The Hand of the Sun King

by J. T. Greathouse

  “How unjust that this boy will be an imperial official, while I must waste my mind hunting mice,” the cat thought one day. “If I were educated and sat for the examinations, I am certain that I would excel.”

  With his flexible dewclaw the cat could grasp a stick as the boy grasped his brush, and by following along with the tutor’s lessons he soon learned to write. One day, the boy noticed the cat scrawling in the dirt, and rose from his desk to watch.

  “Focus, boy!” the tutor cried.

  “But look, the cat’s copied along,” the boy said.

  The tutor scowled down at the cat, who swished his tail in defiance.

  “It’s only making scratches in the dirt,” the tutor said. “It doesn’t know what it writes.”

  “But its handwriting is better than mine,” the boy said.

  The tutor chased the cat away, then rubbed out the cat’s writing with a sweep of his foot.

  “A cat can never sit for the imperial examinations, but you will,” he said to the boy. “By the sages, I’ll see to it that you pass.”

  The cat slunk away to a stand of bushes at the edge of the garden, where it crouched and glowered at the hateful tutor.

  “What an injustice!” it yowled at the sky.

  “What’s all this yowling?” said a silky voice. In a flash of orange fur, a vixen leapt atop the garden wall. She showed her teeth and said; “You are disturbing my afternoon nap.”

  The cat, too incensed to be afraid, told the vixen what had happened.

  “If I could sit for the exams, I would prove them all wrong,” the cat said. “They would have to accept that cats, too, can serve the Empire.”

  “Ah,” said the vixen. “But you could, with my help.”

  The cat was wary and hunched up its back. Vixens were selfish beasts, but with a magical gift; the skill to change one thing into something it’s not.

  “You have no reason to help me,” said the cat. “What do you want?”

  “A simple thing,” she said. “When you have risen in the Empire, you will arrange for me a marriage with a son of nobility. In exchange, I will alter your shape. But be warned! My spell will fail if you speak your true nature.”

  The cat considered this. He planned to reveal himself as a cat, in the end, to prove that it was silly to educate only young men. But he could delay for a time, he reasoned, until he had fulfilled the vixen’s demand.

  “Very well,” he said. “Make me a man!”

  At once, a cinnamon-scented wind sent the cat tumbling over the ground. When he found his feet again, he stood not on the four paws of a cat, but on the sandaled feet of a young nobleman. The vixen, too, had transformed, exchanging her orange fur for a bright robe of silk and her snout for a round, comely face.

  With her depthless wiles, the vixen convinced the magistrate that she was the third wife of a distant, forgotten cousin, recently widowed and with nowhere to turn. She had brought her son--the cat--to seek refuge with their generous relative. By the end of a week she had a place as the magistrate’s concubine, and the cat became the companion and classmate of the magistrate’s son.

  The cat found companionship loathsome, but a burden worth bearing for the sake of his goal. He threw himself into his books and his ink. Soon he surpassed his classmate, and earned a wealth of praise, while the magistrate’s son earned nothing but shame.

  “I have only been teaching your cousin a month,” the tutor would say. “Yet look how he surpasses you!”

  When the date of the next imperial examination was declared, the tutor registered the cat, but not the son, who needed another three years to prepare. The cat felt a glib satisfaction at this. How embarrassed the tutor would be when he learned that his star pupil was, in truth, the cat whose calligraphy he had once dismissed! The cat felt the urge to reveal his true nature, but he remembered the vixen’s warning and kept his mouth shut.

  Finally, the first day of the examinations drew near. The cat and the household tutor traveled to the regional capital, where for five grueling days the cat struggled alongside other hopeful young minds. In the end he not only passed, he placed first among his peers.

  Jubilant and vindicated, the cat waited in the governor’s garden to accept his commission. Now all he had to do was rise high enough to secure a noble marriage for the vixen. It would be foolish, after all, to reveal his true nature before making good on his end of their deal.

  But the sight of the tetragram upon the governor’s brow stirred the cat’s ambition. For the governor was a Voice, and everything the governor saw and heard the Emperor would see and hear as well. Surely, the benevolent Emperor would recognize the cat’s ability, even if he revealed himself. It would satisfy him so much more to rise through the imperial ranks as what he truly was, not wearing the disguise the vixen had crafted.

  The cat stood to accept his commission. He bowed thrice before the regional governor, as though he stood before the Emperor himself.

  “There is no need for such humility,” the Voice said. “You have proven well your worth.”

  The cat’s heart thundered. Why waste time when his goal was at hand?

  “If that is true, then it should not matter whether I am a man, as I seem to be, or a cat, as I truly am,” he said.

  With a burst of cinnamon scent, the vixen’s spell evaporated. The cat’s robes pooled around his paws.

  “By the sages, it’s a demon!” one of the proctors cried.

  The stink of fear filled the garden. The cat flattened its ears.

  “No,” he said. “I can explain!”

  But the Voice of the Emperor heard only a cat’s frantic yowl. With a wave of his hand he bound the cat in sorcerous light.

  The governor’s guards locked the cat in a cage in the far corner of the garden. As the door slammed and the lock clicked shut, the cat fell into a deep despair. His hours of study, his deal with the vixen, all had been for nothing.

  “How will I get my noble husband now, cat?” the vixen said.

  Her amber eyes glowed atop the garden wall.

  “Please, set me free,” the cat said, springing to his feet. “We can try again! I will surely pass the exams a second time.”

  “I think not,” the vixen said. “It will never be enough to make you a man, for you want to be a cat doing man-things, which the world will not abide.”

  The vixen departed in an orange blur. The cat was killed at dawn. Its heart and its pollical dew-claw would be studied by scholars of demonology. The Voice of the Emperor himself went to seize the magistrate’s concubine, the supposed mother of the demon-cat. But the vixen, with her wiles, was never found.

  * * *

  Hand Usher folded his hands and leaned back in his chair. A beguiling smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “What do you think of my tale, young Master Wen?”

  The proctor watched us with a baffled expression. The story Hand Usher had told was highly unusual. It had more in common with folktales and other firelight stories than high Sienese literature.

  I felt that I stood on the edge of a precipice. The results of my examination hinged upon my next words, I was sure. Whatever my standing had been, Hand Usher had diverted me from the ordinary course of evaluation, offering instead this single hurdle to be overcome. Why, then, make this tale that hurdle?

  The story made little sense as an allegory for Sienese doctrine, but it reminded me of the strange thought experiments Koro Ha had often presented to me, and his warning that my loyalty would always be tested simply because of my Nayeni heritage. Tests that would have to be passed, without room for any doubt, if I were to be made Hand of the Emperor. After all, the Empire would never arm a potential enemy with so powerful a weapon as magic.

  This was such a test, I realized. And with that realization, the purpose of the story became clear.

  “It should be spread to every corner of the Empire,” I said. “This is a story meant for children, to teach them a harsh truth of the world in plain terms. It has little poetic meri
t, but its themes are invaluable and easily grasped by those in danger of indulging conflicted loyalties. No provincial student should take the examinations without hearing it.”

  The proctor snorted, slapped a hand over his mouth, and flushed in embarrassment.

  Hand Usher’s smile widened, only by the breadth of a hair, but enough.

  “Proctor Lin, please record that young Master Wen has an impeccable grasp of imperial doctrine,” he said. “Also note that he is a literary pragmatist with a keen sense of the tensions at play in the far-flung provinces of the Empire. Affix my highest recommendation, as well as your own.”

  The proctor furrowed his brow and opened mouth in confusion but made the notes as he had been told. The Hand of the Emperor stood, folded his hands in his sleeves, and bowed.

  “I have high hopes for your future,” Hand Usher said.

  Some moments fix themselves in memory, recalling themselves again and again throughout our lives. A breath of lavender perfume will always conjure my first deep romantic feeling, and the clap of thunder and burned-stone scent of chemical grenades my first true hardship. The night my grandmother named me, the night I first attempted to veer, and the night she carved me with power were such moments. Hand Usher’s smile, and his silhouette as he walked away, became another.

  Chapter Five

  A Hanging Lantern

  An invitation to attend a banquet at the governor’s palace arrived at Mister Yat’s before me. Nothing had been announced officially, yet, and Koro Ha explained that the final rankings were still being tabulated.

  “But outstanding students make themselves known,” he said, while he read and re-read my invitation with a glint of pride in his eye.

  After Hand Usher’s unusual test, I had expected to earn a high ranking. Still, it was a relief to see my name on an envelope bearing the governor’s seal.

  At dusk, a palanquin met Koro Ha and I at the gate to Mister Yat’s modest courtyard. We had dressed in fine, colorful clothes, sharp-cut and decorated with intricate embroidery. Koro Ha insisted that I wear my hair over my shoulders, as Hand Usher had done, reflecting the current fashion in the Sienese heartland. On our way to the governor’s mansion he brushed it aggressively to make it as straight as possible, but left his own dark curls pinned beneath his scholar’s cap.

  The atmosphere in the mansion of the past five days had been solemn and subdued; now it was boisterous and overflowing with color. Strings of paper lanterns hung between the gatehouse and reception hall, painting the marble tiles of the square in red and golden light. Bronze incense burners had been rolled out and placed along the edges of the garden. Their heady scent mixed with the smells of plum wine and savory delicacies.

  A steward showed Koro Ha and I to our separate seats. I was seated toward the head of the long table with the other successful candidates, while Koro Ha sat at the foot with the other tutors and the proctors. Small dishes of peanuts drizzled with vinegar and cabbage pickled with fiery peppers had already been laid, and liquor and wine flowed freely.

  “Hello again!” said the boy sitting to my right. He flashed a broad grin. Freckles dotted his ruddy cheeks, and his hair fell in auburn ringlets.

  “Hello?” I said, not recognizing him.

  “We sat next to each other during the opening ceremony,” he said. “What good fortune that we both passed! I am Lu Clear-River.”

  “Wen Alder,” I said, bowing slightly. I noticed immediately that his clothes were of courser cloth than mine, and out of date with current trends. This, coupled with his complexion--more like my grandmother’s than my own--made me wonder how he had come to sit for the examinations at all. I asked after his father’s profession.

  “Oh, he is only a farmer,” Clear-River said. “When I was a boy our village took a collection from every household to educate the brightest child.” He gestured to himself and grinned. “Their money was not wasted, eh?”

  “Lucky you,” I said. “Imagine if you had failed.”

  “Ha! If I wasn’t sitting here, I would probably have thrown myself from a cliff by now.”

  We laughed, and the tension that had been coiled within me for years finally unraveled. This was real. I had sat for the examinations, and I had passed. A month from now, I might be learning magic as apprentice to a Hand of the Emperor.

  “To not killing ourselves!” I said brightly and raised a cup of plum wine.

  A cheer went up among the other successful candidates--fifteen altogether--and we drank.

  Course after course was brought and laid upon the table, delicacies from all throughout the Empire. Fare richer and more delicious than anything my father’s kitchens had prepared, exotic and exciting to my limited but curious palate. Braised eels in a thick sauce of sugar, soy, and salt. Tubers thinly sliced and fried in chili oil. Roasted goat dripping with juices, fish served raw on a bed of pearl rice, pear wine so sweet it made honey seem sour, and other liquors made from apples, plums, malted barley, sorghum, and even mare’s milk.

  Wondrous entertainments accompanied our meal. First an opera singer whose lilting voice drifted between the rafters, quieting our conversation as we sat and listened in rapt awe. Then dancers who trailed ribbons from their fingers and spun to the beat of hide drums and the twang of a zither. When they left the stage, they were replaced by a tall man dressed in a long cape of black felt on the outside and white silk on the inside. He wore a golden crown of many tines that spread outward from his forehead like antlers. A red and yellow mask covered his face. He bowed deeply, letting his cape pool on the floor, black and white folding over each other in a rippling, purposeful pattern.

  “A Face-Changer!” Clear-River whispered. “My tutor told me about them! They only perform at the will of the Emperor. He saw them after passing his examination in Center Fortress.”

  The band began to play high, slow notes on their reed flutes and spike-fiddles. The Face-Changer took ponderous steps toward the front of the stage. With each step he flourished his cloak and tilted his head. The gilding on his crown and mask flashed in the light of the stage-lamps.

  With a snap of silk, the Face-Changer passed one hand over his mask, which vanished and was replaced by one of blue and silver, painted with the snarl of a fox-bat. The audience gasped. It had been only a flash of color, the wave of a hand and the flutter of silk.

  Addled by wine, I wondered if the Face-Changer wielded magic of some kind. But I felt neither a feverish flush nor sympathetic cramps, nor the heavy hammering stone sensation of the governor’s sorcery. Only a trick, then, though one so fast and well-disguised that I could not begin to imagine what it might be.

  The music increased in volume and speed, and the Face-Changer’s steps became quicker and more intricate. By the end the masks changed so quickly that I only registered one in three, the rest becoming a blur of shape and color. Finally, the last mask vanished, leaving him bare-faced before us. He bowed deeply, then left the stage accompanied by applause that shook the audience hall long after he had gone.

  The Face-Changer was our final entertainment for the night, and when he had gone a cadre of Nayen’s scholarly elite joined us in the dining area. They processed around the table, welcoming us in turn into their community. First came the scribes, many of them little older than us, followed by the minor members of the bureaucracy, then the magistrates of rural townships, then the magistrates of Setting Sun Fortress and Seawall Fortress--the other two major cities of Nayen.

  Finally, we were joined by the four magistrates who presided over Eastern Fortress itself. Each held jurisdiction over a quarter of the city, and each wore the imperial tetragram on his right hand. I breathed deeply to clear my head and focused on making a good impression. If I had not placed first in the examinations, employment in one of their offices was the next best thing I could hope for. If I proved myself, such an employer might take me on as an apprentice in sorcery someday.

  Hand Jadestone, one of these luminaries, leaned close when he introduced himself. “I ha
ve heard a rumor of you,” he said. “The servants whisper that Hand Usher administered part of your examination, yes?”

  “It was nothing,” I dissembled, as Koro Ha had taught me to around my betters. “Perhaps he was bored and sought entertainment in my poor performance.”

  “What a wit!” Hand Jadestone said. “Who is your tutor, boy?”

  I nodded toward Koro Ha. Hand Jadestone smiled conspiratorially, said that his nephew needed a tutor, and shuffled off toward Koro Ha. The other tutors watched with bulging eyes. Koro Ha nearly fainted at the Hand’s approach.

  Clear-River clapped me on the back. “Don’t forget us when you stand beside the Thousand-Armed Throne!”

  I laughed modestly, even as I began to imagine that--if I followed the golden path laid before me--those words might indeed prove a prophecy.

  The governor at last arrived, with Hand Usher close behind him. They bowed low to us, as though we were already esteemed servants of the Emperor.

  “At this time, I can announce that you fifteen have been judged adequate for civil service,” Voice Golden-Finch said. “We must thank your tutors for the countless hours they have spent polishing your minds into bright jewels of civilization.”

  He bowed again, this time to the foot of the table. We followed his example. Koro Ha, beaming with pride, caught my eye.

  “Some of you,” the governor went on, “have lived until now as the poor sons of peasant farmers in this developing province. Know that no matter where you came from, the road to Northern Capital and the foot of the Thousand-Armed Throne lies open to you if you work diligently and do not stray.”

  We applauded the governor. He took a step back to make way for Hand Usher.

  “They say that the patron beast of Nayen is the wolf,” Hand Usher said. “Many kingdoms once warred in this land, like rival packs in a dark forest. Competition, as the philosopher Western-Hardship of the aesthetic school wrote, breeds greatness in lesser men. Perhaps the warlike nature of your ancestors, distilled by centuries of strife, will produce great successes in the Emperor’s service. Perhaps. But remember, young scholars of Nayen--you are not wolves any longer. You are hounds, brought to heel and trained by the Empire in the one virtue that makes a hound an asset while a wolf is but a danger. Loyalty.”