood, and a fit choice for a young lady to study. Now, Prince Timu, who is your favorite?”

Timu, now sixteen years of age, knelt up very properly, placed his hands together one behind the other, and slid them up the opposite forearms so that the flowing sleeves covered both—this was a formal gesture he had learned from reading old books, as it showed respect for the teacher by not sullying the teacher’s eyes with leftover wax and stray ink on the student’s fingers. He bowed his handsome face. “Master, I would like to study the deeds of King Jizu.”

Phyro rolled his eyes. Fara giggled and covered her mouth.

“Ah.” Ruthi’s eyes glowed with pleasure. “That is an admirable choice. Of all the Tiro kings during the rebellion, Jizu was certainly one of the most virtuous. He loved the people more than life itself, and his sacrifice is rightfully celebrated by poets and wandering storytellers alike. Designating him as a model for emulation speaks well of your character. What about you, Prince Phyro?”

“I want to hear all about the Hegemon and Queen Gin,” said the stocky twelve-year-old, who had grown much taller and more muscular in the last three years.

Ruthi hesitated. “The Hegemon did have nobility of character—a fact that the emperor recognized in his eulogy; I can understand the appeal. But why Queen Gin?”

“The Hegemon was the greatest warrior of Dara, yet Queen Gin defeated him—what tales of daring must lie behind that fact! Uncle Yemu and Duke Kimo often reminisce about the time they fought with her, but I’m sure there are stories they won’t tell me. Please, Master Ruthi, you have to satisfy my thirst for knowledge!”

Ruthi sighed. “I shall do my best, but you have to do the reading! I may begin by assigning you my essay on her conquest of Rima…. Remember, not all the rumors you’ve heard are true.”

Théra and Phyro exchanged knowing smiles.

Ruthi turned to the last student. “Princess Théra, what about you?”

The fourteen-year-old princess, whose face combined the beauty of her mother with a hint of her father’s impish looks in youth, hesitated only for a moment before replying, “I want to study Princess Kikomi.”

Ruthi frowned. “Théra, Kikomi chose to betray the rebellion out of her foolish devotion to Kindo Marana, Marshal of Xana. She played upon the affections of the Hegemon and the Hegemon’s uncle, seducing both with her wiles. She was fickle of character and unwise in her actions—a most unsuitable choice.”

Théra’s eyes flashed. She took a deep breath. “I respectfully disagree, Master. I believe Kikomi was misunderstood, and I intend to rehabilitate her name.”

“Oh? How do you mean?”

“The charge that she was motivated by love for Kindo Marana is based only upon the words she uttered before her death. There is no hint in any of the records of Kindo Marana that such a romance existed between the two.”

“We know that she took him to bed after the fall of Arulugi—this was attested in the trusted memoirs of palace officials in Amu.”

Théra shook her head. “She was his captive by then. Her actions might have been an attempt to seduce him to save Amu. Müning fell but wasn’t sacked, which suggests she accomplished the same feat as Jizu: a deal with the conqueror to save the city.”

“Then what of her manipulation of the Hegemon and Phin Zyndu?”

“Could the ploy not have been the price exacted from her by Marana in exchange for sparing Amu? Marana was known to press every advantage to divide and conquer his enemies.”

“But she proclaimed her love for Marana even unto death!”

“She had to! If her plot were revealed, the Hegemon would have sought vengeance upon Amu. Her dying words could be an attempt to divert the Hegemon’s rage toward Marana.”

“This is a bold theory… but…”

“It’s no bolder than the ploy of Tututika, who during the Diaspora Wars played a similar game of seduction to save Amu from the wrath of Iluthan’s armies.”

“But you’re talking about a goddess—”

“Who is also the patron of Amu. She would have served as a natural inspiration for the princess.”

“You have no evidence—”

“I have read everything I could find concerning Kikomi not written by scholars and historians: memoirs by her adoptive family as well as by mere acquaintances; everything she wrote and was said to have written; gossip, legend, and lore. Practically all these sources agree that she was devoted to her people and ambitious, and I found her essays to be full of insights on the nature of power and the path of history. Her character simply does not match that of the foolish caricature drawn by court historians.”

“Yet history is full of examples of women who have done worse for love—”

Théra shook her head. “That’s just it, Master. If Kikomi were a man, would you have been so convinced that she betrayed her people for a misguided romance?”

“Men can certainly fall prey to the same disease. Indeed, Phin Zyndu was entrapped by Kikomi’s feminine wiles.”

“But you also speak of Phin Zyndu’s bravery and long-suffering preparation for vengeance, and the Hegemon’s courtship of Kikomi is but a single episode in the storytellers’ expansive repertoire based on his life. On the other hand, the women of history are defined by the men they loved. We never hear anything about Lady Mira except that she killed herself out of love for the Hegemon—Fara, did you know that Lady Mira’s art was once desired by all the nobles of Çaruza?—and we never talk about Kikomi except as a seductress blinded by love, though she was one of the most important leaders of the rebellion. Talent can wear a dress as well as a robe. Why the discrepancy?”

“Hmmm…” Zato Ruthi was at a loss for words.

“You see the patterns you expect to see, Master, and I believe Kikomi took advantage of that tendency—not just in you, but in the soldiers who rushed into Phin Zyndu’s bedroom. To accomplish her goals, she chose to sacrifice her own good name.”

“That is an act of great courage and wisdom to attribute to a woman….”

“Master, you once misjudged a woman’s ability to fight a war, and you lost your throne. I say this not as an insult, but as a reminder that the lessons of history are not always easy to see. I can never prove to the satisfaction of all that my theory is right, but I choose to believe my version because it’s more interesting.”

She sat back in mipa rari, fully expecting to be berated by her teacher for bringing up a painful episode in his life.

After a long silence, Ruthi bowed down to Théra.

Surprised, Théra bowed back.

“The proudest moment in a teacher’s life,” said Ruthi, “is when he learns something new from his student.”

Quietly, the empress stood outside the instruction hall, listening to the proceedings within.

To accomplish her goals, she chose to sacrifice her own good name.

She smiled bitterly. History was full of tales of rival queens plotting palace intrigue for the benefit of their children, and that was how they would tell her story.

But they would be wrong, so very wrong.

She loved the people of Dara, and they would hate her. That was the price to be paid for truly grand and interesting ideas.

As the children continued to converse with their tutor, Jia silently walked away.

Chatelain Otho Krin came into the work shed.

“The messengers have returned, Lady Jia.” That was what he always called her in private.

Jia came up to him and gave him a quick kiss.

“The donations were delivered successfully,” Otho said. “But though I am in charge of the palace budget, I don’t think I can find any more money without raising suspicion.”

“I will find you more funds,” declared Jia. “You’re certain that neither the leaders of the Hegemon cult nor the farseers know the source of the money?”

Otho nodded. “I was very careful never to reveal my identity to the messengers.”

“Rin watches Tunoa closely. It couldn’t have been easy to sneak the money in.”

“It would have been difficult without Lady Ragi’s idea of using a traveling folk opera troupe as messengers.”

A smile flitted across Jia’s face. Ragi was one of her former ladies-in-waiting, who had married Gori Ruthi, Zato Ruthi’s nephew and Under Minister of Transport and Carriage. “Ragi always did like the traveling shows. Do you remember how when she was a girl in Çaruza, she begged you and me to take her to the shows even when the Hegemon placed me under house arrest?”

The memory of those more dangerous but also more carefree days made Otho’s heart throb with pain. He shook off the reminiscences and continued, “Rin Coda’s spies keep a close eye on shipping through the ports by merchants and large landowners as well as the bigger smuggling gangs, but they rarely pay attention to itinerant entertainers, especially the women. The actresses recommended by Lady Ragi were able to hide the funds and other goods in prop trunks and bring them into Tunoa without Duke Coda’s spies ever suspecting that anything was amiss—it also helped that the troupe had a letter of introduction from Lady Ragi’s husband.”

“So many men think of women as mere props and entertainers,” said Jia. “It’s easy to hide in their blind spots.”

Otho flinched. He didn’t like it when Jia spoke like this, so cold and calculating. But he was in love with her, and love made it necessary to ignore certain feelings.

“How did they get them into the hands of the cult leaders?”

“This was slightly trickier, but the opera troupe was able to sell one of their actresses to an indigo house, again hiding the goods in her trunk. When one of the cult leaders came to visit, she was able to give everything to him without making it appear that she was doing so. Once the deed was done, the troupe redeemed her freedom and they went on their way.”

Jia nodded. “Clever. I’m sure he’s as blind as Rin’s spies.” But her elation soon faded as she clenched her fists in frustration. “Now if only those fools would make use of all the resources I’ve given them! I can’t do everything for them.”

“What do you want me to do with the opera troupe?”

“Give them the promised pay,” said Jia. “And also this.” She handed him a few paper packets. “Tell them it’s a formula for experiencing communion with the gods—it will be true if they try it, at least for a while.”

Otho nodded and did not ask for more information. He had decided long ago that not knowing all the details of what Jia planned was best for his peace of mind. One time he had seen one of the messengers running naked through the street, screaming that he was burning up from the inside before throwing himself under the hooves of a team of spooked horses. Another time he had heard rumors of men who had died in the throes of passion in an indigo house. Jia was creative with her formulations.

“Just to be sure,” she added, “leak the fact that the troupe is flush with money to a few gangs of thieves.”

Sometimes he felt that he didn’t understand her at all, but she needed him, and he would always be there for her.

“Don’t be troubled in your conscience, Otho.” Jia graced him with a regal smile. “I have tried to explain what I’m doing to you, but politics is not your natural realm. Trust that I act to protect the dream of Dara, the fragile peace that Kuni and I have built.”

And seeing that Otho was unconvinced, she affectionately wrapped her arms around him. “Then try this: Know that I act out of love for Kuni, even if he would not understand. Love makes us do strange things.”

Otho nodded. He could understand that sentiment.

As Théra and Kuni worked in the garden-farm, Consort Risana strolled by and stopped.

“I was just looking for you, Kuni!” she called out.

“Auntie Risana,” Théra said. “Sorry I can’t greet you properly. I’m a bit muddy at the moment.”

Risana waved to indicate that it was all right. “It’s so nice to see you two enjoying the spring sun together. I wish Hudo-tika would join you.”

“Hunting is good exercise, too,” said Kuni.

He wiped his sweaty face with a towel and left the field to join his wife.

“You look like you have some good news to share,” he said, smiling.

“I do indeed. Cogo has looked at my draft proposal for model leases between landlords and tenant farmers and thought it a good idea.”

“Of course he would,” said Kuni. “Standard lease terms will help curb the sort of abuses that Zomi Kidosu spoke of, and place the tax burden where it belongs. Getting the nobles to promulgate these models in their domains will be trickier, however. They’ll view it as more Imperial interference in their affairs.”

To the side, Théra continued to plant sweet lantern seedlings. Her ears perked up and her hands slowed down at the mention of Zomi’s name.

“I have a solution for that,” said Risana. “When you issue the edict, you can couch it as a request for comments. That way, each of the nobles will be able to offer suggestions and adapt the model for conditions unique in each fief.”

“Good,” said Kuni. “That way, they’ll feel consulted rather than imposed on.”

“And I will write privately to the wives of the most recalcitrant lords. I know what most of them are really afraid of, and by assuring the wives that this policy has nothing to do with the empress, they’ll pass the sentiment on to their husbands.”

Théra knew that both Consort Risana and her mother exercised much of their influence through informal means, and her father depended on them to maintain a web of social ties and unofficial communications to help smooth the running of the empire.

“Thank you,” said Kuni. “You are always so circumspect.”

“It’s enough that you know what I’ve done,” said Risana, and she and Kuni shared a kiss and continued to talk in lowered voices.

It’s too bad that she can’t take credit for her ideas, Théra thought.

“What do you think of Roné, Than Carucono’s nephew?” the empress asked.

Théra and Jia were arranging flowers in the courtyard outside the empress’s private suite. They’d always enjoyed doing this together, ever since Théra was a little girl and brought dandelion puffs to her mother so they could blow on them together.

“He seemed really full of himself,” said Théra. The Carucono family had come into the palace for a visit earlier, and Théra served them tea as they chatted with Jia.

“He’s a firoa who barely missed the cutoff for the Palace Examination,” said Jia. “And Than treats Roné as though he were his own son. He has reasons to be proud.”

Théra scoffed. “I’d be more impressed if he had bolder ideas.” The memory of Zomi Kidosu’s performance at the Palace Examination three years ago came unbidden to her mind. She smiled to herself.

Jia stopped trimming the flower stems to look at her. “Then what do you think of Kita Thu? He certainly set the tone for boldness of presentation.”

It took Théra a few moments to remember who her mother was referring to. “The one who advocated for a return to the Tiro system? He was a joke!”

“There are more than a few in the Islands who support his ideas,” said Jia. “What may seem like a joke to your father doesn’t always appear that way to others.”

“I thought he was without vision,” said Théra stubbornly.

“What of Naroca Huza? The prime minister speaks well of him.”

It finally dawned on Théra that her mother’s tone was not at all casual. Why is she asking about my opinion of these men?

“I am perhaps too young to judge the character of men,” said Théra, now very cautious.

Jia went back to trimming the flowers. “Are you really? Half of the noblewomen your age have already been contracted in marriage.”

“But I don’t even like any of these people!”

“Our choices are limited, and you need to think about the most advantageous way to position yourself for the future. You’re a clever girl, but a suitable alliance is the best way to ensure that your cleverness is not wasted. Do not define your life by romantic notions.”

Théra’s heart pounded. She dared not speak lest she scream. Are these alliances for my sake or for the sake of my brother?

^{CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO} THE EMPEROR’S SHADOWS

The small airship drifted over Lake Tututika, which glistened in the sun like an endless mirror. From this height, the small fishing boats appeared as water striders, and even the eagles hunting for fish circled below the ship like small gnats. A dozen palace guards manned the feathered oars, pulling to the beat of a light drum. Inside the gondola, the emperor, the empress, and Consort Risana sat around a small table, snacking on sugared lotus seeds and drinking hot green tea. It was rare for the Imperial family to find the leisure to enjoy a spring day together, away from the concerns and intrigue of the palace.

“Phyro is begging to visit Gin again,” said Risana.

Jia said nothing as she methodically wiped the porcelain teacups with a white cloth.

“That boy has always liked the company of generals more than books,” said Kuni. He chuckled. “I can understand that.”

“In a time of peace, books are more important than swords,” said Jia, as she carefully deposited powdered tea into the cups with a bamboo scoop.

“Phyro grows restless,” said Risana. “He complains that Master Ruthi’s lessons, while valuable, are not teaching him what he needs to know.”

Kuni closed his eyes for a moment to breathe in the fragrance of the powdered tea. “There is only so much you can learn from books. No book could have prepared me for being emperor, and I doubt my children would be any different.”

This was as close as Kuni ever got to acknowledging the awkwardness of his lack of a plan of succession. Risana glanced over at Jia, but Jia seemed to be concentrating only on the brazier over the hot coals.

Risana bit her lip and decided that she had to risk it. “It’s best for both princes to learn the art of administration.” She kept her eyes on Jia as she continued, “Phyro can help Timu as an adviser when the day comes for Timu to take over.” She hoped that she had done enough to assure Jia, whose moods she had always found hard to read.

Jia waited until the water was just boiling in the brazier, the bubbles covering the surface like the foam blown out by fish over a quiet corner of the pond. Then she lifted the kettle off the brazier and poured the scalding water into the three teacups, flexing her wrist so that the stream of hot water shot out like a concentrated beam of light, dipping into the cups in quick succession.

“The princes do need practice to understand how to drive the carriage of state,” said Jia. “Please, have a taste. Lady Fina’s parents sent this from Faça.”

Risana sipped the tea. “It is excellent. Honored Big Sister, your skill at bringing out the best qualities of each variety of tea is unparalleled.”

Jia smiled in acknowledgment. “Kuni, you’re not the eldest in your family, and yet it is you, not your brother, who has become Emperor of Dara. We should not be tied to the idea of primogeniture. The prince who is most suited to rule should ascend the throne.”

Risana almost felt pity for Jia. It must have taken Jia every ounce of strength to acknowledge her weakness. Kuni had come to power with the aid of men (and women) who were more at home in a saddle than in a court, and almost all of them found Risana the more sympathetic queen and Phyro the better future heir. And although Kuni had never explicitly broached the idea of designating Phyro as the crown prince, anyone who had eyes could see how Kuni favored the younger boy.

With her last statement, Jia was practically conceding the struggle at this point.

“You are truly an extraordinary woman,” said Risana, determined to be gracious in victory. “I am humbled by your grandness of spirit.”

Jia sighed inwardly. The awkwardness between Kuni and Timu was a complicated matter that many thought was rooted in the prolonged separation between father and son during the Timu’s earliest years, when Jia and the children had been the Hegemon’s hostages. By the time father and son were reunited, Timu had become more attached to Jia’s lover, Otho Krin, than his father. Timu’s formal demeanor and timid nature in the following years had not helped things.

But she knew that it would be a disaster if Phyro were to become the emperor. It was up to her to see that future never come to pass, not just for the sake of Timu and herself, but all of Dara.

“I have an idea,” Jia said. “The best way to tell who is most suited to rule is to observe them in practice—a friendly competition, if you will.”

Kuni chuckled. “It is good that we have only two princes to worry about.”

Years ago—after the death of Consort Fina—Kuni, Jia, and Risana had all agreed that Jia should prepare herbs for both wives that would prevent further pregnancies. Even with the skill of someone like Jia at hand, childbirth was an extraordinarily dangerous event for women, and Kuni didn’t want to see anyone else close to him die in that manner. There were enough children, he had declared, and though he didn’t voice it aloud, he was perhaps also worried about more children intensifying future rivalries over succession.

“A kingdom is not as large as the empire, but it has similar problems on a smaller scale. It would be good for the princes to get some experience at ruling.” Jia sipped her tea. “Just like a shadow puppet play can portray the world in miniature, the princes can play at being the Emperor’s shadows.”

“The Emperor’s Shadows,” mused Kuni. “I like it. Where do you suggest the princes be given their realms?”

“Kado is not doing much in Dasu,” said Jia. “In fact, I get the feeling that he would be perfectly content to retire from the throne in favor of one of his nephews. You might as well leave Kado and his family with a hereditary title with no fief—they’ll be taken care of, but they won’t have to bother with the responsibility.”

Kuni nodded. He wasn’t particularly close to Kado, and this seemed like a good solution. “Timu or Phyro?”

“Dasu is in need of a ruler with more care for the spiritual and intellectual development of its population,” said Jia. “Advocate Kidosu had said as much. I think Timu would be more suited for the fief, and Imperial Tutor Zato Ruthi can assist him.”

The suggestion made sense to Kuni. “What about Phyro?”

Risana tensed and disguised her anxiety by sipping from her cup. She regretted not seizing the opening earlier to suggest that Phyro be an apprentice of sorts for Gin Mazoti—that would have given Phyro the experience he needed as well as bringing him even closer to the most powerful general in the realm. But Jia now had the initiative, and she could do nothing but wait.

Jia looked thoughtful. “This is the Year of the Wolf, potentially a time of strife and danger. Since forces loyal to the Hegemon are plotting mischief in Tunoa, why not send Phyro to the new fief and give him the power to fully pacify the land? Rin Coda could be his adviser. After all, you cannot fight all your sons’ battles for them.”

Risana turned over Jia’s suggestion in her mind. She could find no fault with it. Both Dasu and Tunoa were similar in size and population (indeed, Tunoa was slightly bigger). Jia’s idea matched the skills of both princes with local needs, and it really did seem that she was trying to do the best for both boys. “I’m grateful for your thoughtful care for our children,” said Risana.

“I’m only doing my duty,” said Jia. “You’re the sister I never had.”

And the three continued to drink tea and admire the lovely lake laid out beneath them. Between the sky and the water, the airship was a single pearl that connected everything to everything else in a web of light.

The announcement of the Emperor’s Shadows set all of Pan abuzz.

Many wondered whether this meant that the emperor was thinking of a bigger role for the princes to play—and a smaller one for himself; some praised the decision to send Prince Timu to focus on the cultural development of Dasu; others worried that the appointment of Prince Phyro indicated a rise in the dissatisfaction of old nobles with Emperor Ragin’s rule; still others thought of the whole thing as an episode in some exciting shadow puppet show, wherein rival princes built independent bases of power at the ends of Dara.

Lady Soto was reading to Fara in the western end of the garden when Jia came down the path, a small basket in hand.

“Aunt Empress,” said Fara. She stood up and bowed in deep jiri.

“Go on and play by yourself in the orchard,” said Soto. “I’ll come and find you later, and we can finish the story.” Fara scooted away, and Soto laid the book down next to her.

Jia glanced at the title on the book. She frowned. “Isn’t Fara a bit too young for the story of the Queen of Écofi and the Seven Princes?”

“Children can deal with bloody tales a lot better than we give them credit for,” said Soto. “It’s real bloodshed that we should save them from.”

Jia inclined her head and considered Soto. The corners of her lips lifted. “Soto, I think we’re far past the time when we need to be playing games. If you have something to say to me, say it.”

Soto took a deep breath. “I’ve been trying to figure out what you’re doing, but I confess I’m stumped.”

Breezily, Jia said, “I’m on my way to the hothouse to pick some oranges for the children.”

“I think I’ve earned the right to be spoken to without jest. I’ve gone through the palace accounts—Chatelain Krin may be careful, but it’s impossible to not leave marks when so much money is involved.”

The smile faded from the empress’s face. “You’re wondering if I’m still trying to ensure that Timu will be the crown prince. The answer is yes.”

“I know that. But I can’t figure out how the Emperor’s Shadows will accomplish that, or what it has to do with your secret diversion of funds from the Imperial Treasury. You once worried that Phyro was going to gain the loyalty of Kuni’s generals with his easy manners and admiration for the martial arts, and I can only imagine you’d try to remedy that by either reducing the power of the generals or by gaining Timu some respect with them. But your plan doesn’t seem to do either of those things.”

“When you try something repeatedly and it doesn’t work, continuing along the same path would be madness.”

Soto took a deep breath. “I’ll always be loyal to you, Jia. But I have affection for all the children. I don’t like to see any of them hurt.”

Jia looked back, her eyes level. “Why is it that a mother’s actions are always assumed to be selfish? I’ve watched all the children grow up together, and I have affection for them all, even if I didn’t give birth to every one. But I’ve also seen blood flow when men grow ambitious and wish to seize by force that which is not theirs. I must do what I can to prevent that future. I am the Empress of Dara, and my first duty is to the people.”

“Do you see such a future with Phyro on the throne?”

Jia looked away for a moment and seemed to come to some decision. “Soto, you chose to serve my husband because you believed that he would give Dara a better future than the Hegemon. Do you still believe that’s true?”

Soto nodded.

“Your belief is the greatest danger of them all.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Like the Hegemon, Kuni places too much faith in personal trust. During the Chrysanthemum-Dandelion War, he allowed Gin Mazoti to declare herself queen, gambling that the gesture of trust would buy her loyalty. He allows each of his nobles to keep an army large enough to bring ruin upon the land, though the Islands are at peace. Like the man he once called brother, Kuni has decided to build his empire upon bonds of trust between him and those who serve him.”

“And why is that wrong?”

“Because trust is fickle and will not bear a heavy load. Kuni has made the empire dependent on him because he thinks only he can see a path forward. That is a fragile state. Phyro, though he is young, shows the same tendencies.”

“But in a time of great tumult, is it not best to be sure the reins are held by a man strong enough to guide the carriage? Timu does not have such strength.”

“Perhaps not. But instead of a Dara kept tranquil by vows of loyalty and friendship, I want a Dara founded upon systems, institutions, codified behaviors that, through repetition, become reified. The only way to build lasting peace is to strip power away from individuals and invest it in structures. Kuni thinks that when men are moral, they will do the right thing. But I think it is only when men are doing the right thing—regardless of reasons—that they can be said to be moral.”

“You might speak the language of the Moralists, Jia, but at heart I think you’re an Incentivist. The only way to achieve what you wish is to reduce governance to a system of punishments and rewards.”

Jia smiled wistfully. “It could be said that all good kings are Incentivists dressed in Moralist clothing, perhaps assisted by able Patternist ministers.”

“What of the Fluxists?”

“They live in a realm beyond mere mortals. In the sublunary sphere, we must always think the worst.”

Soto sighed. “Risana is playing sparrow tiles while you’re playing cüpa.”

Jia laughed. “You make me sound so calculating and… cold.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I have said all I can. Even a trusted friend… well, I have been frank on what I think of trust.”

Soto searched Jia’s face. Eventually, she sighed. “You have grown ever more subtle. I cannot tell what is in your mind.”

“Remain my friend, and think not so lowly of me. When you think well of someone, all their actions appear to you in a kinder light. What if the plot you think you see is but an echo of your own fears projected onto an innocent act?”

“Advocate Kidosu!”

Zomi stopped just beyond the bridge over the stream that led to the private part of the palace. She turned and saw that it was Princess Théra, who was walking toward her from the middle of the emperor’s vegetable garden. Though she was dressed in a plain robe meant for the field and her hands were muddied, her graceful movements and confident demeanor proclaimed her status as though she were dressed in silk and wore gossamer gloves.

Zomi suppressed her impatience and nodded. “Your Highness.” Every time she came to the palace—which wasn’t often, since a junior advocate like Zomi might be summoned to court only a handful of times a year—Théra seemed to find some excuse to talk to her. But the princess never had anything interesting to say.

“Are you busy?” the princess asked. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“How can I be of assistance?” Zomi asked, failing to keep the stiffness out of her voice.

She berated herself for her rudeness. She could not explain to herself why she felt such annoyance with Théra every time she saw her. In truth, she ought to be grateful to her. Théra was the one who’d managed to secure her a pass into the Grand Examination and gave her a chance.

But she didn’t feel grateful. In fact, the intervention of Théra and her brothers had, in some way, taken away from the purity of her victory—yes, that was it: They were from different classes, as different as a chrysanthemum was from a dandelion, and yet Théra insisted on acting as though they were equals, without acknowledging her privileged life, without the delicacy to be embarrassed by the gulf between their circumstances. What was a mere game for her and her brothers—getting that pass to the examination—had meant the difference between achieving a dream and having it dashed to pieces.

She disliked the way Théra played at being other than who she was: the way she’d disguised herself as a commoner at the Three-Legged Jug, the way she dressed up to play at being farmer here in the Imperial garden, the way she asked after Zomi as though they were friends when, in fact, their lives had nothing in common.

“Oh, nothing,” said the princess. “I didn’t mean… I just wanted to…” Her face turned red.

Zomi waited.

“I’ve been thinking about your proposal for abolishing the use of Ano logograms,” said the princess, her words tumbling over one another in a jumble. “I found a reference in a poem Kikomi once wrote that reminded me of it I wasn’t sure if you had read it I could copy it out for you if you want or you could get it at the library of course you could—”

“Your Highness, I can’t be late to see the empress, who has summoned me.”

“Oh,” said the princess, disappointed. “I’m sorry.” Then she seemed to screw up her courage and blurted out, “I admire you, Advocate Kidosu. In fact, I envy your life. You’re free to live by your merit, while my only worth is bound up with my birth, a tool to further the ambitions of others.”

It took every ounce of Zomi’s strength not to lash out at her. Instead, after a few deep breaths, she simply said, “Your Highness, do not use the word ‘envy’ so casually when you do not know the paths others have trod on. Few women—no, few people—have the advantages you possess. If you lament that you cannot live as you like, perhaps it is because you have not tried to live as yourself at all.”

“I am honored beyond words, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Zomi Kidosu, sitting in formal mipa rari. She felt extremely apprehensive. The empress had never summoned her, and she still felt flustered from her encounter with Princess Théra.

“Not at all,” said Jia. “Relax.” She shifted into géüpa and gestured for Zomi to do the same.

They were in the empress’s small audience hall, a part of her private suite. The straw sitting mats were smooth under them, and the fire in the wood-burning stove kept the room comfortable against the early spring chill. A flask of warm plum wine rested on the table between them, along with two cups.

“I hear often of your petitions to the emperor. He is very impressed with your work.”

With some effort, Zomi suppressed her surprise. Since her appointment to the College of Advocates three years ago, she had worked on dozens of detailed petitions critiquing policy proposals put forward by the various ministers, including some by Prime Minister Yelu and even some that originated from the emperor himself. She had always received the same comment back from the emperor: I have read it. None of her bolder ideas had ever been implemented.

She had despaired of ever making a difference.

“Please, try the wine,” said the empress.

She poured from the flask and filled both cups. The fragrance of winter plums filled the air. Zomi took a sip to be polite. The wine was strong, and she felt her face grow warm.

“I understand that your mother has not agreed to come to Pan.”

Zomi tensed. She never spoke of her private affairs at court.

“Thank you for your solicitousness, Your Imperial Majesty. My mother is used to her way of life, and she thinks she will be unhappy in the bustle of the capital.”

The empress nodded. “My parents are the same. They do not want to come and live in the palace, no matter how often I’ve invited them. They far prefer their home in Faça, where they get to do as they like, instead of having to watch everything they say and do here at court.”

Oddly, Zomi was touched. The woman who sat across from her was nothing like she had expected.

“Of course, my situation is much simpler,” said the empress. “I may not be able to discharge the duties of a daughter by serving at their side, but I can send them whatever I like: treasure, a musician who I think they’ll find pleasing, or an airship to bring them a team of Imperial cooks to make authentic Dasu meals for their birthdays.”

She grinned at Zomi, who laughed as she imagined the sight of an airship being dispatched to shuttle a surprise birthday celebration to aged parents. Then she looked wistful.

The empress turned somber as she continued, “But I imagine it is much more difficult to provide a better life for your mother on the small salary of a member of the College of Advocates. The emperor wants to run the college as a lean organization, but your colleagues either come from much better off families or have other ways to supplement their income.”

The empress’s sympathetic tone broke down Zomi’s last shred of guardedness. The stipend paid to the College of Advocates was meager, and life in Pan was expensive. Though she scrimped and saved every copper piece, she had not been able to send much money back home to her mother.

Moreover, she refused to play the games that her colleagues engaged in. Other advocates in the college often visited the expensive restaurants and opera houses of Pan in the company of ministers whose policy proposals they were supposed to critique; sometimes they left carrying discreetly wrapped packages under their arms, a satisfied smile on their faces. This was how one became friends with the powerful and received favorable promotions. Zomi understood that as she watched her colleagues being promoted away from the college into policy positions, one after another, but she could not bring herself to join them. She was too disgusted.

“The emperor believes in rewarding those of talent, and so do I. I think I may have a solution to your problem.”

“I fear that this foolish advocate may not be up to the task Your Imperial Majesty has in mind,” Zomi said.

“Queen Gin wrote to the emperor asking for a prime adviser. I recommended you.”

Zomi looked at the empress, utterly amazed. Becoming prime adviser to an important noble like Queen Gin was akin to becoming prime minister to a Tiro king of old. Such officials had great powers, and she was sure to be able to get some of her ideas implemented—a far preferable change to writing ineffective critiques of other people’s ideas. And out of all the nobles, she admired Queen Gin the most. Furthermore, since the queen had recommended her to the examination, it seemed that her secret would be safest if she served Gin.

It also didn’t hurt that such a promotion would come with a massive increase in her salary. Finally, she might be able to carry out her promise to her mother.

But it was strange for the empress to take such an interest in a noble’s affairs. By all accounts, the empress was dedicated to reducing the powers of the nobles. In fact, last year, Zomi Kidosu had critiqued the empress’s proposal—ultimately carried out—of reducing Imperial funding for the nobles’ armies in order to divert more funds into civil infrastructure projects. She had actually been in favor of the proposal, but it was the job of the advocates to poke holes in every policy suggestion regardless of personal feelings.

While Zomi was still reeling from the revelation, the empress continued, “Despite the rumors, I value highly the vital role played by the independent fiefs as places of policy experiment. Queen Gin is an able warrior, but… she lacks finesse in civil administration. Your help would be much appreciated. Besides, she is likely to trust you implicitly because you’re Luan Zya’s student.”

It didn’t surprise Zomi that the empress knew who her teacher was—the emperor had guessed, after all. She nodded at Jia’s discreet reference to the relationship between her teacher and the queen.

Though what Jia said made sense, Zomi couldn’t help but feel that the empress had something else in mind. She might not be skilled in politics, but she knew that such a favor usually came with a price.

“Do you have any special instructions for me?” she probed. The discord between the queen and the empress was an open secret. If Jia wanted her to betray Queen Gin in some way, she had to find a way to turn down the post.

“Only one: that you do what is right for Dara, no matter the consequences,” said Jia.

Zomi looked at her questioningly.

“Prince Phyro is clever but inexperienced,” said Jia. “Duke Coda is skilled at his work but is likely to be overzealous. I’m afraid that while pacifying Tunoa, the two might harm the innocent in a way that the emperor might come to regret. Not all criticism of the emperor is treason, and if the prince and the duke press men and women of talent who hold a different opinion too severely, they’ll need a refuge in Dara.”

Zomi thought over the empress’s words. They also made sense. Her performance at the Palace Examination and her strident critiques at the College of Advocates had already established her reputation for being brash. An argument from her to protect dissenters would seem natural—indeed, she smiled as she remembered the Three-Legged Jug.

“You do not intend to eliminate the fiefs?” she ventured. “I confess that I thought—”

“You can’t trust everything you hear,” said Jia. “I have always wanted only what is best for Dara. An open mind is open to persuasion, and your advocacy of more independence for the fiefs is very persuasive.”

Zomi blushed, pleased that her petitions had been read by the empress and found compelling. Maybe I haven’t been wasting my time after all.

She knelt up in mipa rari and bowed deeply to touch her forehead to the ground. “Empress, you are truly in possession of a capacious mind.”

Jia gestured for her to rise. “One more thing: Never reveal this conversation to anyone else.”

Zomi looked up, a question in her eyes.

“The scholars grumble when the wives of the emperor interfere in the affairs of state,” Jia said, a light, bitter smile on her face. “We must minimize the extent to which my role is visible. Such is the plight of women who have not risen through the ranks by merit, as you have.”

Zomi nodded and bowed again. “I swear that I will never reveal the confidences you have entrusted to me.”

They finished the flask of wine, and Zomi left, a spring in her steps.

“Ah, vanity,” whispered the empress, long after Zomi was too far away to hear her.

For hours Théra locked herself in her room, tears of humiliation flowing down her face.

She had admired Zomi Kidosu from afar for years, living vicariously through her, imagining adventures that Zomi got to have that she couldn’t. To have the woman talk to her the way she had shattered into a million pieces the illusion she had built up inside her head of a kind, wise, caring friend.

Something Zomi said echoed in Théra’s mind and refused to fade: Perhaps it is because you have not tried to live as yourself at all.

The young princes and princesses decided to go for a ride in the spring air. Fara rode in a carriage while Timu, Théra, and Phyro took horses. Two dozen palace guards surrounded them, and carriages and pedestrians respectfully moved to the sides of the road as they approached.

“Have you thought about what you’ll do in Dasu?” Théra asked Timu.

“I’ll probably start by visiting the places that were important to the start of the emperor’s rise: the entrance to the Grand Tunnels, the false shipyard that fooled Kindo Marana, the beach where he used to sing with Aunt Risana, and so on. Then I’ll try to devise a way to fund schools to help young people like Zomi, and consult with Master Ruthi as needed.”

“Is he morose that he has to leave Pan and go so far away?”

“Not at all. He’s very excited. He wants to be able to do more research in the archives there to fill in some gaps in the history of the Chrysanthemum-Dandelion War, especially about Queen Gin’s role early on.”

Théra saw that Timu was sitting straighter on the back of his horse, and he was talking more animatedly than usual. The prospect of being on his own, away from a father he couldn’t ever seem to please, seemed to invigorate him.

“What about you, Hudo-tika?”

“Uncle Rin and I have already planned out several traps for the traitors!” Phyro rubbed his hands in glee.

Théra grinned. “Tunoa is a rough land. Are you sure you’re going to be okay with no thousand-layer cake for dessert every night?”

“Do you still think I’m Fara’s age?” Phyro looked wounded. “I’m going to catch fish for myself just like the Hegemon once did! Tunoa is full of history; it’s the birthplace of generations of the marshals of Cocru. I’ll be strolling through the ruins of ancient castles and communing with the ghosts of grand heroes. What can be sweeter than sleeping upon a bed of grass on the slope of a storied hill after a day of hard marching, a canopy of stars over my head?”

“You kind of butchered that quote from Ra Oji,” said Théra, laughing. “Ra Oji was talking about death being a natural consequence of the flow of life, and he didn’t want an elaborate funeral—”

“I get to interpret Ra Oji’s words however I want,” declared Phyro. “The words are dead, but I am alive.”

Théra smiled and said no more. Phyro really was a lot like their father in many ways. She just hoped that he would learn to govern his impulses better as he grew up.

Looking at her happy brothers, Théra felt the pangs of another bout of envy. They were going to go into the wide world and experience life. Still mere boys, they would make decisions that changed the lives of the people—albeit with some supervision and advice from Zato Ruthi and Rin Coda. They were starting down the path to a life of accomplishment, of judgment and rule. She, on the other hand, was going to be cooped up in the palace, preparing for the only future that she could see: a marriage to some mysterious man.

But she was assuaged by the thought that she had taken a small step to change that future.

“Father, what of your other shadows? Do they not deserve a chance as well?”

“What would you like, Rata-tika?”

Dust motes had danced in the slanted sunbeams in her father’s private study, as chaotic as her thoughts.

“Do not contract either Ada-tika or me in marriage without our assent. Will you promise that?”

“Of course! I wouldn’t think of it.”

“Not even if Mother tells you to?”

He had looked at her as though assessing a student at the Palace Examination. “No, not even if your mother says so.”

She had sighed with relief. Then she added, “Don’t assign a new tutor for us after Master Ruthi leaves. I will teach Ada-tika myself, and I want to study what I like.”

It was only a small step, but it was the start of finding out who she was besides the dutiful daughter, the loving sister, the polite princess, or the conscientious student.

“Look, a wild goose!” shouted Fara. She stood up in the carriage to point with her hand. Théra moved closer to the carriage in case she fell.

But Timu and Phyro had already ridden ahead. While Timu shaded his eyes to gaze up at the flight of the wild goose and muttered something about the weather patterns, Phyro took the bow off his shoulder and notched an arrow.

“Don’t!” Théra cried out, but it was too late.

Though he was strong for his age, Phyro still lacked the strength to draw the bow fully. The arrow fell harmlessly short of the wild goose. But the palace guards, to please the prince, had all stopped and shot their arrows in a barrage, and the wild goose, with a pitiful cry, fell from the sky.

“This is almost the same as if I had shot it myself,” said Phyro.

The palace guards cheered in assent.

“Poor goose,” said Fara.

“Yes, poor goose,” said Théra.

^{CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE} LETTERS FROM CHILDREN

Jia jabbed Kuni in the ribs.

“Aw! Ahem! Excellent reading, excellent!” Somewhat disoriented, Kuni shouted at the mostly empty private audience hall.

“I was doing the reading,” said Jia, “not some scribe. Did you really fall asleep?”

“Asleep? No! I was merely resting my eyes.”

“How could you!”

“Jia, you can’t possibly blame me for this! Timu’s letters have gotten more and more tedious over time. He has always tended to pleonasm, but I’m afraid his prose has grown as out of control as the weeds at the edge of my garden.”

“Prince Timu’s style is… ornate,” said Risana.

“He takes ten sentences to say what could be said in one, which is to say, what others may—oh, look, he’s even gotten me to do it!”

“He’s just nervous when he has to write to you,” said Jia.

“Let’s focus on the answer he gave you,” prompted Risana.

“Can one of you summarize for me? I confess that I… didn’t quite get his answer.”

“He explained that yes, your suspicion was right. Of all the candidates sent to the Grand Examination from Dasu, almost half were from families who had moved to Dasu from the core islands within the last five years,” Jia said.

“I knew it!” Kuni called out triumphantly. “These rich families are all the same, always looking for a way to game the system.”

“It wasn’t a bad idea to reach a compromise with the protesting cashima from five years ago,” said Jia. “We all agreed that adding points to the scores of examinees from provinces outside of traditional areas of scholarly excellence like Haan and Géjira would achieve more regional balance among the firoa.”

Kuni sighed. “As soon as I agreed to the change, I suspected enterprising families from the core islands would move to places like Dasu and Tunoa in hopes of securing an advantage in the Imperial examinations for their offspring.”

“This is hardly in the spirit of your policy,” said a frowning Risana.

“No,” said Jia. “Though I suppose if the policy entices some Haan families to move to Dasu, it will, in a way, also help elevate the spirit of scholarship there.”

“I shall write to Timu to ask him to adjust the Provincial Examination system to reward those families who have been in Dasu longer—”

“Or you could just inform him of what you think is the problem and let him figure out the solution,” said Jia. “He’s supposed to solve problems for you, not the other way around, you know?”

Kuni agreed this was very wise.

“Phyro has really grown up,” said Risana. “He sounds more confident with every letter, leaving behind childish sentiments. Listen to that final line—such courage.” She glanced at Jia and quickly added, “Still, he has to do more to match his brother. Dasu has done amazingly well at the Grand Examination this year, managing to produce three firoa and sending one candidate to the Palace Examination. Despite the problems we’ve uncovered in Dasu, no doubt much of the credit should also be given to Timu’s hard work in that remote outpost.”

“Or perhaps Master Ruthi just unconsciously taught the scholars of Dasu how to please the judges at the examinations,” said Jia, a faint trace of a smile on her face. “Phyro is doing the difficult work of keeping this hard-earned peace.”

“I detect the hand of Rin in this one,” said Kuni. “He used to be a letter writer, you know? He’s trying to make the best of a bad situation by emphasizing their efforts. Phyro might have written the report, but Rin can’t help adding in his special touch.”

Jia nodded to herself. Rin probably regrets taking my advice now. But this is only the start.

“Are you saying things are worse than the letter says?” an anxious Risana asked. “Shouldn’t you send aid?”

“Fathers cannot always fight all the battles for their sons,” said Jia.

Kuni pondered this. “Jia’s right. That last line is not quite a call for reinforcements. If I send aid now at the first sign of difficulty, I would undermine his authority by expressing a lack of confidence. Phyro was too quick and harsh in his dealings with the cults, but I have to let him work this out by himself.”

“How did things deteriorate so fast? I thought Rin and Hudo-tika had it all under control,” said Risana.

“It’s not how strong the rebels are now that worries me. It’s how much stronger they could become,” Kuni said. “This is one of those times when I really wish for the counsel of Luan Zya, who was always so good with strange contraptions.”

He tossed the letter aside and picked up one of the bronze mirrors from the platter. Walking near one of the windows in the private audience hall, he let the bright sunlight fall against the mirror and contemplated the projection on the ceiling.

The face of the Hegemon stared back at him. The carving was very skilled, with powerful lines that captured his angular features and unorthodox cross-hatching that gave the face depth. Mata Zyndu’s famous double-pupiled eyes stared down at Kuni in a confident scowl. As the mirror’s reflection shimmered in the heat from the sun, the image seemed to come to life.

“Hello, brother,” whispered Kuni. He shivered despite the heat.

“This is just a trick,” said Jia. “Even Fara wouldn’t be fooled.”

“But tricks like this can be far more convincing to the common people than the intricate arguments of learned scholars,” said Risana. “I’ve performed enough in my youth to know how effective spectacle can be.”

“Risana is right,” said Kuni. “Huno Krima and Zopa Shigin began their rebellion with a silk scroll stuffed into a fish, and they were able to bring down the Xana Empire. As long as the people believe this ‘magic,’ it has power.”

“We could dispatch all the airships to search for Luan,” said Jia.

“That requires knowing where he is,” said Kuni. “The sea is vast, and we… haven’t heard from him since his departure. I hope he’s at least safe.”

For a moment the emperor seemed at a loss as he imagined the fate of his old friend.

“But if anyone can survive the wrath of Tazu, it’s a disciple of Lutho, the aged and wise turtle, and a man who once rode on the back of a cruben. The gods help those who help themselves. I will get Cogo’s counsel. What really matters aren’t these mirrors. We must find out how the rebels are getting their weapons.”

He strode resolutely out of the private audience hall.

^{CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR} AN OUTING

Théra and Fara sat on the wharf, dangling their feet into the cold water. Dressed in plain robes of rough hemp cloth, they looked like two peasant girls taking a break from the heat. In front of them, lotus leaves covered the surface of Lake Tututika as far as the eye could see, while giant pink-and-white flowers bloomed over them like dancers swaying with the wind. Small boats wove between the leaves, and young women sang as they harvested the lotus seeds.

“This is fun,” said Fara. “We should have adventures like this more often.”

Seventeen-year-old Théra put an arm around her nine-year-old little sister and pulled her affectionately against her side.

Since taking over the education of herself and her sister, Théra had stopped reading the Moralist tomes. Instead, she let their enthusiasms be their guide as they sampled the vast collection of the Imperial library: One day they might gorge themselves on Faça folklore, the next day they might admire the drawings in military engineering treatises, and the day after that might be spent on lyrical poems of the Diaspora Wars, whose obscure logograms they puzzled out with the aid of volumes of dictionaries. They spent more time reading than they ever did under the tutelage of Zato Ruthi.

But as much as they enjoyed reading, sometimes the girls just wanted to be away from the palace, away from the guards and courtiers and servants and maids, away from the roles of Imperial princesses.

They had snuck out of the palace by hiding inside the carriage of the farmers who delivered fresh produce to the palace kitchen; then they had hitched rides with merchants and farmers until they got to the shore of the lake.

“If we did this more often,” Théra said, “I’m afraid my mother would tear all her hair out. When we get back, she’ll probably make you write the hundred-stroke logograms a hundred times.”

“It’s worth it.”

“It is indeed worth it,” said a new voice.

The girls turned around. The speaker was a lady of extraordinary beauty. Golden-haired and blue-eyed, her brown skin was as smooth as polished amber. A blue silk dress floated around her like a veil of water. Her voice was gentle and cool, like a breeze passing through the leaves of a weeping willow.

Théra stood up and bowed to her in jiri, thinking she was the mistress of the nearby large estate that probably owned this private wharf as well as all the farmland in the area. “We apologize for trespassing; we’ll leave immediately.”

The lady smiled and shook her head. “Why leave? There are four great pleasures in life, and this is one of them.”

“What are the four great pleasures?” asked Fara, instantly curious.

“That would be sitting by a cozy fire in winter while snow falls outside the window; climbing onto a high place after a spring rain to admire a revitalized world; eating crabs with freshly brewed tea next to the fall tides; and dipping your feet into a cool lotus-covered lake in the middle of summer.”

“Oh,” said Fara, a bit disappointed. “I thought you were going to say something more…”

“More impressive?” asked the lady.

Fara nodded.

The lady chuckled. “When you’ve lived for as long as I have, you realize that the greatest pleasures in life are not very impressive at all. It’s better to have one true friend who can understand the voice in your heart when you pluck out a hesitant tune on the zither than to have the unthinking adoration of millions.”

Théra looked closer at the woman’s placid face and realized that she couldn’t tell how old she was: For a moment she seemed as young as Théra herself, but as the sparkling lake changed the light reflected onto her face, she suddenly seemed as old as the grandmothers who tilled the nearby fields.

Théra turned the lady’s words over in her mind. She wasn’t sure she agreed with them, but at least the lady was interesting. “I take it you’re a Fluxist, Mistress?”

“I don’t care much about labels, but I do think Ra Oji was closer to the truth than the other Ano philosophers. Emperor, beggar, princess, maid—for all our toils and struggles, in the end the Flow governs us all.”

“But what you said can’t be right,” Fara suddenly piped up. “I mean… about the great pleasures.”

“Why not?”

“You didn’t mention the love of a handsome man!” said Fara. “That’s the most important thing.”

“Whatever makes you think that?”

“It’s all the stories the ladies—er, the older girls tell her,” said Théra. “And all the plays put on by the traveling puppet opera troupes: Lady Mira killing herself for love; Princess Kikomi killing for love; Lady Zy jumping into the Liru for love.”

The lady sat down on the wharf, careless of the delicate fabric of her dress. She took off her wooden clogs and dipped her feet into the water. Théra saw that her feet were calloused and rough, and instantly she liked her more.

“Come and sit,” said the lady. Then she quirked her brows at Théra. “By your tone, I take it you don’t approve of love much.”

“Songs about men are about friendship, war, sights of faraway lands, and sounds of the eternal sea,” Théra said. “But songs about women—just listen.”

They quieted and listened to the women in the little boats collecting lotus pods.

“I know what the song is about!” said Fara excitedly. “They serve lotus seeds at weddings because it’s good luck: The bride will be pregnant soon and bear many children, like the lotus seedpods.”

“See?” Théra said.

“You sound like another young woman I once knew,” said the lady. “She was not much older than you when we met, and she also had much to say about the fate of women and the price of beauty. But I think you might be judging this song too harshly. Listen.”

The young women in the boats continued to sing, their voices as cool and refreshing as the water at their feet.

“That is lovely,” said Théra.

“Very lovely,” said Fara.

“There’s much wisdom in flowers,” said the lady, “though they’re often dismissed as frivolous.”

“My mother tried to teach me about flowers,” said Théra, “but I suppose that’s why I wasn’t very interested in them. A lotus is a bit like the dandelion. While dandelion seeds ride the wind, lotus seeds ride the water. Both have adventures.” Her eyes dimmed as she spoke. “Even flowers get to do more than some people.”

The lady waved at one of the small boats, and the young woman oared it over, her powerful arms flexing in the sunlight like the firm roots of the lotus. The lady bought a few lotus pods from her, paying with an ingot of silver.

“I don’t have enough money to give you change for that,” said the young woman, laughing. “Mistress, everything in my home added together isn’t even worth that much.”

“Keep it,” said the lady. “Think of it as a gift from Tututika, like the lotus pods themselves.”

The young peasant woman looked at the wealthy lady and nodded solemnly. She crossed her arms before her chest and bowed in jiri. “Thank you. May Tututika always walk amongst us.”

Théra knew that in Géfica, especially in the countryside, the people were pious in their worship of Tututika, the goddess of fresh water and agriculture. It was the custom to be generous to strangers, for the goddess was said to take on human form from time to time to test the beauty of people’s character. Random acts of kindness were not unheard of.

The peasant woman oared away, leaving a wake over the smooth surface of the lake. The lady took out a small bone knife and cut open one of the spongy pods to retrieve the seeds. Then she peeled off the rubbery shell to reveal the white kernels inside.

Fara stared, mesmerized. She had eaten plenty of sugared lotus seeds and loved lotus paste in desserts, but she had never had fresh lotus seeds before. “I’d like one.”

“Fara!” Théra scolded. “That is very rude.”

“I bought them to share,” said the lady, laughing. “But you have to wait. If I give this to you now, you’ll not like it at all.”

As the girls watched, the lady put away the knife, took a hairpin out of her bun, and poked it through the center of the seeds, one by one. “There is a green core in each seed, the germ, which is among the bitterest things you’ll ever taste.”

She handed the cored seeds to Fara and Théra, who thanked her and put them in their mouths. The taste was exquisite: cool, refreshing, sweet but not too sweet.

Fara laughed and splashed her feet in the water. “I think having fresh lotus seeds you didn’t pay for should be added to your list of greatest pleasures.”

Théra sighed.

The lady looked at her, amused. “What’s the matter now?”

“My heart grows bitter… at the thought of a future I can’t master.”

“No one can master the future,” said the lady, “not even the gods. But let me tell you a story. On Arulugi, the teahouses prepare a delicacy by filling the cored lotus seeds with various foods using a toothpick: mango paste, thin bits of bacon, crab roe, apple-flavored shaved ice, sea salt, and so forth. The mixed seeds are then served in a large dish to a group of guests, and everyone enjoys the surprise of whichever flavor they happen to pick up.”

“What if someone left an uncored seed in as a joke?” said Fara while making a face.

“I see that I can’t have you help me out at dinner parties,” said the lady, her laughter crisp and cool. “The Fluxists like to speak of a heart of emptiness as an ideal state. With a heart of emptiness, there is also infinite potential for the future: joy, anger, sorrow, happiness. How we fill our hearts has much to do with our fates, far more than our native talents, the circumstances of our birth, the vicissitude of fortune, or even the intervention of the gods. If you do not like the stories you’ve been told, fill your heart with new stories. If you do not like the script you’ve been given, design for yourself new roles.”

I am named Dissolver of Sorrows, thought Théra. When the bitterness in my heart has been dissolved, what is left is potential.

She looked at the lady, imagining her own heart growing lighter, more hollowed out and spacious. She was pretty sure now she knew who the lady was. It was a moment of wonder, to be so close to the presence of the numinous. “I have found a new pleasure in life: hearing you speak for an hour.”

The lady chuckled. “Each of the pleasures I mentioned is better with a friend. A real friend is a mirror that reflects the truth back to us.”

“A mirror?” For a moment Théra’s heart grew heavy again as she recalled how Zomi Kidosu had impatiently brushed her off. Who was her real friend? But then she remembered the strange mirrors that were troubling her father.

An impulse seized her to make the most of this encounter with a goddess—that was the most interesting choice, wasn’t it? “What can you tell me about the nature of smooth mirrors that can conjure ghosts?”

“Ah, I see I’m dealing with a mind as subtle and willful as your mother’s,” said the lady. “I suppose it wouldn’t be breaking the rules, not exactly, for me to tell you another metaphor.”

The lady tossed one of the lotus seeds at the lake. Just as it was about to make contact with water, a golden carp hopped out of the water and captured it with its mouth. The carp then stayed near the surface to wait for more food, bobbing up and down in the water and creating an expanding series of concentric waves.

“What a pretty fish,” Fara cried out.

“My favorite creature,” said the lady. “But watch the ripples.”

The ripples expanded until they struck the straight edge of the wharf, which reflected them back toward the center of the lake in a new series of concentric waves. The waves from the carp and the reflection intermingled, forming an interlocking pattern.

“That looks just like the scales on the fish,” said Théra.

“When the crests of the two waves are added together, the result is a higher wave. When the troughs of the waves overlap, the result is a deeper trough. When the crest of the one meets the trough of the other, the two cancel out. And that is the cause of the pattern,” said the lady.

“Is this a metaphor about friendship?” asked Théra. “That our strengths may strengthen each other and make up for our faults, but our faults added together may also lead to a worse result. It is thus best to have many friends.”

“You are a good student,” said the lady. “That is a lesson I had not even intended. I only meant that you should think about waves and reflection, for light, in its true nature, shares much with these waves.”

Théra wasn’t sure she understood, but she watched the waves and tried to memorize the pattern.

They ate lotus seeds until it was late and the girls had to go home.

^{CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE} TESTS AND COUNTERTESTS

“Is it taken care of?” asked Jia.

Chatelain Otho Krin nodded. “The mirror makers have been silenced.”

“And the workshop burnt so that no trace of their secret remains?”

A wave of nausea struck Otho Krin. Even when he was a bandit, he had not liked the sight of blood. He had hoped Jia would comfort him, but that was not to be. It seemed to him she was changing more and more from the woman he had known, but he pushed the thought aside. Lady Jia—the empress, he silently corrected himself—had always known the right thing to do, and he was going to help her, no matter how he felt about the details.

Love demanded sacrifices.

“And the other thing?” Jia asked.

“An anonymous note was passed to Duke Coda’s spies. The ship from Arulugi will be searched on arrival at Tunoa.”

Jia let out a held breath. “Once Rin’s men begin to focus on Théca Kimo, be sure to let Kimo know. I will do what I can to help things along.” She put a hand against Otho Krin’s cheek. “You’ve done much for the future of Dara. The people may not know or understand, but know that you have my gratitude.”

And Otho was again reminded of the very first time he had met Jia, and how she had made his heart feel grand and full of courage.

You’re loyal, Jia had said. That’s not nothing.

Otho Krin bowed. “All I care about is your good opinion.”

Kuni paced in the private audience chamber. He stopped from time to time to scrutinize the new letter from Tunoa held in his trembling hands, though he had already read it so many times that he could recite it from memory.

“Perhaps Phyro is wrong,” offered Jia.

“Phyro might be young,” said Risana protectively. “But Duke Coda is very careful. He would not support Phyro in making such an accusation without ironclad proof.”

“Still,” said Jia, “a charge like this against one of the emperor’s most loyal followers is extraordinary.”

“I have always trusted Théca,” mumbled Kuni.

“You have indeed, and your trust has served you well. But trust is a fragile string; sometimes kites do break loose and set out on their own,” said Jia.

“Perhaps you should summon Gin Mazoti?” asked Risana.

“That might be awkward,” said Jia. “If the charge turns out to be false, a preemptive strike would chill the hearts of all the nobles loyal to the emperor.”

“What do you propose then?” asked Kuni.

“If Théca Kimo were really supplying the rebels in Tunoa with weapons, he must be observing your movements with care. You could announce a tour of the Islands, starting with a visit to the Karo Peninsula, across from Arulugi. Ask Than Carucono to accompany you with a sizable detachment of Imperial forces. If Kimo is innocent, he will do nothing. But if he really is planning to rebel…”

“Big Sister,” said Risana in admiration, “you’re as wily as Luan Zya. This is like one of my old smokecraft tricks. Kimo will see a mirage, and how he reacts will tell us what is truly in his heart.”

Reluctantly, Kuni nodded.

“You’re still undecided?” asked Cano Tho, commander of the Arulugi palace guards.

He and his lord, Duke Théca Kimo, sat in a small flat-bottomed boat in the middle of Lake Toyemotika, the only boat this far out from shore. There was a slight drizzle, and the mist made the stalk-like buildings and vine-suspended platforms of the city of Müning in the distance indistinct like a watercolor sketch.

Duke Théca Kimo said nothing but drained his cup. One might have expected it to be filled with one of the thousand varieties of orchid-bamboo-shoot tea that Arulugi was known for, or some expensive wine from one of Faça’s ancient vineyards, as befitting one of Kimo’s station, but instead, it was filled with the cheap, burning sorghum liquor favored by the poor of Dara.

“The emperor’s intent could not be any clearer,” said Cano.

“Do we have any more roasted pork?” asked Théca.

Silently, Cano opened the basket at his feet and refilled the dish on the low table between them. Both of them were sitting in thakrido, like a pair of gangsters instead of the cultured elite of an island known for its grace.

In truth, Kimo had never felt at home in Arulugi, the Beautiful Island. He had earned the fief by conquering it during the wars between Emperor Ragin and the Hegemon, at the direction of Marshal Gin Mazoti. But though he was its master, he had always felt like an unwelcome peasant in a wealthy man’s house. The hereditary nobles of Müning might bow to him and speak to him reverently, but he could feel them whispering behind him, laughing quietly at his uncouth ways and the tattoos on his face that revealed his past as a convicted felon—how dare they! He could have slaughtered them all instead of allowing them to keep their estates. He found himself grasping for topics of conversation with his wives, highborn ladies of the old Amu nobility, and all three seemed to prefer one another’s company to his. He found orchid-bamboo-shoot tea and the elaborate ceremonies around it fussy, and the singing and dancing of the girls in the teahouses and the ducal palace—formal, stately, and full of obscure allusions to Amu’s illustrious past—usually put him to sleep.

“The airships make passes over the shores of Arulugi and the Amu Strait daily, and a naval fleet is gathering in the strait,” said Cano. “Than Carucono has amassed his troops on the Karo Peninsula. Do you not understand what this means?”

“The emperor wants to tour the Islands. Some security measures are perfectly reasonable,” said Kimo. “The emperor is trusting and honorable, and since I’ve cut off the supplies for Noda Mi and Doru Solofi, he’ll not act against me.”

Though he was the most powerful man on the island, and his word was law, he did not find the administration of a realm to his liking. He liked shiny treasure, greasy food, the company of loose women and brawling men—not the minutiae of tax policy and implementing Imperial decrees via detailed regulations. Yet now that the world was at peace, the only outlet for his energy was hunting for elephants on Écofi or wild boars on Crescent Island. But his ministers, steeped in the Moralism of Kon Fiji or the Incentivism of Gi Anji, lectured him incessantly on how a proper ruler should be more dedicated to the welfare of his subjects and not waste all his time in the slaughter of defenseless animals—defenseless! Have they ever faced a charging bull elephant?

Thank the blessed and luscious Tututika that he still had Cano Tho, the only man who was willing to accept him as he was instead of judging him. That was why he had always listened to his counsel.

He regretted that decision now. He had never thought Noda Mi and Doru Solofi would succeed in their mad scheme, and he had flat-out refused their invitation for him to rebel against Kuni. He had even thought he would capture the two and send them to Pan, with their arms bound behind them to show his loyalty.

But Cano had convinced him to let them go, arguing that the men were harmless and revealing a plot against the emperor in his realm would only invite more scrutiny against Arulugi. Instead, Cano had suggested that he sell surplus weapons to the two.

“The Imperial Treasury has cut off funding for the armies of the independent fiefs,” said Cano. “You’ll have no choice but to reduce the size of the army.”

Kimo had not liked that prospect. The army, after all, was the foundation of his throne.

“If you don’t think Noda and Doru would ever amount to much, what’s the harm in selling them weapons to help maintain your army? But should Noda and Doru become more than a nuisance, the emperor will surely call upon you to suppress their rebellion, thereby confirming your value to the Imperial throne.”

Kimo liked scenarios where he always came out ahead, no matter what happened.

Unfortunately, the rebels were successful, but it was Prince Phyro, not he, who was called upon to suppress them. And though he had cut off all further dealings with the rebels, Duke Coda’s spies were now swarming the island, looking for evidence that he had been part of the plot. He dared not speak of it with any of his ministers in the ducal palace, afraid that some of them were already working for the Farsight Secretary, just waiting for him to slip up.

Once more, he drained his cup, savoring the burning sensation of the liquor going down his gullet. He yearned for sleep and for dreams in which he could revisit the times of glory, when he had slept in the open with a saddle as his pillow, and the shedding of blood was not seen as some kind of sin but the true measure of a man. He had once killed a king! Yet now he was cowering on a boat in the middle of a lake to complain about his fate in secret.

Another small boat emerged from the mist and drizzle and sailed closer. A man in a raincoat woven from banana and lotus leaves stood at the stern, holding on to the long single oar. Around his neck he wore a necklace of shark’s teeth—rather incongruous on this tranquil, freshwater lake. At his feet were a basket and several fishing rods. Not recognizing the duke and the captain, the man waved at them in a friendly gesture, and continued to sing in his loud, hoarse voice.

The fisherman disappeared into the mist, though the sound of his singing lingered.

“Lord Kimo, let me be plain,” said Cano Tho. “You must heed the warning signs. Kuni Garu is a man who will smile at you one moment, and stab you the next. If you don’t act soon, you will join the Hegemon in the afterlife.”

Théca Kimo looked at his friend, astounded. “You speak of treason. But why?”

A succession of expressions flitted across Cano’s face before he came to a decision. “For the Jewel of Amu.”

“Kikomi? That inconstant woman?”

“Do not speak of her that way!”

Kimo set down his cup, his face darkening. “You forget yourself, Captain Tho.”

With an effort, Cano Tho lowered his voice. “I apologize for that outburst, Lord Kimo.” He sat up in formal mipa rari. “I rescued Princess Kikomi from the prison ship of Kindo Marana, and she was a woman of incomparable courage and wisdom. I will never believe the lies told about her after her death.”

“Her betrayal is known to every child—”

“How can the man whose very victories were founded on betrayal speak of honor? After the rebellion, Kuni Garu honored all the great nobles who died during the rebellion against Xana. Jizu is venerated in Na Thion and Mocri is worshipped in Wolf’s Paw; even the Hegemon himself has shrines erected in Tunoa with the emperor’s approval. Yet Kikomi is an exception. We have never been allowed to erect a temple to her memory in Arulugi, and the craven scholars, careful to please the emperor, continue to smear her reputation in the history books.”

“It’s understandable for the emperor to feel this way about her. She killed Phin Zyndu, a mentor to the Hegemon as well as the emperor—”

Cano laughed. “Kuni Garu may disguise his dark past with pious words of honor, but truth lives on in the hearts of men. He is terrified of Princess Kikomi because the lies about her speak the truth about himself. He is a lord of inconstant affections, skilled at manipulation but undeserving of loyalty. He will turn on you.”

Théca Kimo pondered Cano’s words. When Kuni was at war, he had needed men like Théca Kimo, and after his victory at Rana Kida, it would have been impossible not to reward those who had risked their lives in his ascent to the throne. But now that the world was at peace, how much longer would the emperor need him? As memories of Théca’s contributions faded, why wouldn’t Kuni Garu treat him as he had treated the Hegemon?

“Queen Gin has promised that she will never let anything happen to us,” said Kimo.

“Where is the marshal now? Why isn’t she at the Karo Peninsula pleading for you?”

Kimo said nothing. The signs were ambiguous, like the fog of war.

“Arulugi is skilled at war over the sea,” said Cano. “If you steel your heart and strike first, you may still seize the initiative from Kuni Garu. A victory will secure the independence of Arulugi and make you the master of your own fate. Do you wish your children to inherit the life you’ve fought for? Then heed the warning of the gods, Lord Kimo.”

Kimo might not understand court intrigue and subtle plots, but Cano’s words made perfect sense if he applied his experience as a criminal in the streets. The leaders of the great street gangs respected men who showed that they were willing to fight to protect their turf, and a powerful gangster survived only by demonstrating that he still had teeth.

The burning liquor brought tears to his eyes as he drained his cup. “I suppose it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

“He’s mirroring my moves,” muttered Kuni. “What is Théca Kimo thinking? Why has he moved his army onto the shore and his navy into the strait?”

“Perhaps his ships are gathering to help secure the seas for your crossing,” suggested Jia.

“When I haven’t even indicated I was going to cross?” huffed Kuni.

“We’ve been here for weeks,” fretted Risana. “Yet he has not come to pay his respects. This bodes ill for his intentions.”

“The Ano sages tell us that trust is hard to earn, but easy to lose in a moment of doubt,” said Jia.

“What does that even mean?” snapped Kuni. “Trusting the untrustworthy is no sign of wisdom.”

“Théca had proven himself during the war,” said Jia evenly.

“That was more than a decade ago!” said an irritated Kuni. “I have to think not just about myself, but also about the children. If I pass away tomorrow, will Timu or Phyro… be able to handle him?”

The emperor walked away, agitated; Risana followed close behind, trying to soothe him. Jia stood in place and watched them leave.

“Lord Kimo, you can’t go,” said Cano Tho.

The duke’s grand audience hall should have been filled with his ministers and generals, like a miniature version of the audience hall in Pan, but now only the generals, all veterans who had served under Théca for more than a decade, and a few nobles trusted by Cano, sat along the two walls. The nobles belonged to the oldest and most illustrious lineages of Arulugi, a faction that had long wished for Amu to regain its independence and could be counted on not to be tainted by the emperor’s spies. Though they had never liked Théca Kimo much, they desired to regain their diminished power even more.

“To disobey a direct order from the emperor would be open treason,” said Théca Kimo.

“The emperor already has enough evidence to manufacture the crime of treason,” said Cano. “Consider your state, Lord Kimo. Weapons from your armory have been found in Tunoa in the hands of the rebels shouting the name of the Hegemon; you’ve amassed ships in the Amu Strait, warily watching the emperor’s fleet; your soldiers are gathered around Müning, ready to do your bidding; you’ve distanced yourself from ministers and advisers recommended by the emperor, suggesting a secret plot.”

“But I thought these were just precautionary measures—a reminder that I still have teeth! The emperor should know that I have no intent to rebel.”

“Actions do not have meaning by themselves,” said Cano. “All that matters is the perspective in which they are seen. If the mirror is distorted, a fat man will appear thin, and a loyal man will appear as a traitor.”

“All the more reason that I should answer the emperor’s summons to explain myself.”

“Lord Kimo, have you forgotten the banquet held by the Hegemon after he entered Pan? He invited Kuni Garu to the banquet because he intended to kill the man for his betrayal after separating him from his men.”

“But Kuni Garu escaped unharmed!”

“Kuni Garu had a tongue as clever and quick as that of a paid litigator. Do you? And do you imagine Kuni intends to repeat the mistake of the Hegemon? If you go, you’ll not return.”

“This must be a bad dream,” Kimo muttered. “What have I done?”

“You’ve done nothing but what is logical. The emperor has forced your hand. When the hunter comes to you with his axe sharpened, do you continue to play the loyal dog waiting for slaughter, or will you turn into a fierce wolf and fight for your survival? Lord Kimo, you may not wish to rebel, but the emperor has taken the choice away from you.”

Théca Kimo sat and pondered. Slowly, his body began to tremble as his muscles tensed, and the tattoos on his face stood out as the vessels in his face filled with blood. With a loud crack, the bamboo cup in his hand shattered.

“How did things get this way, Kuni Garu?” asked Théca Kimo. He howled with rage. “How?”

“He’s ill?” Kuni repeated, disbelief and rage infusing his voice. “He’s ill?”

“It is a most puzzling letter,” said Cogo, who had been summoned from Pan, where he was acting as Kuni’s temporary regent. “Théca claims that he cannot travel too far due to bad health, and thinks he can only go to the middle of the Amu Strait before having to turn back.”

“I don’t think puzzling quite captures it,” said Risana. “The word you’re looking for is preposterous. Not only has he declined to come to Karo to pay his respects to the emperor, but he’s now suggesting that the emperor meet him in the middle of the Amu Strait, each with a single ship. Who does he think he is?”

“He thinks we’re two Tiro kings negotiating,” said Kuni. “Or, knowing him, two street gang bosses sitting down to have some tea and discuss the division of protection money from indigo houses and bars and gambling parlors. He has rebelled. Oh, he has already rebelled.”

Everyone could hear the pain in his voice.

“I’m sorry that I had been so trusting of him before,” said Jia.

“Don’t be,” said Kuni. “It was your suggestion of a tour to the Karo Peninsula that finally allowed us to see the darkness in his heart.”

“Do you want to summon Gin Mazoti to prepare for an attack?” asked Risana.

“Kimo and Mazoti fought together for years against the Hegemon,” said Jia. “She might object to an invasion of Arulugi when you still don’t have ironclad proof. Besides, open warfare with Théca Kimo will confuse the other nobles and embolden the rebels in Tunoa—if you’re not careful, you might find even more old nobles raising the flag of rebellion, thinking to take advantage of the chaos. The more quietly we can resolve this, the better.”

“The empress is right,” said Cogo. “It might be best to agree to Kimo’s demands and meet him in the Amu Strait.”

“Why?” asked Risana. But then she saw the sly grin on Cogo’s face. “Ah, a plot.”

“Kimo helpfully ‘suggests’ that we each ride to the midpoint of the Amu Strait without escort ships to avoid ‘giving the appearance of disharmony to the other Lords of Dara,’ ” said Kuni. “I have no confidence that a single ship of mine can overcome his in a sea battle—”

“It’s also far too dangerous,” interrupted Jia.

“—and I can’t have airships to help, as they would alarm him. Cogo, just what are you planning?”

“He will see you arrive at the appointed spot on a single ship,” said Cogo. “However—”

“What you see is not always what you get, in smokecraft as well as in war,” said Risana.

Risana and Cogo smiled at each other.

Kuni looked from one to the other, and realization dawned on his face. He chuckled. “We might not have Luan Zya here with us, but this is a trick worthy of Dara’s prime strategist.”

“The emperor has agreed to my conditions?” Théca Kimo read over the letter a few more times to be sure he hadn’t missed something. “Cano, it looks like our plot has worked. Kuni Garu must have decided that he isn’t willing to go to war after all and will negotiate with me.”

“Kuni Garu is wily and full of tricks,” said Cano. “I suspect that things are not as simple as they appear.”

“It will be easy to verify if he’s adhering to the conditions I named in my letter,” said Théca confidently. “What can he do in the middle of the open sea? I’d be able to see any ambush coming from miles away. You worry too much.”

“It’s best to prepare for the unexpected,” Cano insisted.

The emperor and the duke, each riding on an ordinary merchant ship, approached to about a boat length of each other and dropped anchor. Both emerged from their respective cabins and sat down upon platforms erected on the deck for this purpose. Each had a small table in front of him, on which were placed food and drink. They would share a meal this way across the waves—though a far wider gap now separated their hearts.

Something about the scene triggered a memory in Kuni Garu’s mind—fifteen years ago, he and the Hegemon had sat across from each other on two flat-bottomed boats over the Liru to discuss ending a bloody conflict, and now he was sitting down with another fighting man across the water to discuss preventing one. History had a strange sense of humor.

“I’m glad to see Duke Kimo appears well,” Kuni called out across the water. “Your letter made it sound like you were on the verge of death.”

Kimo did look in the prime of health. Though he was dressed in thick, voluminous robes that would be more suitable for winter, there was no doubt that he wasn’t “ill” as he had claimed.

Kimo had the good grace to blush. “Rénga, hearing news that you were willing to be reasonable sped my recovery.”

“Oh? How have I not been reasonable?”

Kimo took a deep breath and started in on the speech Cano Tho had written for him. “Lord Garu and I were once coequal lords of Dara, dedicated to the ideal of overthrowing the despotism of Xana.”

Kuni’s face didn’t change at Théca’s addressing him as “Lord Garu.” That was to be expected.

Kimo continued. “Yet after the success of the rebellion, instead of returning the world to its familiar tracks, Lord Garu embarked on a path to replicate the abuses of Mapidéré. Instead of dividing the land into Tiro states all equal to each other, as the Hegemon had tried to do, Lord Garu assumed the title of emperor and kept most of Dara for himself. Only a few scraps were thrown to me and the other Lords of Dara.”

“A few scraps,” muttered Kuni. “I see, having three major islands and a territory greater than several of the old Tiro states counts as mere scraps.”

Kimo went on. “Yet even so, Lord Garu appears dissatisfied. Over time, your decrees have evinced the intent to weaken the enfeoffed nobles and strip them of their arms and land. It does not seem that Lord Garu would stop until all of Dara is under a single fist. For the sake of my heirs and those who have followed me, I demand justice from Lord Garu.”

“You demand justice?” asked Kuni. “You have supplied the rebels in Tunoa and amassed your troops and ships against me; I summoned you to explain, and you refused to come; feigning illness, you dictated terms to your lord, showing a heart intent on treason. I have been tolerant beyond reason because I do not wish more blood to spill, and yet you dare demand justice?”

“If you have already made up your mind that I will betray you, then nothing I say matters. Lord Garu, I ask you to grant me the title of king, and declare Arulugi, including Crescent Island and Écofi, to be an independent Tiro kingdom that owes you no submission. Then we shall stand together, you in the east and I in the west, as brothers in eternal friendship.”

Kuni laughed. Though Kimo had memorized a passingly well-composed speech, he still sounded like a street gangster demanding his cut. He shook his head. “And if I do not agree?”

Kimo gritted his teeth. “The navy and army of Arulugi stand ready to enforce my claim. We have prepared firework rockets in advance against your airships. Though my realm lacks the strength to invade the Big Island, yet I do not think you will find conquering Arulugi an easy task. And if you do declare war against me, the other enfeoffed Lords of Dara will see their future in mine, and rally to my aid. Think carefully, Lord Garu, before you make a rash decision you may come to regret.”

“It’s a good thing that I won’t give you the chance to put your dark plot into operation,” said Kuni. He slammed his fist down on the table, and ten guards below the raised platform lifted speaking tubes toward the sea and shouted as one: “Ram the ship!”

As the stunned soldiers on Kimo’s ship scrambled to lift anchor and get the ship underway, thinking that Kuni intended to ram their ship with his, the sea beneath the ships began to churn.

“A whale?” asked one of the soldiers.

“A cruben?” asked another.

Than Carucono peered out of one of the thick pieces of crystal that acted as the mechanical cruben’s eyes. The great underwater boat was hovering about fifty feet below the surface, and faint sunlight made the water appear a dark green. From time to time, fish swam past the porthole.

Behind him, soldiers inside the dank interior of the mechanical cruben stood at the ready to open the valves of the steam engine powered by heated rocks picked up from underwater volcanoes. Cogo Yelu had followed the secret maps drawn by Luan Zya more than a decade ago and designated a meeting spot for Emperor Ragin and Duke Kimo near one of these underwater volcanoes.

Carucono’s ear was held against the opening of the breathing tube that extended to the buoy disguised as a clump of seaweed bobbing at the surface.

He heard the order he had been waiting for.

“Go, go, go!”

The crew leapt into action, some throwing levers and twisting dials, others running toward the tail of the mechanical cruben in disciplined motion to shift its internal balance and tilt up the bow. The underwater boat was about to surface.

The sea exploded.

The ironwood horn slammed into Kimo’s ship from below, lifting it almost out of the water and breaking it in half instantly. The sound of masts breaking and spars snapping deafened ears as the smell of the hot sulfuric steam that powered the mechanical cruben overwhelmed noses.

Sailors and marines were tossed from the deck, screaming for mercy and praying to Tazu and Tututika. As broken pieces of the hull and masts tangled in rigging fell back down and slammed into the water, it was clear that Kimo and his men had no choice but to wait to be rescued and then shackled by the emperor.

But Kuni Garu stared up at the sky, his jaw hanging open. There, tracing out a graceful arc of flight, was the figure of Théca Kimo. He tumbled in the air a few times, and then the voluminous robes he wore spread open like the wings of a giant bird. Spring-loaded bamboo rods snapped into place, stretching the robes into a massive kite. Like the Hegemon in his surprise attack on Zudi fifteen years earlier, Théca Kimo slowly glided toward Arulugi, suspended beneath a stringless kite.

The craftsmen of Arulugi had always been skilled with the construction of flexible structures, lacing bamboo and vine into the graceful hanging platforms of the city of Müning, the diadem that floated over Lake Toyemotika. Cano Tho had designed the platform on which Kimo sat to act as the end of a catapult. The arm, made of strong bamboo, was winched down and held in place with rope. However, as soon as something went wrong, Kimo could trigger the catapult and cause himself to be ejected into the air, out of harm’s way, and then glide back to Arulugi on a kite combining the design elements of Luan Zya and Torulu Pering. The kite, with its complicated folding frame so that it could be worn in disguise, was fragile and prone to accidents and certainly not reliable enough for regular use. Cano had insisted that Kimo wear it only as a last measure of desperation, but as it turned out, it would save Kimo’s life today.

Archers scrambled onto the deck, but the kite was already too far. As Kuni watched Kimo glide out of reach, he sighed, knowing that the peace that had ruled the Islands of Dara for ten years had come to an end.

^{CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX} LIGHT AND REASON

- Grant me this boon, brother, said the musical voice of Tututika.

- Why have you chosen to aid Kuni’s daughter, instead of your own island? asked Fithowéo the Warlike.

- I act out of respect for the memory of Kikomi.

- But Théca has promised Cano Tho to erect a shrine in her honor if his rebellion succeeds.

- The best memorial for Kikomi isn’t a shrine of stones or wood, but a princess free to fulfill her potential.

- Why not continue the lessons yourself?

- The crafting of mirrors is your art.

- And so you’ve come to the sightless god to help her see.

- As a sightless orchid once helped you.

- I’m the god of warfare. Tutoring young girls isn’t really… something I’ve done much.

- You’re the god of all those who find joy in dauntless struggle. Not all wars are fought with swords and spears, and not all foes are found on the battlefield. The times are changing, brother, and we must change along with them.

Théra leaned against the balustrade overlooking the carp pond in a secluded corner of the palace. The ornamental fish—vermillion, gold, black, white, sapphire, jade—swam below her, creating endless ripples that interfered with each other in complicated patterns.

What did the lady mean? Light is a wave? How does that help with the mystery of the magic mirrors?

A pretty tune came to her from somewhere deeper in the palace. She didn’t recognize the instrument on which it was being played. The high tones were clear as wind chimes, the low tones as solemn as the song of the cruben. Each note lingered in the air, blending with the next and the next one after that.

She went in search of the source of the sound, and after many winding corridors and long porticos, she came into the music hall, where the emperor and Consort Risana sometimes retired to play the coconut lute, sing, and dance.

Fara skipped over to her. “Rata-tika! Isn’t this pretty?”

Surprised, Théra hugged her. “It is, Ada-tika.”

A wooden frame about the height of a man had been installed in the middle of the hall. The frame had two horizontal beams, one at the height of the head, the other at the height of the waist. From each beam hung eight smooth bronze slabs of various thicknesses, each about the size of a very large book.

A lean, middle-aged man knelt at the foot of the frame in mipa rari, and he was playing the music by striking the slabs with a pair of long-handled mallets. He wore a short-sleeved tunic, and his arms bulged with muscle, and the skin was marked with scars both old and new. Théra found it a bit odd to see these arms, which seemed to belong to a blacksmith or soldier rather than a musician.

The sisters stood listening to the music. It took almost the time of burning a full stick of incense before the man finished. He sat back and gently set the mallets down, and waited until the last note slowly dissipated.

He turned around and bowed. “I hope the rough music was pleasing to the princesses.”

Fara clapped. “It was wonderful! Auntie Risana will love to hear this when she’s back.”

Théra bowed back. Now that she could see the man’s face, she was startled by his eyes: They were so dark that she couldn’t see the pupils at all, as if they were made of solid obsidian. These eyes were so distinctive that she certainly would have remembered him if she had seen him in the palace before today. His muscular build and the scars on his arms made her uneasy. It was nearly inconceivable for an assassin to make it through the security of Captain Dafiro Miro, but given the fact that the emperor was away and the rebels were raging in Tunoa…

Smoothly, she stepped before Fara. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of knowing the master’s honored name.”

The man laughed, a deep, belly-rumbling sound. “Princess Théra’s reputation of intelligence is known far and wide, but I had not known that she is a lady of courage as well as refined manners. Your greeting is courteous, and yet you have shielded your younger sister in case I mean you harm. You’re solicitous of my feelings while preparing for the worst. Even Kon Fiji would admire the solution.”

Théra blushed at having her intent seen through so clearly. But the man continued amiably, “My name isn’t very important. I’m just an old smith who happens to have an interest in music. Do not blame the guards—I come and go as I please, and I play music for an audience in whom I have great hopes. We’re all in search of the one true friend who can understand the voice in your heart when you play a hesitant tune on the moaphya.”

The familiarity of the man’s last sentence made Théra relax. Whoever this man was, she felt that she coul343d trust him. “If master will not share his name, I won’t press. You call this a moaphya? I’ve never seen one before.”

“It’s an old Ano instrument, rarely seen after the Diaspora Wars,” said the man. “The name means ‘square sound.’ You can spot mentions of it in the old heroic sagas. The hero Iluthan was a skilled player.” He beckoned at Fara. “Would you like to try it?”

While Fara enthusiastically banged on the slabs without much skill, Théra asked, “Can you tell me more about it?”

“The Ano divided musical instruments into eight families: silk—that would be stringed instruments like the lute and the zither; bamboo—flutes and reed pipes; wood—xylophones and rhythm sticks; stone—tablets and echo bowls; clay—ocarinas and porcelain tubes; gourd and vine—maracas; hide and leather—drums and singing bellows; and finally, metal—bells and chimes, of which the moaphya is a member. Each of the gods of Dara has a favorite family, and each family of instruments expresses a unique quality that cannot be replicated by the others.”

Théra sighed. “Now I really wish I knew more about music. I enjoy the dancing lessons with Consort Risana, but I’ve never had the patience to learn an instrument. My brother Timu is better at that sort of task.”

“The moaphya is my favorite. It’s a hard instrument to play, but even harder to make. Each slab must be cast to exact measurements to produce the right tune. Any flaw would mar the sound.”

“How do you ensure that the slabs are properly made?”

“Watch.”

The man took out a thin, translucent silk cloth marked with a grid of dark lines and beckoned Théra closer to examine one of the slabs. Théra saw that the bronze slab was also marked with a grid of lines, an exact echo of the lines on the silk cloth. The man wrapped the silk cloth around one of the slabs, ensuring that the grids matched up exactly.

Then he picked up a mallet and struck the silk-wrapped slab. As the slab clanged, the grid on the silk seemed to come alive, vibrating everywhere with an even tremor. But in one corner, something seemed to be wrong: The grid appeared slightly out of alignment, and the tremors looked out of sync with the rest.

“Have you ever tried to line up two identical pieces of silk and watched the patterns they make as the grids are overlaid and rotated?”

Théra nodded. She had delighted in watching such patterns as a young girl. Indeed, one of her favorite pastimes had been to overlay one of the embroidered portraits of the Hegemon made by Lady Mira with another piece of silk and observe as the shifting layers of silk made Lady Mira’s abstract art come to life.

“The principle is the same here. While the naked eye cannot see the imperfections in a cast slab, by using a reference grid such as this, it is possible to detect minute flaws during the casting process.” He looked regretful. “This one will have to be recast. Even the gods aren’t free from errors.”

Théra stared at the grid on the vibrating silk. The patterns made by the two overlaid grids reminded her of the interfering waves over the surface of Lake Tututika. Two waves… a mirror… flaws and imperfections… She seemed on the verge of understanding something, but she couldn’t quite say what it was.

In her mind, the image of the Hegemon cast by the magic mirror became overlaid with the embroidered portrait by Lady Mira, and the two visions, one detailed and lifelike, the other formed from abstract geometric shapes, interfered with each other as though in battle. Light and shadows, honor and cruelty, the colossus who strode across Dara and the ghost who haunted the Islands. Which is closer to a true portrait of the man?

“Rata-tika, where did he go?” Fara asked.

Startled, Théra looked up. The man was gone.

You must weigh the fish. Théra remembered the colorful phrase from Zomi Kidosu’s Palace Examination performance. The Prophecy of the Fish had been a trick; why should the “magic mirrors” be any different?

Théra threw herself into her task with abandon. Never before had she been given such a complex, intricate puzzle to solve, and she found joy in facing off against such a foe. Perhaps, she thought, this is something like the battle lust that the Hegemon always spoke of and Hudo-tika always yearned for. There is a pleasure in dedicating yourself to overcoming overwhelming odds, in bringing all your strength to bear against the unknown.

She found every Ano and modern treatise on the nature of light and read the scrolls from end to end; she asked Captain Dafiro to summon master mirror makers and asked them questions until they had run out of answers; she took over a workshop in the Imperial Academy and worked with scholars and metalsmiths and lens makers to construct experimental prototypes.

And then, news arrived from Tunoa.

^{CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN} REBELS OF DARA

To the accompaniment of war drums, five thousand rebels of Tunoa chanted as one:

Noda Mi and Doru Solofi, now dressed as Tiro kings, stood on a dais constructed out of packed earth. Behind them, a large piece of canvas stretched between two tall trees, forming a backdrop. The tall, swaying trees around the dais left the backdrop in shadow.

Slowly and reverently, Doru Solofi held up a mirror and tilted it in the sun. A colossal image of the Hegemon on his trusty steed, Réfiroa, appeared against the canvas backdrop. The rearing horse foamed at the mouth while the rider brandished Na-aroénna and Goremaw, his double-pupiled eyes staring into the face of every rebel, sending shivers down their spines.

“Companions of Tunoa,” intoned Noda Mi solemnly. “More than nineteen years ago, the Hegemon composed this poem to express his determination to rid Dara of tyranny. Tragically, his illustrious career was cut short by the despicable Kuni Garu, a lowly bandit who betrayed the Hegemon, a man he once called brother, in order to steal the throne of Dara.”

He paused and surveyed the rebels: Within a few short months, they had coalesced into a formidable force. Suspecting his once-loyal nobles of ambition, Kuni Garu had finally showed his hand and forced Théca Kimo to rebel. Inspired by the examples of Théca Kimo, Noda Mi, and Doru Solofi, others who were unhappy with Imperial rule had pledged support of various kinds. Hereditary nobles in Haan offered treasure, idle and landless veterans offered their experience, and even men of learning who had failed to place in the Imperial examinations came with advice.

Now that they were awash in funds, Mi and Solofi equipped all the rebels with gilded armor and even better weapons from Arulugi—Théca was now quite eager to restore trade, given the Imperial embargo of his realm—as well as formal regalia for themselves as befitting their station as Tiro kings (“There’s a time to appear as men of the people to gain their faith,” said Noda Mi, “as well as a time to appear to be above them to inspire awe”).

It was really too bad that they had to make do with their existing supply of magic mirrors to inspire the rebels in their cause. Noda often regretted not kidnapping the family of mirror makers when they were still alive.

Of course, with the new money, the ranks of the rebels also swelled with the inevitable inrush of faithless bandits and desperadoes interested only in making a fortune, who posed a threat to discipline. On the whole, however, the Tunoa rebels appeared to be a formidable force.

“But the Hegemon had made a prophecy,” Noda Mi shouted. “He said that the double nine would be a special day. Two years ago, during the ninth month of the ninth year of the Reign of Four Placid Seas, the Year of the Wolf, the goddesses Kana and Rapa handed us these spiritual mirrors…”

Doru Solofi had to keep himself from laughing as he listened to Noda’s bombast. He and Noda had hardly thought to endow the date of their discovery of the mirrors with such significance until much later, of course, but he supposed that if he squinted really hard, what Noda Mi was saying wasn’t exactly a lie. The prostitute from whom Noda had stolen the money purse with the first magic mirror was indeed dark-haired, and the girl he had been with that night had been a blonde. They certainly had been billed by the indigo house as of “goddess” quality. Anyway, as Noda Mi always said, “The grace of kings lies in graceful lies,” which he claimed to be a palindrome when written out in Ano logograms.

“…This is the Year of the Cruben, a time when greatness rises and ambition is rewarded. We shall make the prophecy come true and march into Pan to avenge the Hegemon!”

The rebels clanged their golden spears against their golden shields, and shouted as one. The noise drove the birds and beasts out of the woods for miles all around.

“How did things get this way? How?” Phyro, who had always been close to “Uncle Rin,” now screamed at the spymaster.

Rin winced. How he wished he had never listened to the empress. At first, he had been pleased with the growth of the rebellion, thinking of the extra funds he’d be able to request to fight such a sizable insurgency. But the news from Arulugi made him realize that he was no longer in control, as he had thought.

The rebels of Tunoa had surrounded Zyndu Castle. Phyro and Rin weren’t in immediate danger, as the castle, even after it had been turned into a shrine, still retained its ancient, thick walls. Even the rebels seemed to have been surprised by their own success and had not come prepared with heavy siege machinery, only flimsy ladders. Well provisioned, the five hundred defenders under Prince Phyro’s command should be able to hold out for a while. Still, gazing down upon the golden-armored host, Phyro felt his stomach tighten.

“I didn’t realize how much they had turned the population against us,” protested Rin. “In the past, Imperial administrators were able to gather a lot of useful information from the villagers….”

Phyro’s glare made Rin think better of bringing up how the policy of outlawing all private veneration of the Hegemon had likely played a role in souring the population against them.

“But these mirrors… they’ve changed things. Now, practically every person in Tunoa, from a child barely able to walk to old women with all their teeth fallen out, really believes that the Hegemon has returned and is manifesting through these mirrors. Even those who aren’t fighting with the rebels secretly give them shelter and aid—we lost the patrol airships because the cooks at the airfield set fire to them! Our garrisons have lost every encounter against the rebels during the last two months.”

“But you were telling me everything was going according to plan!”

“It was… sort of.”

“Have you sent for aid?”

“Three waves of pigeons have already been dispatched.”

Phyro said nothing, but he now deeply regretted not asking for aid earlier. He had wanted to show his father that he was no longer a child and able to take care of a few superstitious bandits in these far-flung isles. With the rebellion of Duke Kimo raging on Arulugi, the last thing the emperor needed was this further distraction.

He hoped that once aid arrived from the Big Island, he would be able to redeem himself.

The rebels camped beneath the walls of Zyndu Castle for three days and three nights as their numbers continued to swell. By now, almost eight thousand men laid siege to the keep. But the rebels didn’t go into the forest to cut down trees and construct catapults or arrow towers. They mostly sat and listened to speeches, chanted, and prayed.

Phyro and Rin watched them, puzzled but also slightly relieved.

Then, on the morning of the fourth day, the rebels attacked.

It was a most disorganized assault. The rebels simply rushed up, pushed the rickety ladders against the walls, and started to climb, holding up only flimsy wicker shields. Mi and Solofi and a few of their personal guards held up magical mirrors and projected images of the Hegemon onto the castle walls to inspire the rebels.

Phyro watched the brazen but chaotic scene in astonishment. The attackers were completely unprotected, and the defenders on the ramparts, ready with boiling pots of oil and night soil–infused water, as well as rocks, heavy beams of wood, and thousands of arrows, ought to make short work of them. This was a mistake even the rawest of military commanders would not make.

“This is why Noda Mi and Doru Solofi crumbled before Marshal Mazoti during the Chrysanthemum-Dandelion War,” Phyro muttered. “You can dress a sheep in wolf’s clothing, but it’s still a sheep.” He gave the order for the defenders to begin the slaughter.

But few of his soldiers moved.

“What are they waiting for?” Phyro shouted, panic creeping into his voice.

Rin Coda rushed away and returned a few moments later, his face ashen.

“Some of our men, especially the locals, believe that the rebels have the Hegemon’s protection. They think that arrows cannot pierce the rebels’ armor, and spears and swords cannot harm the rebels’ limbs. They believe that the rebels have been endowed with the spirit of the berserkers of Mata Zyndu and anyone who stands against them will be cursed.”

Phyro stamped his feet in frustration. “Madness. The world has gone mad!”

“I’m going to gather the soldiers from the Big Island and hope that some of them haven’t fallen under the sway of this debilitating witchcraft.”

“Wait,” Phyro said. “I have an idea. Do what you can to hold them off, and I’ll be right back.”

Rin Coda did what he could to rally the few men who still believed in the Imperial cause, and by threatening, beating, and whipping the rest, managed to organize some semblance of resistance. As rocks and wooden beams fell from the ramparts and pots of boiling liquid tipped over, the rebels on the ladders screamed and tumbled to their deaths.

“They do not have sufficient faith in the protection of the Hegemon!” Noda Mi shouted. “The Hegemon only defends those who are without doubt. The Doubt-Ender has been unsheathed! Sing with me, sing! The ninth day in the ninth month of the year…”

As thousands of rebels took up the chant, they made an impressive din. Noda and Doru’s men regained their courage, and scores again climbed up the ladders. Despite the falling stones and wooden beams crushing the rebels into meat pies, more of them lined up to test their faith against doubt. Faced with this fearless horde whose eyes glinted with the zeal of madness, the defenders began to lose their heart.

Rebel archers finally lined up below the ladders and arced their arrows high overhead to strike at the defenders over the ramparts. Screams of dying and injured men filled the air.

It seemed only a matter of time before the walls would be breached.

“Who dares to make another move?” shouted Prince Phyro, who emerged at the top of the walls, breathing hard.

He was holding up a portrait of Mata Zyndu, which was usually hung in the main hall for the pilgrims who came to pray for the Hegemon’s blessing. But Phyro now held it up like a giant shield and advanced on the attackers, who were just about to overwhelm the ramparts.

“You dare to desecrate the image of the Hegemon?” asked Phyro. He leaned the portrait over the edge of the wall. “This was one of Lady Mira’s famous embroideries and captured the very essence of the Hegemon’s spirit. Are you so impious that you wish to swing a sword against the soul of the Hegemon himself?”

The barrage of arrows from the attackers ceased. None of the archers dared harm the portrait of their lord. The attackers on the ladders hesitated and then stopped, afraid that if they pushed forward they might inadvertently stain the sacred painting.

“Despicable!” shouted Noda Mi. His face turned red with fury.

“A contemptible trick!” shouted Doru Solofi, spit foaming at the corners of his mouth.

“Am I so despicable?” asked a grinning Phyro. “Then why doesn’t the Hegemon’s portrait slip from my hands? I’ve always liked the Hegemon, you know? I might even be a bigger fan than you! Anyway, I’m going to hold the picture and stand right here. I will not be the one to defile the Hegemon’s memory.”

Rin Coda gestured at some of the most trusted defending soldiers, who seemed to wake from a trance. They also ran into the castle and returned a few minutes later: some of them carrying large figures of the Hegemon from wishing shrines and others crates of embroidered souvenir portraits for pilgrims. Soon, the ramparts were topped with a row of Mata Zyndu pictures and statues.

“You’re indeed a son of that loathsome Kuni Garu,” said Noda Mi. “This is a shameless trick worthy of the great betrayer himself.” He and Solofi hurled a stream of curses and invectives at Phyro, but Phyro only smiled at them. The rebels halfway up the ladders stopped in place, unsure what to do.

In reality, Noda Mi and Doru Solofi had half a mind to order the archers to shoot fire arrows and burn the portraits so as to put an end to this farce, but they knew that reverence for the Hegemon was the foundation for this rebellion, and they were sure that if they ordered the destruction of the portraits, not only would they be disobeyed, but their men might even turn on them.

While the two sides were stuck in this stalemate, men both above and below the ramparts suddenly pointed up at the sky and shouted:

“An airship!”

“We’re saved!”

“But why is there only one?”

Indeed, a slender airship was drifting over Zyndu Castle, its wing oars beating gracefully and rhythmically. Had the emperor’s aid finally arrived?

The expression on Phyro’s face, at first ecstatic, gradually turned to consternation. “That’s Time’s Arrow, the Imperial messenger ship,” he whispered to Rin Coda. “It holds a crew of no more than a couple dozen. Where are the rest?”

Noda Mi, recognizing that the new ship was no great threat, was about to order another round of assaults on the far side of the castle—surely Phyro and his soldiers couldn’t surround the entire castle with images of the Hegemon, could they?—when someone leapt out of the airship.

As soldiers from both sides gawked, the person tumbled a few times in the air before diving straight down. But just as everyone was about to close their eyes, not willing to see the tragic impact with the earth, the diver let out a giant silk balloon on their back. The balloon puffed up and filled with air, and slowed the descent of the rider.

“That was how the Hegemon took Zudi, years ago!”

“A spirit? A messenger of the Hegemon?”

Everyone could now see that the rider was a woman, and she was dressed in elegant, formal court robes with long sleeves and trains that drifted in the air like the tails of a kite.

Like a dandelion seed, the woman slowly spiraled down and landed on top of the walls of Zyndu Castle.

“Théra!” said an amazed Phyro. “What are you doing here?”

“Saving your butt, apparently. Three waves of pigeons! I was sure you were on the verge of death—since it would take too long to inform Father over by the Amu Strait, I commandeered Time’s Arrow and came myself.”

Phyro watched his big sister in undisguised admiration. He had always worshipped her, but now she seemed to have grown even more marvelous.

Théra disconnected the silk balloon from her robes and stepped up to the edge of the battlement. “Followers of the Hegemon, you have been misled!”

The rebels looked up at her. Princess Théra was regal and dazzling in her bright red court robe, embellished with silver-embroidered dandelion seeds and pearl-mosaic fish designs. “I’ve been sent here to show you the truth of the Hegemon’s will.”

She retrieved from the folds of her robes a large bronze mirror.

She held it up so that everyone below could see how smooth the highly polished surface was, like a pool of clear water. Everything around was reflected in it perfectly: the still-boiling pots of oil; the bloody figures of the defenders, some with arrows still sticking out of their torsos; the golden-armored rebel host.

She raised an arm and pointed into the sky behind the rebels. Everyone turned and saw that the airship had stopped just behind the rebels. Long bamboo poles extended from both ends of the gondola, from which a gigantic silk cloth was draped like an immense sail or curtain.

Princess Théra tilted the mirror so that the bright sun struck it and threw a projection onto the screen.

The defenders of Zyndu Castle and the rebels of Tunoa alike were stunned into silence.

There, on the screen, a gigantic figure of the Hegemon stood next to an equally gigantic figure of Emperor Ragin. The two stood with arms around each other’s shoulders, their faces placid and gentle. Below the projected image were a few lines of text in zyndari letters:

Someone dropped his sword, and then another, and soon, the clanging of swords against ground filled the air.

“How? What?” Phyro was full of questions.

Théra pointed in the direction of Noda Mi and Doru Solofi, and imperiously ordered, “Seize them!”

But the two men had already cast off their bright royal regalia and faded into the dark woods like cuttlefish escaping into the deep sea, leaving behind only clouds of ink.

“Don’t move it too fast,” said Théra. “And don’t press down. Pretend that you’re the gentle breeze driving a boat evenly over the pond.”

Carefully, Phyro moved the semispherical glass lens over the mirror. The light passed through the lens, struck the smooth bronze surface underneath, and was reflected back. Rainbow-sheened rings appeared in the lens, like concentric ripples, like the whirls of a fingerprint.

“What are these?”

“I call them Tututika’s Rings,” said Théra.

“Very pretty,” said Phyro.

“They’re more than pretty. They tell you if the surface beneath them is smooth. The light reflected from the mirror interferes with the light reflected by the lens itself, and if the surface is perfectly smooth, you’ll see the rings as perfect circles. But if the surface is not perfectly smooth, you’ll see the rings as deformed, revealing dips and protrusions undetectable by the naked eye.”

As Phyro moved the lens around, he found that he could indeed trace valleys and ridges in the mirror by the deformation of Tututika’s Rings in the lens.

He removed the lens and felt the surface again: nothing, no bumps or depressions at all. He gazed into the mirror: The reflection appeared completely faithful.

He sighed in admiration. “These patterns in the surface must be minuscule. But they cause the image to appear in the projection?”

“Precisely,” said Théra. “I was certain that there was some trick to these mirrors. With the aid of Tututika’s Rings, I finally figured out their secret.”

“Including how to make them?”

“I don’t know exactly what Noda and Doru did, but it turns out that the relief carving on the back is the key. To make my mirror, I had the image I wanted projected cast in relief in the back and then scraped and ground the surface vigorously. The embossed back meant that some parts of the mirror were thicker than others, and as a result, the tension and stress of the polishing caused tiny wrinkles in the surface that reproduce the design on the back without being visible to the eye.”

“But how do you get a design of the back view of Father and the Hegemon on the back of the mirror but a picture of their fronts to be projected from the front?”

“Easy. The mirror was cast in two parts. First, we embossed the image we wanted into the mirror, polished it, and then added a new backing.”

Phyro held up the lens. “And how did you discover Tututika’s Rings?”

“I had excellent teachers,” said Théra, somewhat mysteriously. “One showed me that light was like waves, and the other showed me that deviation from an expected pattern of interference could be used to detect minute variations in thickness. The rest was just a lot of experimentation.”

Phyro held up the mirror in the sun and admired the projection of the emperor and the Hegemon on the wall. “Knowing how this was done, I can now admire the craft. Before, even I felt a bit awed by them.”

Théra nodded. “Absolutely. Noda Mi and Doru Solofi relied on ‘magic’ to fool their followers. But once we figured out the secret, the magic belonged to everyone.”

^{CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT} REFUGE

Gin Mazoti surveyed the two men kneeling before her, experiencing a sense of déjà vu. Years earlier, the very same two men had also knelt before her, when she had captured the city of Dimu as the Marshal of Dasu.

Noda Mi and Doru Solofi had disguised themselves as Tunoa fishermen and arrived in Nokida earlier after braving the unpredictable currents of the Kishi Channel. They had come straight to the palace and begged to see the queen.

They now spread out their hands, bowed, and touched their foreheads to the stone floor, which was pockmarked and in need of repairs. “Your Majesty, Honored Queen of Géjira, Marshal of Dara, we are at your mercy!” They continued to strike their foreheads against the floor tiles until the dull thudding had stained the stones crimson with blood.

“That’s enough.”

Noda and Doru stopped moving, still prostrate.

“You’ve committed treason against the emperor. What good is pleading for mercy from me?”

Noda parsed Gin’s words carefully. The very fact that Gin was asking questions instead of throwing them into a prisoner wagon bound for Pan was a good sign. The fact that she spoke of the emperor and herself in two separate sentences was another.

“Most Sagacious and Honored Queen, Paragon of Virtue!” he said, still not lifting his face from the floor. “We have been foolish in thinking that it was possible for mere grass to resist the might of the Imperial scythe, or for lowly praying mantises to dare stand against the march of the Imperial carriage. We can only blame our own greed and ambition for our sorry state and know that death is our just desert. Emperor Ragin is truly peerless in the arts of war and a commander of men without equal.”

Gin listened, a slight frown creasing her brows. Noda stole a quick glance at the brightly polished surface of the sword lying at Gin’s feet and saw the reflection of the queen’s face. He almost smiled but quickly lowered his head again. Ah, vanity.

“You were arrogant,” said Gin, standing up. “That was why you lost to a mere child on the battlefield. Trusting in the prowess of men lost in a feverish dream is a tactic that Mata Zyndu relied on to great success, but you two are no Mata Zyndu. Had I been—” She checked herself. “This is all beside the point. There is nothing I can do for you. I will give you a comfortable bed and a good meal tonight, and send you on your way to Pan in the morning.”

Noda and Doru crawled forward and each grabbed one of Gin’s feet. “Mercy! Mercy! Oh, Merciful Queen, Lord Rufizo Reborn, if you send us to Pan, we’ll be faced with a fate worse than death! The emperor will make us into examples. He will slaughter our families and followers, and all the members of their families within three degrees of relatedness.”

“What is that to me?”

“Once before, when we fought on the side of the Hegemon against the emperor, you showed mercy and let us go. We pray that you again repeat that act of great courage so that your immortal name may live on in song and story. In war, it has always been the rule that the nobles are treated differently from common men at arms.”

“Is that so?” said Gin. “I suppose that’s true—you certainly deserve a fate far worse than the fools who followed you. I doubt you’ll find a single Lord of Dara who would disagree on this point.”

“Yet surely it is not true that all the Lords of Dara are equal! Everyone knows that of all the emperor’s advisers, the only one who can bring her sword into the palace and whose counsel the emperor heeds is you!” Once again, Noda went back to knocking his forehead against the floor, and Doru copied him.

Gin frowned again. Though their effort at appealing to her pride was rather transparent, she had to admit that it was working—after all, who had done more to build Kuni’s empire than she? If he was going to listen to anyone, he should listen to her.

But she wasn’t so foolish as to want to risk her reputation for the likes of Noda Mi and Doru Solofi. She was far more curious about the fact that the two of them had gotten as far as they had—and managed to drag Théca Kimo into their plot as well. Considering how much effort Rin Coda had put into the Imperial security apparatus, something didn’t smell right.

“If you want me to help you,” said Gin, “tell me everything that’s happened to you since the time you decided to rebel. Leave no details out.”

As Noda and Doru recounted their run of good luck, Gin’s face gradually darkened, and then brightened.

Finally, she extricated herself gently but firmly from their groveling. “Gentlemen, do not debase yourselves further. You are my guests for tonight, and I will decide what to do on the morrow.”

Zomi Kidosu frowned as she surveyed the open plaza before the queen’s grand audience hall. Dozens of men and a few women were camped out on bedrolls, making the place appear as a beggar’s lane.

“Who are these people?” asked ten-year-old Princess Aya Mazoti, who walked next to her. She had the wiry frame of her mother and the same sharp features, though her skin was darker. The queen had never said who her father was, and none of Mazoti’s generals and ministers had dared to probe. The kings of Dara had never felt the need to explain to their followers who they pleased to bed, and Mazoti had always acted as though the same rules applied to her. She had taken many men to bed, but none dared to think that deed made them special.

“These are the followers of Noda Mi and Doru Solofi,” said Zomi. “They escaped Tunoa and are seeking asylum with your mother.”

“Is she going to protect them?”

“I’m not sure,” Zomi said. It had been a few days since Mi and Solofi had arrived with their retinue, and Gin seemed unable to make up her mind. As soon as Zomi saw Doru Solofi’s shifting mien, arrogant and groveling by turns, she had recognized him as the brute who had attempted to extort her and the other patrons of the Three-Legged Jug years ago. Unsettled by emotions and memories she had long pushed out of her mind, Zomi had avoided going to the queen, as she did not trust herself to offer objective counsel. But the queen had summoned her, and Zomi was glad to run into Princess Aya on the way to the audience hall—it would delay the unpleasant discussion a little further.

“If they’re traitors, then Mother should kill them on the spot,” said Aya.

Gin Mazoti had never shied away from letting her daughter know how she came by her throne, and Zomi was used to the way the princess spoke easily of killing and warfare. In truth, since her arrival in Géjira, she had been working to moderate some of Gin’s more militaristic instincts to administer the realm with a gentler hand. For instance, she had encouraged Gin to freeze the military budget and divert more funds into building village schools for the poor modeled on the learning huts of old Haan. She was using them to experiment with a new curriculum that emphasized writing in the vernacular and practical skills like mental arithmetic and geometry that eschewed proofs. Gin had been far more amenable to her suggestions than the Imperial bureaucracy, and Zomi felt that she was finally finding a perch from which she could shine. Gin’s generous stipend also allowed her to send a lot more money home to Dasu. Everything in her life seemed to be moving in the right direction.

“That looks like fun!” Aya said.

Zomi followed her gaze and saw one of the fugitives, a young man about eighteen or nineteen years of age, exercising with one of the hitching stones at the edge of the plaza. With both hands, he grabbed the protruding ring to which the horse’s lead was supposed to be tied and, with a grunt, tossed the stone into the air. Although the stone must have weighed close to two hundred pounds, he managed to toss it up about ten feet or so. Then he caught it with both arms and gently set it down. He repeated this several more times. The other fugitives, having grown inured to the sight of this feat of strength, ignored him.

Aya ran up to him. “You must be a great warrior,” she said, her voice full of admiration. Ever since she was a toddler, Gin had been teaching her wrestling and knife fighting, and she was a tomboy through and through.

Mota Kiphi put the stone down and wiped his face. “Thank you, young mistress.”

“You should call me Your Highness,” said Aya.

“Your Highness,” said Mota dutifully.

Zomi called to the princess. “Come, Your Highness. The queen doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“I want to talk to this man,” said Aya stubbornly. Zomi had no choice but to walk over. She had been avoiding the fugitives in order to maintain objectivity and advise the queen properly, but now that she was here, it seemed impolite to say nothing.

“Have you always been this strong?” As soon as Zomi asked the question, she felt foolish, but she had never been good at small talk.

Mota shook his head and smiled shyly. “I was a lot like my father, rather sickly and weak as a child.”

“So what happened?”

“My father left to fight with the Hegemon against Mapidéré before I was born, and he never returned. I’ve always wanted to be like him. I remembered the tales about how Marshal Dazu Zyndu had also been weak as a child but carried a calf around until he became strong as an ox. So I plowed the fields for my neighbors and hauled their fish until things changed.”

Though he told his tale in a matter-of-fact manner, Zomi could hear behind it years of sweat and dedication, years of yearning for a dream.

Zomi thought of her father, who had died to look for a prince. She thought of her brothers, who had died because a noble called for them to fight. She thought of the way Princess Théra had managed to get her into the Grand Examination with a single word.

We suffer because we are the grass upon which giants stride.

She also thought of the complicated meaning of the word “talent.” She thought of her own years of hard work and toil. She thought about the ways in which she did not feel at home among the nobles at the Imperial court and the refined scholars who were her colleagues in the College of Advocates. She thought about the ways in which she did not feel at home when she was actually home in Dasu.

If a carp has leapt over the Rufizo Falls, does the carp-turned-dyran not owe a duty to do what she can for the other carp?

This was why she had not wanted to know these men at all. Knowing someone’s stories made you vulnerable.

“You are strong,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

“Yes, I am,” Mota said. He wasn’t bragging, just acknowledging a truth. “But I wish I had listened to my mother, who didn’t want me to come fight at all. She said that the great lords like King Noda and King Doru like to gamble, but it’s always the people who have to scrabble for a living who pay the price.”

Zomi said nothing.

“My mother will make whoever hurt you pay,” said Aya. “She’s a greater lord than them all.”

Zomi went around to talk to the other fugitives. Some were scholars who had failed to place in the Imperial examinations and hoped to find an outlet for their talent; some were desperadoes who thought of the rebellion as an opportunity to accumulate wealth; but most were simple young peasants like Mota Kiphi, who fought because they were told it was the right thing to do, and they trusted the nobles to know better.

Zomi left for the audience hall.

“You cannot do this,” said Zomi.

“I cannot?” asked Gin Mazoti, amused. “Why not?”

“Because it would be wrong to offer up Noda and Doru’s followers to the emperor’s executioners when those two are responsible! That they would even suggest such a thing is beyond the pale.”

“I can’t offer up Noda and Doru,” said Gin, her voice hard. “They came to me, thinking that I could save their lives. I would have no shred of honor left if I don’t even try.”

“You’re talking about saving face—”

“Honor is everything!”

Zomi took a deep breath. “But then why offer up their followers?”

“Because things are no longer as they were in Pan,” said Gin. “The emperor has not asked me to lead the war against Théca Kimo, though I am still nominally the Marshal of Dara. Neither did he come to me for aid with the situation in Tunoa. I suspect that… Never mind, there are things you’re not meant to understand. I have to give him something.”

“You think the winds have changed in Pan?” asked Zomi. “Do you… think the emperor suspects you of ambition?”

“I don’t know what to think,” said Gin. “The signs from Pan are conflicting, and I think this rebellion in Tunoa is more complicated than it might appear. Someone powerful in Pan is plotting against those who have done the most to bring about the rise of the House of Dandelion.”

“If you think the empress… I must say that you are wrong.”

“How do you know this?”

I can’t betray the empress’s trust, thought Zomi. I can’t let the queen know how the empress has been misunderstood. “I just know. But if you really must reassure yourself, surely you can go to Consort—”

Gin silenced her adviser with a cold and proud glare. “If you’re going to suggest that I go to Consort Risana for protection, hold your tongue. I made my name upon the tip of my sword. I will not go groveling to the wives of my lord.”

“You speak of honor in shielding Noda and Doru, yet you would give up their followers to assure the emperor. I do not think the two can be reconciled.”

Gin laughed bitterly. “Consistency has always been a trap into which only small minds wish to leap.”

“Are you certain that you’re not simply offering protection to Noda and Doru to see if you still have the emperor’s trust, to see that you are still the Marshal of Dara in his heart?”

Gin looked away, saying nothing.

If the prince and the duke press men and women of talent who hold a different opinion too severely, they’ll need a refuge in Dara.

This must be the moment the empress had meant, thought Zomi. Oh, Queen Gin, if only you knew that the empress and you are on the same side!

“If you intend to preserve your honor and influence,” said Zomi, “you must protect not only Noda and Doru, but also all their men.”

Gin quirked a brow at her.

“I have spoken to the men who followed them here. They have been misled or have become dissatisfied with the emperor, but many of them are men of talent.

“Prince Phyro is young and rash while Duke Coda is embarrassed at having almost lost against the rebels. It’s natural that they’d portray these men as unredeemable traitors. Presently, the emperor is enraged by Théca Kimo’s betrayal, and if you hand these men over, he will no doubt execute them, only to regret the decision later.

“Blood begets more blood, Your Majesty, and Dara cannot afford more blood. The wise course of action is to shield all these men until the emperor has had a chance to calm down, and then he will thank you for your steady hand and cool counsel. This is the best way to secure your honor in his heart and to prove your loyalty.”

Gin gazed severely at her. “Are you certain that you’re not trying to protect these men because they remind you of you? Of your rise from base birth to greatness?”

Zomi shot back, “You were once just like them!”

“This is dangerous counsel.”

Do what is right for Dara, no matter the consequences.

Zomi had never been more certain in her life that she was doing the right thing.

“Yet you have made your name upon the tip of your sword.”

As Gin continued to look at Zomi, her face gradually relaxed.

“Tell Noda and Doru’s men to move into the guest quarters with their lords. Tonight, we feast and welcome them all to Géjira.”

^{CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE} EMPRESS AND MARSHAL

“Rénga, I must advise against this course of action,” said Prime Minister Cogo Yelu. “Puma Yemu may have suffered some defeats, but risking yourself is not going to be the answer.”

“Puma Yemu has always been so effective,” said Jia. “One wonders why this war is going so poorly.”

Cogo looked at the empress and was about to speak, but then he thought better of it and kept his mouth shut.

“I don’t know what Puma is thinking,” said an irritated Kuni. “I don’t seem to know my generals at all anymore. But I have no choice but to go to war. Shall I stand by while the people whisper that I have lost my will to fight?”

“You could summon Queen Gin,” said Jia.

“I did not summon her earlier because I thought it would be awkward for her to fight against one of her old friends,” said Kuni. “And now that things are going poorly, you want me to crawl to her for help? Will you make me into the laughingstock of Dara?”

“She did win Dara for you,” said Jia quietly.

A long, awkward silence. Kuni’s face darkened.

“I think what the empress meant to say,” Risana broke in timidly, “is that Gin Mazoti has a certain skill—”

“You do not need to explain what she meant,” said Kuni. He swept his sleeve through the air angrily. “If even my wife thinks that I must rely on the sword of Gin Mazoti to keep my empire, then so must half of Dara. Is my throne so insecure that I must beg her to intervene whenever one of the nobles grows ambitious? Is she the emperor or am I?”

“I spoke rashly, Kuni,” said Jia. “I’m sorry.”

Kuni ignored her. “Risana, prepare your luggage. We leave with the army in the morning. I’m going to Arulugi personally to oversee this war, and I will not come back until either Théca Kimo is dead or I join the Hegemon.”

Kuni stormed away.

“Do not hold this against him,” said Risana to Jia. “He’s just used to having me with him on campaigns. He is… under a great deal of stress.”

Jia inclined her head and smiled. “Thank you, sister. I had not thought my husband and I were such strangers that I needed marital advice.”

Risana blushed, bowed, and hurried away, leaving Cogo Yelu and the empress alone.

“What is your counsel, Prime Minister?” asked the empress.

“I am certain that the emperor will do what is right for Dara,” said Cogo, bowing and keeping his eyes calmly focused on the tip of his nose. “As will the empress and Consort Risana.”

Jia laughed. “How many years have we known each other now, Cogo? You need not act like Consort Risana in one of her dances: waving her long sleeves in every direction, pleasing admirers from every vantage point. If you think I’ve made a mistake, you have but to speak plainly to me.”

“It did seem ill-advised to bring up the topic of Queen Gin when the emperor had already decided to go to war himself.”

“Because he would be insulted?”

“The emperor is still a man,” said Cogo. “None of us is free from vanity.”

“Oh, I was counting on it,” said Jia.

Cogo’s eyes snapped to focus on her, but the look of surprise lasted only a fleeting moment before being replaced by his habitual serene expression.

“The emperor may have at one time or another reprimanded all of his generals and advisers except you and Luan,” said Jia. “Luan stays away from the court, while you are smooth as a polished piece of jade, the master politician.” She paused and looked at him.

“I am but a loyal servant of the emperor,” said Cogo, his face impassive.

“And of the next emperor as well, I hope?” asked Jia.

Cogo hesitated only a beat. “Of course.”

“Remember that.”

Jia turned and left.

Cogo stood rooted in place, and only long after the empress was gone did he raise his sleeve to wipe the cold sweat from the back of his neck.

While Emperor Ragin and Consort Risana were away in Arulugi to oversee the war against Théca Kimo, while Prince Timu remained in Dasu to maintain vigilance against the pirates, while Prince Phyro—and Princess Théra, who refused to obey her mother’s commands to return to the capital—remained in Tunoa to sweep up the remnants of the Hegemon’s cult, Empress Jia became Imperial regent in Pan.

Since this was the first time the empress had ever been the regent, the ministers and generals were not quite sure what to expect. Her reputation for possessing a fiery temper filled everyone with trepidation.

But she soon reassured everyone. She visited the city garrison, thanking the soldiers for defending the capital against acts of sabotage by Théca Kimo’s spies or the remnants of the insurgency in Tunoa; she went to oversee the shipment of grains and feed for the emperor’s expedition in Arulugi; she gathered the scholars and spoke to them about the importance of stability.

Everyone at court whispered that Empress Jia was indeed an extraordinary woman surpassing others of her sex like the dyran surpassed all other fish, a much-needed careful and stabilizing influence.

On the ninth day after the emperor left, Jia summoned all of Kuni’s ministers and generals who were in the capital to formal court.

She sat in her customary seat next to the throne, though now next to her sat the Seal of Dara on a small sandalwood table. The ministers and generals lined the Grand Audience Hall, all sitting in formal mipa rari.

“Honored Lords of Dara,” said the empress, “we gather today to speak of examinations.”

The ministers and the generals looked at each other, puzzled. The Grand Examination wouldn’t happen for another five years, so what was the empress talking about?

The empress turned to the side and called for Princess Fara. The young princess timidly entered the Grand Audience Hall and knelt before the empress.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” said the empress kindly. “I’d just like to ask you a few questions and see if perhaps the emperor’s advisers could learn something from a child.”

The gathered ministers and generals felt their stomachs tighten. What game is the empress playing?

“Ada-tika, suppose a man of Haan must go to Faça on a trip of a few months, and he leaves a sum of money to his good friend, asking him to take care of his children. However, when he returns, he finds his children starving and in ragged clothes, while his friend enjoys rich meals and dresses in silk. What shall he do with such a friend?”

Fara smiled. “This is a story from Kon Fiji’s Treatise on Moral Relations. The answer is: The man should break off all contact with this friend because he cannot be trusted to be faithful.”

The empress nodded. “Very good. Now, suppose a minister is unable to govern his clerks well, and they disobey his directives and shirk their duties while he imposes no discipline, what should the king do with the minister?”

Fara giggled. “This is from the same story. The answer is: The king should dismiss the minister because he cannot be trusted to be competent.”

The empress again nodded. “A third question then. Now, suppose an enfeoffed noble ignores threats to his lord’s well-being, offers comfort and succor to his lord’s enemies, instigates discord and harmony in the family of his lord, forms factions and parties among his lord’s followers, what shall the lord do with him?”

Fara was stunned. “That’s—that’s—but that’s not how the story went… I don’t know.”

Jia smiled. “It’s not your fault.” She gestured for her to leave, and the young princess bowed and ran away quickly.

The Grand Audience Hall was completely quiet. Though all the ministers and generals were full of questions, none dared even to breathe too loud.

“Would anyone care to answer?”

No one stirred.

Kado Garu, who sat to the side, at the head of the column of nobles and generals, silently congratulated himself on having yielded his fief to Timu. Jia really is going to go after the nobles.

Jia looked around and settled her eyes on Cogo Yelu. “Prime Minister, would you care to answer the query that Princess Fara could not?”

Cogo Yelu bowed and said, “The empress is citing one of Kon Fiji’s famous tales. If I recall correctly, the One True Sage was speaking to the King of Faça.”

“Indeed. What was his original third question to the King of Faça?”

“Kon Fiji asked, ‘Suppose then that the state is ill administered, that the laws are unreasonable, that the people complain about corruption and misrule, what should be done with the king?’ ”

“What did the King of Faça say?”

Cogo Yelu reluctantly went on. “The King of Faça was silent for a while. Then he looked to the left, looked to the right, and then began to speak of the weather.”

“How are you different from the King of Faça, Prime Minister, if you will not answer my query?”

Cogo touched his forehead to the ground and said nothing.

Jia looked away from him and swept her eyes over the court.

“When Théca Kimo rebelled, Gin Mazoti never came to Pan to offer her aid, despite her position as the Marshal of Dara; when Noda Mi and Doru Solofi escaped Tunoa, their little plot in shambles, Gin Mazoti offered them refuge; when Gin Mazoti attended court five years ago, she spoke rudely to me while conspicuously flaunting her friendship with Consort Risana; when a cashima lost her pass to attend the Grand Examination, Gin Mazoti offered her aid in secret, thereby hoarding for herself the loyalty of a talented person—have you nothing to say to any of these charges?”

Cogo remained kneeling with his forehead to the ground. But when it was clear that the empress would not go on until he gave an answer, he spoke reluctantly, pausing between words, “There must be ironclad proof, lest the people speak ill of Your Imperial Majesty.”

Jia waved her hand, and Chatelain Otho Krin came forward. “Spies have returned with a new report from Géjira. Queen Mazoti feasts every night with Noda Mi and Doru Solofi, as well as many of their followers.”

Jia waited.

Cogo looked up. “I serve the emperor,” he said. Then he bowed again and touched his forehead to the ground. “And the empress.”

The other ministers, generals, and nobles bowed and said together, “I serve the emperor and the empress.”

Jia looked impassively at them and nodded, once.

As Cruben’s Horn descended toward Pan, Gin and Zomi looked down at the carriages and pedestrians streaming through the wide avenues of the city like blood through the vessels of some giant.

Zomi pointed at the golden, circular roof of the Grand Examination Hall. “Five years ago, that place had seemed the center of the universe, a hub around which everything revolved. I could not conceive of a more important place anywhere else in Dara. Yet today it appears as just an ordinary building, and my heart is no longer filled with awe at the sight of it.”

“That is because the Examination Hall was necessary to your success back then, and of little use now,” said Gin.

Zomi was startled for a moment, and then she nodded. “I had not thought of it that way before, but I suppose it is true. I am thankful, in any event, that the hall where so many scholars’ dreams died ultimately brought me to you.”

“Such is the fate of all things and people,” said Gin. “One day we’re street urchins and peasant girls from distant provinces, and the next day we could be queens and high officials deciding the fates of hundreds of thousands because our talents are necessary to those who need them. But who knows what will happen the day after that?”

Zomi wasn’t used to such morose sentiments coming from the queen. She wondered whether it was because Gin still felt some trepidation at being summoned by the empress out of the blue. The messenger had explained that the empress wished to discuss the rebellion in Arulugi, and that as time was of the essence, Gin had to leave right away in the Imperial messenger airship. The ship’s small capacity allowed Gin only a single attendant, and she chose Zomi Kidosu. She had none of her guards and trusted generals with her.

“Zomi, do you know who Aya’s father is?” asked Gin.

The question surprised Zomi. She had always assumed that this was a topic that Gin did not wish to broach.

“You know him,” said Gin. “You are the daughter of his mind as Aya is the daughter of his flesh.”

Zomi was stunned by the revelation.

“Aya does not know the truth. I’ve always hidden it from her because… I suppose I wanted her to be prouder of me than of her father. Vanity is a sin none of us can be free from. I’ve never told him either because… I wanted him to stay because of me, not because of duty.

“If something should happen… would you…” The queen’s voice trailed off, as if she could not bear this moment of weakness.

For a moment, Zomi wondered if Gin’s suspicion of the empress’s intentions was right. But the empress had been her benefactress, and thinking that way felt like a betrayal.

The empress bears you no ill will at all, Zomi wanted to shout at the queen, but she had sworn an oath of secrecy. You will find out the truth soon enough, she thought.

“I swear to protect Princess Aya,” said Zomi, “with every fiber of my being.”

Gin said nothing, as though she didn’t even hear her.

The grand plaza in front of the Imperial palace loomed as the ship began the final approach to the landing site.

Gin arrived in Pan in the afternoon, but the empress did not see her right away despite the rush to get her into the capital. She was apparently absorbed with the affairs of state and could only attend to Gin on the morrow. Gin was not invited to stay inside the palace because, as the empress’s secretary explained, the empress found the sight of swords at the present time an ill omen.

Shaking her head at Jia’s pettiness—the empress had never liked the fact that Gin could enter the palace with her sword—Gin went to the quarters assigned to her in the guest complex right outside the walls of the palace. This was where visiting nobles and important officials from the provinces stayed when they came to the capital on business. Gin settled in with a pot of tea and conversed with Zomi Kidosu, certain that soon generals and ministers who wished to curry favor with her would come to visit.

But no one came for most of the afternoon.

Though Gin continued to joke and laugh and speak of inconsequential things, Zomi saw that the queen’s hand involuntarily trembled as she poured tea. Whether it was from rage or fear she could not tell.

Zomi grew uneasy as well. She had never been very sensitive to the winds of politics, but even she could see this was unusual. What is going on in Pan?

Finally, Mün Çakri, First General of the Infantry and one of Gin’s most trusted friends, arrived in the evening.

“What interesting gossip is being passed around the court?” asked Gin, after they had finished greeting each other.

“I didn’t realize you were interested in gossip, Marshal,” said Mün. “In any event, I wouldn’t know. I’ve been away in Rui, helping to prepare the island against an assault by Théca Kimo should he become desperate enough to try such a thing. I returned only this morning and I have to leave again tomorrow to escort the grain shipment to the emperor in Arulugi.”

“Ah, so you’ve been away as well,” said Gin, disappointed. “Have you heard any news of Luan Zya?”

“That old turtle? No, nothing. But I wouldn’t worry about him. He’s dived from the sky and ridden on the back of a cruben—I doubt sailing through unknown waters could harm him.”

“How’s Naro and Cacaya-tika?” Gin asked.

“I’ve been so busy these last few months that I haven’t seen much of them. But I’ve already started to teach the boy to wrestle piglets.”

Gin laughed. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“I started my life as a butcher, and I don’t want my son to forget it. Where we start is important, you know?”

Gin turned somber. “Have you ever wished you could have stayed a butcher instead of… this life?”

Mün shook his head. “Never. Why would a kite wish to stay on the ground instead of shooting for the sky?”

“Even if a storm is coming?”

Mün glanced out the window. “It does look like it will rain soon. I better get back before Naro starts to worry.”

Gin refilled both cups and drained hers in one gulp. “To old friends and flying kites in storms.”

Mün drained his cup. He smacked his lips, praising the fragrance of the wine.

He didn’t catch the fleeting trace of sorrow in Gin’s eyes.

^{CHAPTER THIRTY} ZOMI’S SECRET

“I will not!” declared Zomi.

She was once again sitting opposite the empress in her private audience hall, a pot of freshly brewed tea between them.

While Mün and Gin were conversing, Chatelain Otho Krin had come to the guest quarters and summoned Zomi for an urgent meeting with the empress. The “report” she had been asked to sign shocked her to the core of her being.

“The proof for Gin Mazoti’s intent to rebel is ironclad,” said the empress, calmly pouring tea for both of them. “You’ll simply be confirming what we already know.”

“The queen never intended to rebel.”

“Then why has she been harboring Noda Mi and Doru Solofi as well as dozens of their followers? At this moment, generals loyal to the Throne have already seized control of the army of Géjira and occupied the queen’s palace. The fugitives have been arrested.”

“But you told me—” Zomi stopped. A complex series of expressions transformed her face: disbelief, anger, fear, and eventually bitter acceptance. “Only now do I understand the true purpose of my assignment—I was but a stone in your cüpa game. You have lied to me, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“Speaking of lies, I have something to show you.” Jia got up and walked over to her desk. She rummaged in a drawer and returned with a stack of paper. She set the stack down on the desk between them and pushed it over to Zomi.

Zomi looked at the stack closely. It was actually a single sheet of paper that had been folded over multiple times. She reached out and touched it: Golden threads were embedded in the material, and it was clear that the sheet had once been cut into small squares and then painstakingly pasted back together with strips of paper and glue. Many of the squares had names written on them, along with the seals of the various governors and enfeoffed nobles.

She didn’t need to unfold the paper to know that there would be a square missing.

Her mind drifted to that momentous night years ago.

Regent Ra Olu, King Kado’s representative on Dasu, was holding a party for all the cashima of Dasu. He was supposed to meet with each of them individually and then determine which ones would be recommended for the Grand Examination based on a combination of their scores in the Provincial Examination and their character and reputation.

Zomi had been sure that she would be selected. She had the highest score of all the toko dawiji who had achieved the rank of cashima in years, and out of the ten or so recommendations that Regent Ra Olu would hand out, one would have to have her name on it, wouldn’t it? After all, that was the point of the examinations, to pick out men and women of talent to serve the emperor.

Many of the cashima had gone to school together or knew each other by the prominence of their families, and they now conversed in small cliques. Zomi didn’t know anyone and wandered around by herself: There was much wine and fish, served raw and dipped in the spicy sauces that Dasu was famous for.

Her stomach was unused to the wine—no doubt expensive—and the rich fish roe—a delicacy. Soon, Zomi had to go to the toilet. When she was done, she was confused. She couldn’t find the customary box of soft, dry tissue grass next to the toilet. How was she supposed to clean herself?

She waited until another cashima, a man, came in. She whispered through the thin privacy partition.

“Do you have anything to wipe with?”

“Have they run out?” the man asked. “The regent will be very unhappy with the toilet attendants. Let me help you out.”

He went to the next stall, came back, and reached under the privacy partition. Zomi gratefully took what he was holding in his hand.

She was stunned: It was a stack of silk handkerchiefs, just like the ones in the box in her stall. She had thought they had been left behind by a lady of the house by mistake. The silk was smooth and soft; she had never owned anything that expensive.

So this was how the wealthy lived.

She seethed as she wiped herself. She thought about the muddy hut she had grown up in; she thought about her mother going to Master Ikigégé’s house to wash the floor and clean the toilets; she thought about her own childhood spent hauling fish and working the fields until the skin of her hands had grown as rough as the soil itself. Meanwhile, the regent of Dasu was cleaning his ass with silk.

She returned to the party, now feeling even more of a stranger, someone who didn’t belong.

“I saw that the beggar girl was hungry, and so I ordered a servant to give her some leftover porridge,” a well-dressed lady said. Zomi did not recognize her, but she was surrounded by a crowd of cashima, who seemed to hang on her every word.

“She squatted down right there in the kitchen and started to slurp the porridge. Embarrassed, I told her, ‘A girl does not squat, dear. You should sit in mipa rari when you’re in the presence of a superior lady. And you should take small sips, not slurp like an animal.’ She looked at me and said, ‘Ma and Da squat too. And if I don’t slurp, how would you know I like the food?’ And then she asked me if I had any preserved caterpillars to go with the porridge. Caterpillars! Can you believe it?”

The lady giggled.

The cashima around her laughed as though she had truly told an amusing story.

“I wish Lady Lon had not been exposed to such a primitive side of Dasu,” said one of the cashima. “In truth, even we are embarrassed by the uncouth manners and disgusting eating habits of the peasantry, a legacy from the days when Xana was little better than a land of barbarians. I have yearned to see the superior, refined society of the Big Island, and it is so good that you’re with us, Lady Lon, to provide us all a worthy example to emulate.”

“Oh, don’t be so modest,” said Lady Lon. “I know you are different. You are the educated cream of Dasu and would not appear too out of place at one of the parties I used to hold in Pan. Though, if I may be so bold, it will serve all of you well to seek a teacher of elocution and polish your speech slightly. I’m afraid that the tones of Dasu may sound a bit coarse to the ears of the inhabitants of the Big Island.”

The gathered cashima thanked Lady Lon for her generous instruction.

“Lady Lon, you judged the young girl wrongly.” Zomi couldn’t hold her tongue any longer.

The other cashima fell silent. Lady Lon turned to her, amazed.

“The young girl’s family was in the habit of squatting because they were too poor to afford sitting mats. When she saw the clean tile floor of your kitchen, she didn’t want to sit because she was afraid that her muddy clothes might dirty your floor. She slurped your porridge to show that she appreciated your act of charity, for that is how the poor of Dasu express enjoyment of our food. Kon Fiji said that having good manners means acting out of a sincere desire to be considerate of the feelings of others. I see nothing uncouth or unrefined about the young girl’s manners, but much that needs improvement in yours.”

Lady Lon’s face flushed bright red. “Who are you? How dare you lecture me?”

Zomi strolled over to one of the tables, filled her plate with pieces of raw fish dipped in sweet and spicy sauce, and then squatted down next to the table, her spread legs facing Lady Lon.

“You—you—” Lady Lon, enraged and embarrassed, could not continue.

“It is said that even the emperor, when he was King of Dasu, once sat down with the elders of my village to share a meal, and he squatted like everyone else and drank from the same cups and ate from the same plates. Should we not emulate the emperor?” She opened her mouth and chewed a piece of fish loudly and vigorously, not bothering to ensure that her lips remained closed.

She relished the way Lady Lon turned away from her in embarrassment. She delighted in the way the other cashima looked at her in disbelief. In a way, she also pitied them—they were so afraid of power that they behaved like boneless sponges when the Imperial examinations were meant to bring the powerless into the ranks of the powerful. She knew she had done better on the examination than them all.

Only later in the evening did she find out that Lady Lon was the favored wife of Regent Ra Olu. She waited with the other cashima for the elect to be announced, and she heard the regent call out nine names and then stop, instead of giving the expected tenth. As the cashima left the party, she went up to the regent.

“I have the highest score in all of Dasu, perhaps all of old Xana.” She was certain there had been a mistake.

“Scores aren’t everything,” said the regent, and turned away as though she was nothing but an inconsequential fly.

And Zomi understood what she should have always understood: Talent was not enough. There were webs of privilege and power that were just as important, if not more important, than talent. The ideal of the Imperial examinations was a lie.

So she turned away, and quietly let down her hair from the triple scroll-bun of a cashima. In her plain clothes, she looked indistinguishable from the servants clearing away the dishes and cups scattered around the room. She grabbed a stack of plates and stopped by the table on the raised dais where the passes for the Grand Examination were held, and slipped the last signed, but blank, pass into her sleeve.

It had been an impulsive decision.

She had not thought it wrong to steal the pass that should have belonged to her. Later, she had rationalized that if she did well on the Grand Examination, her theft would remain a secret because the regent would say nothing—he would be rewarded for having recommended a successful candidate to the emperor, so why would he argue with success? She had been counting on his self-interest.

She had hoped that success would make her feel like she belonged, but deep down, she had always known that her honor was stolen. There was a stain at the origin of her success that could never be erased.

“King Kado never saw your name on the list of recommended candidates,” said the empress, “which means that you had forged your name in the hand of the king’s regent.”

Zomi said nothing.

“It was really a stroke of luck that you then lost your pass, and Gin Mazoti signed a replacement pass for you—otherwise you would have been caught when Rin Coda assembled the passes back together and noticed that the handwriting on one of the passes from Dasu was different from all the others.”

Zomi closed her eyes. The empress was right. That brute at the Three-Legged Jug had actually been her savior. So much in life depended on these coincidences, wild, unpredictable turns that were the province of Tazu. Were they just another name for fate?

“But maybe instead of luck, we could say that Gin Mazoti was involved in a plot to cheat at the Grand Examination to enlarge her influence.”

“The queen knew nothing about any of this!”

“Who would believe the words of a disgraced cheater?” asked the empress placidly. “Let’s imagine what will happen after I announce your treachery: You will be tossed in prison; your mother will lose everything and perhaps be whipped for breeding a daughter of such poor character; Gin Mazoti will still be a traitor.”

Zomi thought about her mother.

“I will give you a better life. I swear it.”

Zomi thought about her teacher.

“That’s not the moral—”

“I don’t care! I only care about people close to me.”

Zomi thought about Queen Gin.

“Aya does not know the truth…. If something should happen… would you…”

What was the right thing to do?

If Zomi were disgraced, she would have no power to protect any of the people she cared about at all. But if she remained in the empress’s good graces, then her mother would continue to be cared for, and there would be a chance, however slim, that she could rescue the young princess from the usual fate of traitor to the Throne.

Zomi swallowed, hard. To carry out her promise to the queen, she must first betray her.

“I shall be guided by you, Empress,” said Zomi.

^{CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE} A VISIT TO THE LAKE

At the crack of dawn, the empress and the prime minister came to see the queen.

Gin stood in bare feet at the door awkwardly, not having had a chance to put on her socks or shoes to greet the empress because she had been given no notice. She was certain that Jia was doing everything on purpose—delaying seeing her when she arrived in Pan, forcing her to stay outside the palace, keeping visitors away, and then showing up so early unannounced—to keep her off balance, unsure of herself. But just because she understood what Jia was doing didn’t mean that the tricks weren’t effective.

“I heard that years ago, back on Dasu, Lord Garu himself once dashed out the door of his house without shoes to welcome you back,” said a wistful Gin. She emphasized Lord Garu deliberately, but the empress did not react to her breach of decorum. “He thought you had run away.”

Cogo laughed, though the mirth sounded a bit forced. “I left to chase you.”

“I owe all my successes to you,” said Gin with feeling. “Old friends are hard to come by.”

“And the prime minister may bring you yet more success,” said the empress, also smiling. “I apologize for not being able to meet you yesterday, but unexpected troubles come up when you are the regent. I hope we can take a ride together.”

“A ride?” Gin found the empress’s request odd. But since Cogo was with her, she felt reassured. “I am yours to command, Your Imperial Majesty.”

The three of them rode together, side by side, while the palace guards escorted them through the streets of Pan. They rode for much of the morning, always heading west, while the empress kept the conversation light, touching upon various bits of gossip in Pan, the latest popular stories being told in bars and teahouses, and the outrageous critiques of Imperial policy put forth by the learned minds in the College of Advocates. She made no mention of the rebellion, and Gin felt even more jumpy and uneasy.

Finally, they arrived at an Imperial dock on the shore of Lake Tututika. A small boat was tied up, and a kite was attached to its bow, flying high in the sky.

“This is one of the new inventions from the Imperial Academy based on a design by Luan Zya,” said the empress. Gin’s heart leapt at the mention of her former lover.

The empress continued, “This is a small model, of course, but I’m told that with a large kite to catch the powerful winds high above the clouds, it is possible to achieve speeds greater than with sail or oar. I wanted to get your opinion on it since you were once so helpful on the design of the mechanical cruben, another novel boat.”

Gin wasn’t sure how such a boat, even if effective, could be relevant to the current war in Arulugi, which was no longer a naval war. The empress seemed to speak only in enigmas.

“Why don’t you try it?” the empress pressed.

Cogo went to the boat and made a gesture. Please.

Gin approached. The palace guards lined up along the wharf, apparently cutting off her retreat.

I’m being paranoid, thought Gin. I must not show fear.

“You should leave your sword,” said Cogo. “This is a very small model, and we calculated the ballast for your weight only.”

Gin hesitated. She looked into Cogo’s face, but he avoided her gaze, looking only at the boat.

She sighed and took off her sword and laid it on the ground. She stepped into the boat and sat down, feeling as though she was following a script that was very old.

“I’ll have to fasten this about you,” said Cogo. He indicated the ropes attached to the gunwale. “The boat moves very fast when the wind catches the kite, and it’s safest to tie you down.”

Gin nodded. Every instinct in her told her to refuse, to jump up and pick up her sword and demand from the empress the truth of what was going on. But she knew that there would be no retreat from such a gesture, from open treason.

She held still.

Cogo wrapped the ropes around her waist and tied the knot behind her. She could see that his hands were trembling. She wanted to laugh. Her success on the battlefield had never been based on her swordsmanship, and yet here the empress was treating her like a cornered wolf, a thrashing shark, another Mata Zyndu. She let herself be bound.

Kuni will never turn against me, she thought. It doesn’t matter what the empress thinks. If she acts against me, it will only prove what I’ve surmised from Noda Mi and Doru Solofi.

“Gin,” Cogo whispered. “How could you?” He stepped back.

“Gin Mazoti,” said the empress. “Do you confess your sins?”

Gin heard the sharp clang of dozens of swords being unsheathed at once. She couldn’t get up because she was tied in place, and she no longer had her sword with her. She felt the tips of a few swords pressing against her back.

She laughed mirthlessly. She realized that she wasn’t even surprised.

“Cogo, my old friend,” she said, “you are the cause of my rise. It is only proper that you are also the cause of my downfall.”

^{CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO} BATTLE OF ARULUGI

Théca Kimo, though no naval expert, deduced that the mechanical crubens would make short work of Arulugi’s navy. As soon as he returned safely to Müning, he ordered the ships scuttled in the port of Müningtozu to seal off that route of access to the capital.

Puma Yemu, who had been designated commander of the Imperial forces, had no choice but to land his troops on beaches on the eastern shore of Arulugi. But dense jungles around Müning meant that the only practical way his troops could approach Müning was over the broad expanse of Lake Toyemotika.

Kimo, of course, was prepared with a fresh-water navy that patrolled the lakes, while Yemu was faced with the prospect of having to construct a new fleet from scratch.

The two sides thus settled down to a kind of stalemate. Without surface support, Imperial airships could do little to seriously damage Müning, the City in the Lake, as firebombs and burning oil fizzled uselessly in the canals and channels between the isles that formed the city’s foundation. Meanwhile, Kimo’s ships dominated the lake and harassed Yemu’s workers and soldiers onshore. Yemu could make little progress to overcome this advantage as the dense, mist-drenched jungles of Arulugi lacked the dry timber necessary to construct seaworthy ships.

But Kuni’s arrival on Arulugi revived the Imperial army with a fresh boost of morale. Eager to demonstrate their valor—and motivated in no small measure by the emperor’s promise of additional titles and fiefs for exceptional performance—Puma Yemu’s troops banged their spears against their shields and pledged to break through the defenses of Müning even at the cost of many lives. The din of their shouting and clanging drifted across the calm waters of Lake Toyemotika and caused Théca Kimo’s heart to palpitate.

Ever resourceful, Yemu decided to apply the “noble raider” tactics that had served him so well on the Porin Plains to water. He directed the Imperial airships to work in concert and airlift some small assault boats from the sea to a secluded cove of Lake Toyemotika under cover of darkness—he rejected the thought of airlifting any mechanical crubens, as they would be essentially powerless without underwater volcanoes in the lake.

Then, during the darkest hours of each night right before dawn, he ordered the airships to harass Kimo’s navy. However, instead of dropping firebombs and burning oil, for which Kimo’s sailors were well prepared, the airships doused the ships with water. Surprised at this tactic, Kimo’s men watched helplessly as torches and lamps on deck were extinguished, essentially blinding those aboard. The unexpected water assault also ruined the firework powder rockets the Arulugi ships carried as anti-airship weapons.

A dense fog settled over the fleet. Starlight and moonlight became hazy, and it was impossible to see even from one end of a ship to the other. As frightened Arulugi sailors peered into the inky mist, they detected the smell of smoke—but where was the smell coming from? What was burning? Was Marquess Yemu preparing yet another aerial assault, this time with fire? Had the emperor somehow acquired seaworthy ships on the lake, which were oaring toward them at this moment?

Indistinct shapes seemed to loom in every direction. As lookouts shouted, pointing excitedly, volleys of arrows were let loose at these ghost ships, and the archers ran from one side of the ship to the other, responding to new threats that arose each minute.

While the sailors and marines of Arulugi shouted and shot at these insubstantial foes, small Imperial assault boats advanced on the large Arulugi ships through the inky night like tiny remoras silently approaching much larger sharks and whales. The soldiers aboard drilled holes through the hulls of the warships and filled them with bombs made of firework powder. After lighting the fuses, the assault boats pulled away.

Kimo’s men were able to get the torches relit just as the bombs exploded, ripping out huge chunks from the ships’ hulls.

“Consort Risana’s smokecraft is as wondrous as the legends,” said an admiring Yemu from one of the assault boats, now safely out of the way.

“It’s but a small stage trick,” said a smiling Risana. “Making men see what they most fear to see is the easiest arrow in a smokecrafter’s quiver.”

The Arulugi ships turned into floating pyres, and Risana and Yemu stood and watched as tiny figures, like moths around lit lamps, dove off the sides of the burning hulks. The terrified screams of sailors drifted over the water as the ships slowly sank.

“We should head back before the emperor finds out I’m gone,” said Risana. “He’s grown overprotective, but I miss the days of doing interesting things.”

Two Arulugi warships sank that first night, which was not, in the grand scheme of things, a big loss. But damage to matériel was never Puma Yemu’s goal. Thereafter, Kimo’s sailors lived in constant terror of another “noble raid” by Marquess Yemu. Everyone onboard stayed up all night with their hearts in their throats, peering through the darkness for signs of Imperial airships and assault boats. Despite the exhortations of Cano Tho and even King Théca himself, morale sank among the rebels.

Nothing happened for two or three nights, but then, just as the alertness of Kimo’s men slackened, Yemu ordered another aerial water assault, once again dousing the torches and lamps on Arulugi ships.

This time, the Arulugi fleet did not wait around for the next stage. Most of the captains made the decision to immediately set sail, eager to get out of the way so that Yemu’s phantom assault boats would sink their fangs only into the sides of any member of the herd that got left behind. In the impenetrable darkness, the fleet lost its carefully designed formation; oars became tangled; ships rammed into each other; and curses and screams and angry, futile shouts to restore the chain of command filled the air.

This time, four ships were lost due to being rammed by other ships of the fleet, and Puma Yemu didn’t even bother sending out the assault boats.

Marquess Yemu varied his tricks in the following nights: Sometimes Imperial airships dropped firebombs when the Arulugi fleet had prepared for another water attack by erecting lotus-leaf shelters over torches and lamps; sometimes the airships only teased the Arulugi fleet by buzzing low overhead at night without doing anything else; sometimes the airships even dumped foul-smelling water that rumors said came from the latrines of the Imperial army and the air force—here, Yemu was taking advantage of superstitions common among sailors, who believed that the urine of women was particularly unclean and brought bad fortune to those who plied the whale’s way, and who knew that the Imperial air force, as a part of the legacy of Marshal Gin Mazoti, was mainly staffed by women.

Théca Kimo denounced these tactics as utterly shameless and challenged Puma Yemu to personal combat, perhaps with battle kites over the surface of Lake Toyemotika.

“Your lord must be truly delusional if he thinks I will agree to such an outdated ritual,” said a grinning Yemu to Kimo’s messenger. “As for his ‘unclean’ complaint, I have fought by the side of women since the Siege of Zudi—in fact, both he and I served under Marshal Mazoti, so I hardly understand his outrage. But if Kimo’s men feel it’s better to be peed on by a man than a woman, all they have to do is to surrender and crawl to my camp, and I’ll happily oblige them.”

Just as Kimo’s men grew used to the nightly harassment by airships and no longer panicked, Yemu resumed the attacks with his ghost assault boats. Three more Arulugi warships were sunk this time by exploding firework powder.

Morale completely collapsed. The sailors, after night after night of living in terror, threatened to mutiny. Cano Tho ordered the fleet to retreat into the city of Müning itself and promised the sailors a night of revelry and drink to restore their spirits. Since the Imperials still had no large ships to transport troops across water—the airships and tiny assault boats were limited both in number and capacity—King Kimo thought one night of leaving Lake Toyemotika unpatrolled was a risk worth taking.

As the sailors of Arulugi, drunk and exhausted from an evening of dancing, teetered over Müning’s hanging walkways, shouts erupted from around the City in the Lake.

“The city has fallen!”

“The emperor promises leniency for any officer or soldier who surrenders and fights for the empire!”

“Whoever captures the traitor Théca Kimo will be given a fief of his own!”

Cano Tho and Théca Kimo rushed onto the suspended platforms around the Palace, situated on one of the largest isles that made up Müning, and they found a city burning around them. The suspended platforms were collapsing in thick columns of acrid smoke, turning the city into a fiery web. Soldiers rushed around, aimless, while officers shouted ineffectually. Groups of men dressed in Imperial uniform swung from spire to spire, setting more fires and slaughtering the confused, drunken Arulugi soldiers stumbling around.

“We were fooled by Kuni’s tricks!” said Cano Tho in despair. There was no choice for Théca Kimo except to escape the city immediately.

If the king and his adviser had spent their night seated by Lake Toyemotika, they would have seen how Marquess Yemu’s troops had, under cover of darkness, crossed the lake on large rafts made by lashing together gourds, coconuts, and sheep’s bladders with the vines of Arulugi’s jungles—an old trick taught to Yemu by Gin Mazoti herself.

While Yemu’s raiders had harassed the Arulugi navy, the Imperial army had been secretly collecting vines from the jungle onshore. The distracted Arulugi forces had not detected any massive construction effort in the jungle and assumed that the Imperials were not building ships. In fact, they had completely missed the primitive and rickety rafts, which could only be of use across an unguarded, serene lake.

“Not letting them see what they fear to see is an even harder task,” said a smiling Risana.

“War is a subspecies of smokecraft,” said Puma Yemu, rather proud of himself.

During the fall of Müning, many of Théca Kimo’s generals had surrendered when they realized that Kimo’s rebellion was hopeless. Now bereft of support save for about two thousand hardened rebels under the command of Cano Tho, Théca Kimo was making a last stand at the western tip of Arulugi. With his back to the endless sea and the dense ranks of the Imperial troops before him like so many impenetrable walls, Théca Kimo’s days were numbered.

He came to Kuni’s camp alone, his arms bound behind his back; he knelt, demanding to see the emperor.

Kuni’s soldiers seized him and brought him to the execution grounds.

“Kuni Garu!” Théca Kimo shouted in the direction of the large commander’s tent. “I was wrong to rebel and I beg you now for mercy. Remember that I abandoned the Hegemon to serve you at a time when it was not clear who between the two of you would emerge victorious, and I delivered three islands to you! You owe me at least an audience.”

Kuni’s soldiers held him down against the execution block.

“Kuni Garu! Your son called me uncle and I taught him how to swing his toy sword! I lost two toes from the bitter cold at the siege at Rana Kida, and I have hundreds of scars over my body from fighting your wars. I should never have listened to Noda Mi and Doru Solofi, and I should never have let my fears feed my ambition. I ask only that you leave me my life, and I will exile myself to the distant isles of the north as a beggar.”

Kuni’s soldiers untied his hair and stripped off his shirt so that his neck could be stretched out across the execution block, with four soldiers holding down his torso and another pulling on his head by his hair on the other side.

“Kuni Garu! Why won’t you come and see me? I know if you see me you won’t give the order. You’ve always been a merciful lord! Have I not earned my life with all that I’ve done for you? Look into my eyes and tell me I deserve to die!”

The executioner lifted the axe.

“Where are you, Puma Yemu? Do you not know that you’re next? Where are you, Than Carucono? Do you believe your friendship with the emperor shields you? Where are you, Marshal Mazoti? Did you not promise me that I will not be chopped down as long—”

Even with his head separated from his body, Théca Kimo’s eyes glared at the commander’s tent in the distance.

Kuni Garu never emerged.

For three days, the emperor refused to see anyone. Only Consort Risana was allowed inside the tent. The guards at the door could only hear faint snatches: crying, singing, angry and drunken shouting.

The empress’s messenger arrived in Kuni’s camp on the evening of the third day, and Than Carucono pushed Kuni’s tent guards aside to deliver the letter himself.

Long after he had read the letter, Kuni sat still like a man in the second month of mourning. He did not shout or curse or rend his clothes or smash the furniture; he did not ask for drink or herbs to soften the pain in his heart; he did not demand to be taken to Pan immediately to confront the woman to whom he had given his own sword, made a queen, elevated above all other men and women of ambition.

The marshal, one of the three truest companions of Kuni Garu, an equal of Luan Zya and Cogo Yelu, had rebelled.

I came to power from an act of betrayal; perhaps it is justice that I may fall from just such another betrayal.

After a man had been drenched by one wave of grief, sometimes he was numb to far greater waves.

“There must be some mistake,” said Than Carucono, who had long admired Gin Mazoti. “The marshal would never betray you.”

“Can you see into the hearts of men and women?” asked Kuni.

“But the empress has never liked—”

“Jia tells me that Gin has been found to be harboring Noda Mi and Doru Solofi—do you think the empress could conjure them out of thin air? Even Gin’s closest adviser has confirmed Gin’s guilt, and I remember Zomi Kidosu: She showed no fear during the Palace Examination and denounced me to my face. She would never join in a lie because she has no instinct for politics.”

Than Carucono held his tongue. The emperor’s logic was unassailable.

Still, Kuni neither affirmed nor objected to the order of execution drafted by the empress.

What is the truth? Kuni thought. Why is it that logic tells me one thing, but my heart another?

Eventually, he got up and summoned a messenger.

“Go to Pan in secret and give this to Captain Dafiro Miro; watch him read it and destroy it before returning.”

^{CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE} MATTERS OF HONOR

Gin Mazoti sat in the windowless cell, facing the iron bars that made up one of the walls. Hers was but one of many arranged in a circle around a central hall, though the other cells were all empty. This prison was reserved for nobles and high-ranking ministers who had been accused of treason, and the empress had refused to grant Doru Solofi and Noda Mi, mere deposed nobles with visions of grandeur, the honor of being housed here after they were retrieved from Nokida.

In the center of the ceiling was a square opening for the light-well—a vertical tunnel that led up to the roof, from where mirrors reflected the sun down into the hall, providing it with its only source of illumination.

Deprived of her armor and sword and dressed in a plain tunic, Gin Mazoti appeared as a novice nun in one of the temples, perhaps an order dedicated to Rufizo. She contemplated the dust motes floating through the square shaft of light, saying nothing.

The table reserved for the guards at the center of the hall was empty, as was the rest of the hall save for the man who had come to talk to her in secret.

“I will not,” said Gin in a hoarse whisper.

Her interlocutor was Dafiro Miro, Captain of the Palace Guards and one of Emperor Ragin’s most trusted men.

“We don’t have much time,” said Miro. “The guards served under me during the Chrysanthemum-Dandelion War, and that is why they’ve been willing to risk their lives to give you this chance. The drugs I gave them will keep them in slumber for three more hours, but if you’re not away from Pan by then, there will never be an opportunity like this again.”

“Is this what my service to the House of Dandelion has earned me? To live out the rest of my life as a fugitive?”

“The evidence gathered by the empress against you is ironclad. Even your closest adviser, Zomi Kidosu, has denounced you.”

“A lie, no matter how often repeated, does not become the truth. Let Kuni come to me, and I will show him how flimsy this evidence is. Indeed, I will show him where lies the true threat to his throne.”

“He can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“The empress has the support of all the civil ministers, from Prime Minister Yelu down. Even the emperor cannot ignore such overwhelming opposition.”

“But he knows in his heart I am inno—”

“That is why he has sent me in secret to aid your esc—”

“If I do as you ask, I will never be able to clear my name of the taint of treason. A wild goose flying over the pond leaves a shadow, and a person leaves behind a name. My name is everything to me.”

“If you leave today, who knows what will happen in ten, twenty years? In time, the empress’s mind may change and she will no longer see you as a threat. But if you are… executed, all will be lost.”

“I will not give Kuni the satisfaction of having it both ways. He wants to assuage his conscience while his wife does the dirty work of clearing his doubt. He wants the love and trust of his old retainers while they’re disarmed, disgraced, and distanced from the levers of power. He thinks he can have the love of the people as well as the praise of the lords, the loyalty of his old friends as well as the bought affection of old enemies. He thinks he can balance all the forces around him and resolve everything by secret compromise, but in matters of honor, there is only wrong or right.

“Let him choose and live with his choice.”

She turned away from Dafiro to face the wall, indicating that the conversation was over.

^{CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR} UNEXPECTED NEWS

“You don’t really believe that Gin has rebelled,” said Risana. “Harboring fugitives is not the same as open treason.”

Kuni remained hunched over his table. He was reading over the rest of Jia’s report, dense with columns of figures and long explanations concerning the various policies she was implementing to stabilize the empire in a time of rebellion.

“Speak to me, Kuni,” said Risana.

Kuni sighed and put down the report. After a moment, he turned around.

“It may not be possible to see into the hearts of men and women,” said Risana. “But you know I can tell the desires and fears of many, including you and Gin.”

“But not Jia,” said Kuni.

“No,” admitted Risana. “That has ever divided us. But I do not think you fear Gin, and I do not think Gin’s loyalty to you has ever wavered.”

Kuni lowered his head. “I cannot lie to you.”

“Then why? Why let the empress do this? She has worked steadily to weaken the power of the nobles, including those who fought for you and paved the way for your rise. She has chilled the hearts of those who are most loyal to you. How can you stand by and let Gin die?”

Kuni flinched. “Gin is not blameless in this affair. Her flaw has always been pride. In Faça, she killed Shilué and claimed the Throne of Faça and Rima as a test of my trust. Despite Jia’s obvious enmity for the enfeoffed nobles, Gin never made an effort to placate her, preferring to again and again flaunt her status and past contributions. I have already done all I can for her—Dafiro—” He shook his head, unwilling to go on.

“But Jia has gone too far! She mistrusts Gin and Kimo and Yemu because she thinks they are closer to me—”

“Kimo did rebel! What makes you think my trust in Gin is not equally misplaced?”

“Even if Gin has committed indiscretions, more than Théca Kimo, she deserves your mercy!”

“If I step in today, I will only make things worse. Even if I stay Gin’s execution, the empress has made out a strong enough case that I will have no choice but to strip Gin of her title and command. She won’t be able to live with such a humiliation, and resentment and rage, over time, will turn even the most loyal heart onto the path of rebellion. She is such a skilled commander that a rebellion led by her will be unstoppable. Can Timu stand against her? Can Phyro? Can—it’s the duty of fathers to fight so that their children may live in peace. I cannot leave my children to fight wars that they cannot win.”

“Then you are conceding everything to Jia’s will, including the matter of succession, and though I am blind to Jia’s desires, I fear now that she will not stop until my son and I are both dead.”

“It will not come to that,” Kuni muttered. “It will not.”

“Are you saying that…” Risana hesitated. Then she bit her lip as she made up her mind. “Don’t be angry with me, husband, but do you think your judgment has been blinded by affection for the empress and guilt at what she suffered on your behalf during the war with the Hegemon?”

Kuni’s face shifted through a series of expressions like a roiling sea before finally settling down to an impassive mask. “You think that because I feel sorry that I left her, alone, at the mercy of the Hegemon for years, I’m now putting the throne and the future of Dara at risk to assuage my conscience?”

“It’s sometimes hard for those at the center of a storm to see their own position clearly. The best creations of smokecrafters are drawn from the hearts of the deceived because we tell the most convincing lies to ourselves.”

Before Kuni could reply, the flap of the tent swept open, bringing with it the chilly evening breeze of autumn. Risana and Kuni turned together. It was Than Carucono, with a somber expression and a tense pose.

“Rénga, urgent news from the north, Prince Timu—”

Kuni dashed over and grabbed the scroll from Than. He read over the message quickly and then stood frozen in place.

Risana walked over and pried the scroll from his hands. She turned still as well as soon as she read it.

“Rénga!” cried Than Carucono. “Rénga!”

Eventually, as though slowly awakening from a dream, Kuni willed his limbs to move. Step by step, he made his way to a corner of the tent and retrieved his coconut lute. He began to play a mournful old Cocru folk tune.

Risana and Than listened to the song quietly, each thinking their own thoughts.

Kuni put away the lute. He had recovered his habitual serenity, and the shock of the news was fading.

“Summon two messengers,” said Kuni. “One will go to Théca Kimo’s remaining troops and offer them amnesty; the other will go to Pan and bring the empress a copy of this letter.”

“Any orders to the empress from you?” asked Than.

Kuni shook his head. “Jia will know what she must do.”