by Duncan, Dave
“We come in peace,” the Firstborn said.
“But you bring many hungry mouths,” replied the eldest.
“And our own food. Are you so short that you grudge hospitality to strangers?”
The old man shifted his feet uneasily in the mud. “We still eat, but starving hordes are pouring out of Shashi. They are walking dead, with pebble eyes, but they are also locusts. Must our children starve to feed strangers?”
Sunlight shook his head. “But eat as little as you can and share what you save. In some other life, on some other world, they will return the favor. Tell us what other news you have.”
“News from the north is that the Empress Mother has mounted the golden chariot.”
“Has she indeed?” The Firstborn glanced thoughtfully at Shard. “And what difference will that make? What do you think?”
“You are the Bearer of Wisdom, Ancient One, not I.” Shard discovered that he was smiling, and hastily rearranged his face into proper scholarly impassivity. Normally, one would look to history for answers, but here, history gave far too many answers. Released from ancestral control, some Lords of the High and the Low had been freed to follow their own course at last. Sometimes, the immortal army of palace eunuchs had been raised to power instead, able to rule an inexperienced stripling more easily than his sly old harridan mother. And this case might not follow any precedent, for the Portal was due to open, signaling a change of dynasty.
“We will have to wait and see,” Sunlight said thoughtfully. “Heaven will reveal its will soon enough.”
By then, the villagers were reassured—and of course charmed—enough to invite the Urfather into their homes. He, Shard, and Lady Cataract drank tea with the elders, refusing solid food. Mouse sat cross-legged in a corner, silent and attentive as always.
Whether the report of the Empress Mother’s death was true or not, the elders told many tales of death and devastation, of shattered homes and flooded lands. Warehouses that had survived the trembling had been destroyed by fire or water, creating famine that could only grow worse, for the spring planting had been washed away by landslides or inundation. The great city of Wedlock had been totally destroyed. Heaven’s rage had been aroused against it by the devilish boats they used, breathing fire and moving without oars or current.
The Firstborn’s eyes filled with tears. “If such trouble is a sign from Heaven, then only someone much wiser than I can tell you what it means. The great teachers gave many answers. The Courtly Teacher said, when asked to explain a famine, It is an examination, such as the candidates for the mandarinate take, and our promotion will be based on our response.”
Then he quoted other precepts, none of which, in Shard’s opinion, offered any more comfort. Light will always cast shadows, the Desert Teacher said, but the Urfather knew better than to mention that one.
Later that day, when the expedition moved off along the trail, four stalwart villagers begged to go with them a way, carrying Sunlight’s chair. Shard Gingko was able to walk alongside and hold a private conversation with the Firstborn when no one else could overhear. It was an opportunity that arose rarely now. They spoke, of course, in Palace Voice, which would be close to gibberish to the locals.
“You spoke originally of heading for Felicitous Wedlock of Waters, Master. Now that it is reported destroyed, will you change your plans?”
The Firstborn chuckled. “We had to head for somewhere. The problem is never where we were going yesterday, only where we should be going today.”
Shard Gingko wondered if that was a memorable quotation, but decided not to ask. At times, the Firstborn could be maddeningly hard to pin down. The twinkle in his eyes suggested that this might be one of those times. He was being Sunlight, not the All-Wise.
“Where I want to go depends on where I think the Bamboo Banner is going. Where would you go, if you were Bamboo, my learned friend?”
“Home, Master.”
That won a boyish laugh. “A mandarin of the fourth rank could speak no greater wisdom! But he must cross the Golden River somewhere if he wishes to reach Heart of the World eventually. I think he will veer west, planning to ford it, for he cannot hope to capture enough ferries to transport a host across downstream from Wedlock. He will, I believe, go westward, into Shashi, not north to Nanling.”
“Toward the Portal of Worlds, Master?”
“Heaven does seem intent on bringing Bamboo and the opening of the Portal into conjunction, and perhaps the Emperor’s army also. I will be very disappointed with it if it does not succeed.” He fell silent for a few moments. “And, just maybe, this time I will be invited to the party also. Whenever I am near the Portal, I always try to visit a fort known as Goat Haven. It is a stronghold to dream of, and it has been held by a varied succession of brigands. The last one I met was Sky Hammer 3, a lovable scoundrel. I am interested to see if his descendants still rule there.”
Chapter 12
“I was wondering,” butterball Chief Eunuch intoned in a voice that would have lit a thousand lamps and greased the stairways of the Empire, “whether Your Majesty has made a decision regarding a state contribution to that worthy cause I had the honor to bring to Your Majesty’s attention a few days ago?”
His attempts at blackmail were becoming blatant. Butterfly Sword was tempted to step down from the stool on which he was presently standing, grab the obese obscenity by the throat, and twirl his head around until it came off. Would anyone dare intervene? At the moment, the Emperor was being dressed in the state robes by a team of six valets. A dozen others were wandering about, pretending to be busy. It was a highly inappropriate moment to importune him for money, carefully chosen to maximize the threat. He made an effort to restrain his temper.
“To which cause are you referring? You have mentioned so many.”
“The fund for funeral rites for former palace servants, lord. Eunuchs lack sons to smooth their ascent to the Fifth World, and many are so impoverished after a lifetime in imperial service that they are practically indigent. Your honored mother and equally honored father both gave generously in their time.” He sighed and mopped his streaming forehead with a richly embroidered sleeve; the Robing Room was hotter than an iron foundry.
He was lying like wet snow, of course. He had claimed seven grandsons and the average palace eunuch was richer than a wholesale opium dealer. Theft and bribery were their daily fare.
Butterfly Sword had no time for this nonsense just then. In a few moments, he would hold court. Prince Boundless Shore had arrived at Sublime Mountain three days ago, with an entourage of guards and concubines, of course, and must be officially received. General Iron Spur was to have been smuggled in last night. Butterfly Sword had been anxiously awaiting both of those men, because they were part of a plan he had devised. No one else knew it yet, but today he would make his bid for freedom.
“The Gray Helpers charge such extortionate fees,” Chief Eunuch murmured, dragging the threat of exposure out in the open while there were many witnesses present.
“The Gray Helpers are thieves and extortionists,” the Emperor said sincerely. “I am thinking of launching a campaign to expose their larceny and bring them to justice. Just at present, though, the so-called Bamboo rebels are posing a threat to our throne, and we intend to crush them without mercy.” How was that for a counterthreat? “Besides, our treasury is sorely strained by the millions of our beloved subjects suffering from famine and homelessness. They regard me as their loving father and expect me to help. Mention your cause to me again next week.”
“Your Majesty is most gracious.”
But next week, His Majesty would have escaped from prison and Chief Eunuch would be in one. If all went well, that was.
Absolute Purity was the Son of the Sun, Lord of the High and the Low, Emperor of the Good Land, Father of the Gentle People, Lord of Ten Thousand Years, and so on, and he was a prisoner. In the two
months since he murdered the Empress Mother, Butterfly Sword had learned just how close his confinement was. Not just he, but all preceding Emperors had become captives of the palace eunuchs. The whole palace system was designed to imprison its most important resident.
Everything came to him by the hands of the eunuchs—his food, his clothes, his entertainment, even his concubines. Although he was out of practice at playing roles other than Emperor, he was still a Gray Helper. He could don a eunuch’s costume and walk out the gate as a eunuch, unnoticed and unchallenged. Alas, to obtain a eunuch’s costume, he would have to ask the eunuchs. Anyone who came at him with a blade would learn his mistake very rapidly, but a Gray Helper was as vulnerable to poison as the next man. Assassination was not an impossible move in the current palace game, especially with Boundless Shore at hand.
Likely, Butterfly Sword was more conscious of this imprisonment than most of his predecessors had been, because he had not been raised in the system. Unless he did something to smash it, his children would be raised in the same traditional way. All their lives they would be nurtured, surrounded, and educated by eunuchs, so they could never relate to ordinary people. The Empress Mother had not been palace born, but she had been tended and pampered by eunuchs since she was twelve. They were as universal as fleas in a bazaar.
Long ago, the Eleventh Dynasty had fallen into the same trap as its predecessors. Because palace intrigue raised the mortality rate among imperial heirs to atrociously high levels, Emperors tried to ensure their lines’ survival by fathering many sons. To do so, they needed, or thought they needed, hundreds of concubines. Therefore, they needed thousands of eunuchs to guard them. Every concubine sought to promote her own sons by conspiring with eunuchs in murderous palace intrigue, continuing the vicious spiral.
Mandarins and eunuchs were historical foes, but Butterfly Sword had few means of reaching the mandarinate except through the eunuchs. Ever since that first climactic huddle with First Mandarin, their meetings had been public and formal. Had they tried to exchange notes, the eunuchs would have opened them, read them, and expertly resealed them before delivering them. If they ever did deliver them.
Still, his hasty agreement with First Mandarin on the day of the Empress Mother’s death seemed to have escaped his jailers’ ken. The speed with which the two men had moved to establish a common front, combined with the mass confusion in the palace that morning, had let their plot pass undetected. Now everything depended on the safe arrival of General Iron Spur, the old man’s grandson.
Today, the Emperor intended to speak in open court. That had not happened in three reigns, but it had happened, and a little experimentation had shown him that the compulsions Lark had laid on him allowed him to do anything that any of his predecessors had done. That gave him all the scope he would ever need.
In the past few weeks, he had read all the government reports he could get into his hands and a lot of history from the imperial library. The day after the death of the Empress Mother, he had inspected her quarters, finding them looted to bare planks as he had expected. But in the ruins, he had discovered a secret cupboard whose door had been ripped off by the pillagers. Finding it full of papers and nothing of market value, they had lost interest. The Emperor had recognized the late unlamented’s confidential records, and ordered them collected and delivered to his own quarters. Those had been the most interesting reading of all.
There had been very little else to do during official mourning—no sex, no music, no masques. But he had built his kite and now the time had come to fly it.
The eunuch on the stool finished adjusting His Majesty’s absurdly tall headdress, stepped down, and bowed. Butterfly Sword examined his reflection in the enormous mirror. Swathed in yellow brocade, towering over all his attendants, he was impressive to the point of absurdity. Did majesty really require such trappings? Strong as he was, he found the robes’ weight oppressive in the baking, airless heat of early summer.
“Well done,” he said. “Are we ready to proceed?”
Of course they were. Everyone else would have been ready for hours.
With two youths holding his train, he rustled forward, marched through the hidden back door into the vast Hall of Celestial Peace, and took his seat on the Golden Throne. Eunuchs adjusted his robes and withdrew, except for two who swung giant fans to waft air at His Imperial Majesty and keep the flies off him.
Out in the main hall, beyond a fretted screen, lesser officials were already present. As the doorkeeper proclaimed each name and title, the owner would scurry in, approach the invisible throne, and perform the three genuflections and nine head knockings. Then he would sidle away to kneel on the sidelines. Many of the ancients had trouble kowtowing. Respect for age was all very well, but the Empress Mother had left far too many old familiar faces in place long after they passed their usefulness. An imperial court should also include a dozen or so royal princes. She had disposed of those long ago.
The Hall of Celestial Peace was a magnificent place, every surface decorated with bright-colored tiles. The balconies were already crowded with spectators, although the Emperor had not expected to see people up there and no idea who they were. Certainly, Chief Eunuch would be watching from somewhere.
Minister of This … Prefect of That … Slowly, they progressed to more senior titles, officers of the second rank, then the first. Gatherer of Imperial Bounty … Court Astrologer, old fool … Last came First Mandarin, so honored because he normally represented the Emperor. He took his place at a corner of the dais.
Butterfly Sword nodded. Trumpets blared and the screens slid back to reveal him, although not the boys with the fans.
First Mandarin signaled. The herald at the door proclaimed His Highness Prince Boundless Shore, followed by a list of estates and titles. In trotted a double line of flunkies bearing the prince’s gifts to the Emperor, which they laid before the throne. Butterfly Sword noted porcelain and jade and silk carpets and mysterious carved chests and wondered how much of it would be swallowed by the eunuchs’ bottomless greed before even being listed by the imperial household.
Then came Absolute Purity’s fourth cousin, His Highness Prince Boundless Shore, the boy who had the best real claim to the throne. He was about fifteen, tall but still youthfully slender, and he moved a great deal more nimbly and gracefully than anyone else had done. As a prince, he was required to knock his head on the floor only three times, not nine.
“Rise, cousin,” the Emperor boomed. “You are welcome in court, a jewel to brighten our house.”
The court gasped. No one living had ever heard the Lord of the High and the Low speak in such an assembly.
The boy rose to his knees. He was not supposed to look at the Emperor, but he could not resist a hasty upward glance, which Butterfly Sword pretended not to notice. The kid must be terrified at being summoned to court for the first time, knowing the bloody ways Emperors had for dealing with possible rivals, but he was hiding it very well. Butterfly Sword had no such vicious intentions, for he was in firm possession now, despite Chief Eunuch’s smarmy threats. No one questioned his identity, and he had not one but two infant sons to succeed him if necessary. He had summoned the young prince for quite different reasons.
“That my insignificant existence,” the prince began, reciting a speech he had probably found in some ancient record, “should thus so unexpectedly, by the honor of imperial regard …” And so on. He did not stumble once, which was more than could be said for most courtiers haranguing the throne. “. . . can have no greater honor than to kneel here and solemnly dedicate my life to your honor and service, My Lord.”
“We intend to take you up on that offer, noble cousin. You are most welcome to our court and will be treated with sublime royal honors during your stay. You will drink tea with us in the Garden of Arboreal Splendor as soon as this meeting has adjourned. Meanwhile, sit there, opposite His Excellency, while we deal with another matter.�
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Butterfly Sword gestured to a fat cushion in the place of second honor. To be told to sit, rather than kneel, was a stupendous honor, of course, the sort of wonder to be passed on to future generations.
First Mandarin signaled again. The herald proclaimed General Peach Harvest, Deputy Supreme Guardian. The ever-cautious Empress Mother had always kept an incompetent in charge of the army, and an incompetent would always choose incompetents as his subordinates. The old man who came tottering in from the side of the hall had probably been worth little forty years ago and now his prose was tortuous, his logic nonsensical, his brushwork almost illegible. Butterfly Sword had ripped the last report apart in fury.
Having already kowtowed, Peach Harvest merely knelt and humbly begged the Lord of All Under Heaven to receive General Iron Spur, His Majesty’s military prefect on the Siping frontier. He stumbled over even that little speech, having learned of it only that morning.
The trumpets announced the general. Butterfly Sword watched with interest as the alleged hero approached. Even unarmed, barefoot, and performing the undignified shuffle required to approach the throne, First Mandarin’s grandson revealed traces of a soldier’s bearing. He was younger than Butterfly Sword had expected, although that might be just because he had grown too accustomed to the company of eunuchs and geriatrics.
After the newcomer had kowtowed, the agenda called for Peach Harvest to beseech His Majesty to approve a long overdue commendation to Iron Spur for his victory over the barbarians five years ago. Before he could gather his wits, the Emperor spoke, in tones that echoed from the walls.
“Honorable Peach Harvest, your reports are rubbish. Where is our army?”
Jaws dropped. The court cowered back. Peach Harvest himself just gaped in horror.
“We ask you again, where is our army?”
