The Grace of Kings (47 page)

Marana and his men left Namen's body where he last stood. They would come and retrieve it later, after the formal ceremony of surrender.

A great shadow passed over them. Marana looked up. The sky was filled with the wings of Mingén falcons: dozens, no, hundreds of them. No one could ever recall hearing of so many falcons appearing together away from the shores of Lake Arisuso, on Mount Kiji back in Rui.

The falcons swooped down. They moved not like the solitary predators that they were, but like a flock of starlings, each a component of a greater whole. The flock dove as one and picked up the body of Tanno Namen. Then the flock turned and flew westward over the sea, eventually disappearing over the horizon.

Marana and his men bowed to the west. Legend had it that the sons of Xana who fell after great deeds in battle would be taken away by Lord Kiji, god of all birds, to eternal rest in the heavens.

Mata stood in the midst of what remained of the Imperial camp at the tip of Big Toe. He enjoyed a bowl of porridge made from the provisions captured from the Imperial stores. He was still covered in blood, as were his men. None of them had bothered to clean themselves.

“You were the first to follow me,” Mata Zyndu said to Ratho Miro.

Ratho nodded.

Mata Zyndu reached out to grab Ratho by the arms. “You'll stay by me in the future, as my personal guard.”

Ratho knew that later, when his heart finally slowed down, and the hazy glow of battle lust finally wore off, he would be awed again by this man. But for now, he felt like an equal of the great general, and he cherished that feeling.

His only regret was that Dafiro was not around to see this moment.

Marana was brought before Mata. The Marshal of Xana knelt, lifted his sword with both hands, and lowered his eyes to the ground. He waited for Mata's decision on his fate and the fate of all the other prisoners.

Mata gazed at him, disappointed. This was a bureaucrat who was no more skilled with the blade than a common farmer-turned-­soldier; Namen was an old man who dared not face him in a duel. They had fought well with their minds, but they did not match his ideal. Was this the best Xana had to offer? Where was an opponent clothed in martial splendor equal to his own?

Behind Marana, Owi Ati and Huye Nocano, the commanders of the Faça and Gan armies, also knelt, as did King Dalo. All eyes, full of awe, were focused on Mata, as if they were watching Fithowéo himself.

There was no man greater among all the rebels than Mata Zyndu, not even King Thufi.

CHAPTER THIRTY

MASTER OF PAN

PAN: THE ELEVENTH MONTH IN THE FOURTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF RIGHTEOUS FORCE.

Emperor Mapidéré had chosen the site for his capital, the Immacu­late City, not because he wanted to live there, but because he wanted to die there.

He wanted the Imperial Tombs, planned around his Mauso­leum, to tap into the ground energy of the great volcanoes: Mounts Kana, Rapa, and Fithowéo. He thought that the vitality of the mountains, forever young because they constantly remade themselves with fresh lava in violent explosions, would similarly renew the strength and vitality of the Imperial family and therefore the empire itself.

Mapidéré's spirit, if it still was around, must now be wondering why his plan had not worked out.

Kuni Garu accepted Erishi's surrender as the latter was curled in his bed in the fetal position, the sheets and his clothes soaked with his urine.

Luan Zya came to say good-bye.

“You won't stay with me?” Kuni asked. “I would not be the master of Géfica without you.”

Kuni had admired Luan even as a boy, when he saw the assassin soar through the air. And he doubted that there was another mind in Dara that could have come up with such a daring plan to capture Pan.

Collecting talented friends was one of Kuni's favorite hobbies, and Luan Zya was one of Kuni's most prized acquisitions.

“Lord Garu, you have achieved what the gods had intended for you. Didn't you slay the great white python in one strike in the Er-Mé Mountains, as I hear in the legends of the common people? Weren't you surrounded by rainbows even when you were a fugitive? Today you have ridden on a cruben and made the Emperor of All the Islands tremble at your feet. You are a good lord and master, but you have no further need of my assistance. I wish to go serve Haan, a small and weak state and the last of the Six States to be free, but nonetheless
my
home.”

Kuni and Luan toasted each other with bowls of sorghum liquor before Luan went on his way. Both attributed their tears to the burning drink.

Luan returned to Ginpen, capital of old Haan.

News of the fall of Pan had already reached the city, and the streets were filled with young men of Haan milling about, excitedly talking of a new era. Soldiers from the Xana garrison were holed up in their barracks, fearful of the mood of the volatile citizenry.

Unmolested, Luan returned to the site of the ancestral estate of the Zya Clan, where he had last seen his father and made the pledge that drove his life.

There were no more marble-floored halls tiled with marvelous geometry, no more study rooms where the walls were covered in slates on which he and his father had written out equations and debated proofs, no more private library stocked with antique books collected from all corners of the Islands of Dara, no more sunlit laboratories filled with instruments to investigate the stars and the tides and time and the natural world.

Instead, the estate was a burned-down wreckage of broken stones overgrown with weeds.

“Father,” Luan said, kneeling in the middle of the ruins. “I have returned because the Xana Empire is no more. King Cosugi will return soon, and I will help him rebuild Haan, our homeland, and restore her to her rightful place. I have fulfilled my pledge. Are you pleased? Will your soul now have rest?”

A breeze rustled the weeds. A lonely bird cried out in the distance.

Luan knelt there for a long time, listening, until the sun sank and the moon rose, trying to divine the will of the gods and the ambi­guous answers of dead ancestors.

Kuni was worried about the thousands of surrendered Imperial troops in Pan. He had only five hundred men with him, and if Impe­rial loyalists decided that they were willing to sacrifice the life of Emperor Erishi, they could easily overwhelm his tiny contingent.

Kuni gathered all his advisers for counsel.

“We can't let news of the fall of Pan get out just yet,” said Cogo Yelu. “If Imperial commanders in the rest of Géfica knew just how small your army is, they'd converge on Pan, and we'd be dead.”

“Then we must seal the city immediately,” said Kuni. “But what if some Imperial had already sent out a messenger pigeon?”

“I already took care of it,” said Rin. “Roasted pigeons are delicious, especially if salted appropriately.”

Kuni laughed. “Good thing I have all of you thinking for me. The first priority now is to get word out to my brother, Mata Zyndu, and ask him to send aid as soon as possible.”

“It would have been best if we still had the airships,” said Cogo. “But, unfortunately, since you didn't want Luan Zya to stay behind to guard them, the palace guards destroyed them.”

“I'll take care of getting word out to General Zyndu,” said Rin. “I have ways of sending messages that won't be intercepted by Imperial patrols.”

Kuni nodded, thankful that he had had the foresight to have Rin maintain his connections to the less savory aspects of society.

“But water from afar won't save the fire that's burning down the house,” fretted Kuni. “How will we ensure that the surrendered soldiers of Pan won't turn on us?”

Rin Coda whispered a suggestion. It was thuggish and dishonorable, and Mün Çakri and Than Carucono both objected. Kuni Garu was about to say no, but Cogo Yelu spoke up in support of Rin.

“The possibility of mutiny is great, Lord Garu, and we must do what we can to preserve the fruits of our gamble.”

Still, Kuni hesitated. “Cogzy, you believe that we must purchase the loyalty of the surrendered Imperial soldiers at such cost?”

“Those who would be great must be great in all measures, including cruelty.”

Cogo's reasoning troubled Kuni, but he was always willing to listen to counsel. Reluctantly, he agreed to Rin's plan.

Pan lived up to its status as the capital of the empire by the size of its population, by the wideness of its streets (sixteen carriages could pass over them side by side), by the splendor of its architecture, by the variety of goods offered for sale in its markets, indeed, by any measure you cared to invent. Traders and opportunists of all stripes came to make their fortune at the feet of the emperor, and it was often said that it was better to be a mouse in Pan than an elephant in Écofi.

It was whispered among the surrendered Imperial troops that they would be allowed to loot Pan as a reward for their submission to Duke Garu—as long as they did not kill anyone. A few bold soldiers went into the streets to test out the rumor. Kuni's men watched them but did nothing. By afternoon, the former Imperial barracks were empty.

The soldiers had free rein of the entire city. Pan was treated as though it had been conquered, except that the conquering army was composed of the men who had sworn to defend it. They broke into the wealthy mansions lining the streets, took whatever they fancied, and did as they liked to the men and women they found inside them—the soldiers did take care not to kill anyone, but there were many forms of suffering short of death.

For ten days the streets of Pan became a living hell, and families huddled in basements and shuddered while they listened to the cries and screams of the less fortunate. The Immaculate City became stained with terror, blood, avarice, and cravenness.

During this time, Kuni Garu kept his own men in the palace, away from the chaos in the streets. Cogo Yelu, however, took a few men and went to the Imperial Archives, where the empire's census and tax records, and all other administrative papers of the civil bureaucracy, were kept.

“Lock the doors and don't let any of the looters come in,” Cogo ordered.

“Why do we care about these old scrolls and papers?” asked Dafiro. Then he whispered, “Is this where the emperor kept his most valuable treasure? Clever to hide it where no one would be looking. Maybe . . . you and I can take a peek later?”

Cogo laughed. “You won't find gold or gems here.”

“Some kind of art?” Dafiro was a bit disappointed. He knew that art could be valuable, but he didn't care particularly for paintings unless they were of beautiful ladies.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Cogo. “Politics is the highest of the arts, and perhaps someday you will understand it.”

While the former Imperial soldiers rampaged in the streets of Pan, Kuni had to get away from the horrors he had unleashed. He chose to wander thorough the silent corridors and empty halls of the palace.

The splendor around him was breathtaking. The ceiling in every room was at least fifty feet high. Every wall was covered with intricate carvings and golden filigree. On the floor lay pillows covered in silk and damask, stuffed with the soft downy feathers of thousands of ducklings and the baby wool of yearling sheep. Priceless paintings and calligraphy scrolls taken from the conquered Six States hung on the walls.

Everywhere Kuni looked, his eyes were met with elaborate furnishings, toys, decorations: pearl and coral murals from Gan, sandal­wood carvings from Rima, jade statues from Faça, turtle-bone tables from Haan, feathered tapestries from Amu, and gold, ingots and ingots of gold, squeezed from the dead laborers of Cocru. The objects spoke of power, power that Emperor Mapidéré had wielded over the empire, power palpable to Kuni as he caressed them.