The Grace of Kings (6 page)

“I never quite pictured myself serving the emperor this way,” said Kuni, thinking of the corvée administrator who had, in a way, introduced him to Jia. He'd have to buy his future colleague a good meal to smooth over any hard feelings. “I'm not going to make up any ‘Prosperity Tax,' though—well, not unless it's someone very wealthy.”

“As long as you live frugally, you'll be fine,” said Cogo. “The pay is very steady.”

Steady enough for Kuni to go to the money lenders and pledge his future income for a present sum so that he could go to Jia's parents.

Gilo Matiza could not understand it. By all accounts, Kuni Garu was an indolent young man with no useful skills and no prospects. He had no money, no property, and until recently, no job—even his own family had thrown him out. He was also rumored to enjoy the company of loose women and had many girlfriends.

Why did his daughter, known to all the matchmakers as impos­sible to please, favor this man's suit?

“I prefer to do the most interesting thing,” Jia said. And that was all the answer she would give him.

Nothing would dissuade her. Once her mind was made up, Jia's will was iron. So Gilo had to at least listen to the young man.

“I know I don't have a very good reputation,” said Kuni, who was sitting up very straight in
mipa rari
, his eyes focused on the tip of his nose. “But as the sagacious Lurusén once said, ‘The world is drunk; I alone am sober. The world is asleep, but I am awake.' ”

Gilo was surprised. He did not expect a quote from Cocru classics. “What does that have to do with your suit?”

“The poet was speaking of the experience of sudden clarity after a life of doubt. Until I met Jia and you, I did not understand what the poem meant. Sir, a reformed man is worth ten men virtuous from birth, for he understands temptation and will strive the harder to not stray.”

Gilo softened. He had wanted to make a good match for Jia—a wealthy local merchant or a young scholar who had a good future in government—but this Kuni seemed learned and respectful, and that was something. Perhaps all the rumors about him were wrong.

Gilo sighed and accepted Kuni's marriage proposal.

“I see you decided not to share your other reading of Lurusén's poem with my father. I'm impressed: I could almost believe that speech back there.”

“It's just like they say in the villages: ‘Howl when you see a wolf, scratch your head when you see a monkey.' ”

“How many more of these readings do you have?”

“As many as the days we'll have together.”

Kuni's brother Kado and his father Féso welcomed him again to their houses, believing that the prodigal son had finally returned.

Naré Garu was so happy that she embraced Jia and wouldn't let go, soaking the shoulder of Jia's dress with her tears. “You saved my son!” she said again and again, and Jia blushed and smiled awkwardly.

And so there was a big wedding—paid for by Gilo—that became the talk of Zudi for many days. Although Gilo refused to support the couple in a lavish lifestyle (“Since you picked him, you have to live within the means of his salary”), Jia's dowry allowed the couple to get a small house, and Kuni no longer had to calculate how long he had before he wore out a friend's patience and had to find another place to sleep.

He went to work every morning and sat in his office and filled out reports and made his hourly rounds to be sure that the listless men held in prison weren't up to any mischief while they waited to be sent to labor in the Grand Tunnels or the Mausoleum.

In no time at all, he hated his job—now he really felt he was drifting. He complained to Jia daily.

“Do not fret, my husband,” said Jia. “They also serve who only stand and wait. There is a time for flight, and a time for descent; a time for movement, and a time for rest; a time to do, and a time to prepare.”

“This is why you're the poet,” said Kuni. “You even make paperwork sound exciting.”

“Here's what I think: Opportunity comes in many forms. What is luck but being ready with the snare when the rabbit bolts from his hole? You've made many friends in Zudi over the years as a ne'er-do-well—”

“Hey, I resent that—”

“
I
married you, didn't I?” Jia gave him a light peck on the cheek to placate him. “But the point is, now that you're a member of Zudi's officialdom, you have a chance to make different kinds of friends. Trust yourself that this is only temporary. Take advantage of it to spread your circles. I know you like people.”

Kuni took Jia's advice and made an extra effort to go out with fellow clerks to teahouses after work and to pay visits at the homes of senior officials from time to time. He was humble, respectful, and listened more than he spoke. When he found people he liked, he and Jia would invite them and their families to their little home for deeper conversation.

Soon, Kuni got to know the departments and bureaus of Zudi's city government as well as he knew its back alleys and busy markets.

“I had thought of them as the dull sort,” said Kuni. “But they're not so bad once you get to know them. They're just . . . different from my old friends.”

“A bird needs both long and short feathers to fly,” said Jia. “You need to learn to work with different kinds of people.”

Kuni nodded, glad of Jia's wisdom.

It was now late summer, and the air was filled with drifting dandelion seeds. Every day as he came home, Kuni gazed with longing at the tiny feathered seeds carelessly riding the wind, snowy puffs that danced about his nose and eyes.

He imagined their flight. They were so light that a gust of wind could carry one for miles. There was no reason that a seed couldn't fly all the way from one end of the Big Island to the other. No reason that it couldn't fly all the way over the sea, to Crescent Island, to Ogé, to Écofi. No reason that it couldn't tour the peaks of Mount Rapa and Mount Kiji. No reason that it couldn't taste the mist at the Rufizo Falls. All it needed was a little kindness from nature, and it would travel the world.

He felt, in a way that he could not explain, that he was meant to live more than the life he was living, destined to one day soar high into the air like these dandelion seeds, like the kite rider he had seen long ago.

He was like a seed still tethered to the withered flower, just waiting for the dead air of the late summer evening to break, for the storm to begin.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE DEATH OF THE EMPEROR

ÉCOFI ISLAND: THE TENTH MONTH IN THE TWENTY-THIRD YEAR OF THE REIGN OF ONE BRIGHT HEAVEN.

Emperor Mapidéré had not looked into a mirror for weeks now.

The last time he had dared to look, a pallid, leathery mask had stared back at him. Gone was the handsome, arrogant, fearless man who had made ten thousand wives into widows and forged the crowns of the Seven States into one.

His body had been usurped by an old man, consumed by fear of death.

He was on Écofi Island, where the land was flat and the sea of grass stretched as far as the eye could see. Perched atop the Throne Pagoda, the emperor gazed at the distant herd of elephants strolling majestically across his field of view. Écofi was one of his favorite spots to pass through on his tours of the Islands. Miles and miles away from the busy cities and the intrigue of the palace in Pan, the emperor imagined that he was alone and free.

But he could not deny the pain in his stomach, the pain that now made it impossible for him to descend the Throne Pagoda on his own. He would have to call for help.

“Some medicine,
Rénga
?”

The emperor had said nothing. But Chatelain Goran Pira was, as always, observant. “This is prepared by an Écofi medicine woman who is said to know many secrets. It might ease the discomfort.”

The emperor hesitated, but relented. He sipped the bitter beverage, and it did seem to numb the pain slightly.

“Thank you,” the emperor said. Then, because only Goran could hear, he added, “Death catches up to us all.”

“Sire, speak not of such things. You should rest.”

Like all men who spent their lives in conquest, he had long turned his thoughts to the ultimate foe. For years, Pan had been filled with alchemists working on elixirs of eternal life and youth. Swindlers and con men had flooded the new capital and drained the treasury with their elaborate laboratories and research proposals that never seemed to produce anything useful; the clever ones always packed up and could not be found when it came time for an audit.

He had swallowed their pills, pills distilled from the essences of a thousand species of fish, some so rare that they were found in only a single lake in the mountains, pills prepared in the holy fire of Mount Fithowéo, pills that were supposed to protect him from a hundred diseases and make his body immune to the passage of time.

They had all lied. Here he was, his body ravaged by a disease that all the doctors gave different names to but were equally powerless against, a twisting, recurring pain in his stomach like a coiled snake that made him unable to eat.

But this medicine really is very good,
the emperor thought.

“Goran,” he said, “the pain is much better. This is a good find.”

Chatelain Pira bowed. “I am your loyal servant, as always.”

“You're my friend,” the emperor said, “my only true friend.”

“You must rest, Sire. The medicine is supposed to be a good soporific as well.”

I
am
sleepy.

But I still have so much to do.

For centuries, back before the Xana Conquest, back when young Mapidéré was still called Réon, his hair still full and lush and his face unlined, the Seven States had vied for dominance of the Islands of Dara: rustic and arid Xana in the far northwest, confined to the islands of Rui and Dasu; elegant and arrogant Amu, fortified in rain-drenched and balmy Arulugi and the fertile fields of Géfica, the land between the rivers; the Three Brother States of woodsy Rima, sandy Haan, and craggy Faça, nestled in the northern half of the Big Island; wealthy and sophisticated Gan in the east, filled with big cities and busy trading ports; and finally, martial Cocru on the southern plains, famed for her brave warriors and wise generals.

Their web of shifting alliances and enmities was as confusing as it was dynamic. In the morning the King of Xana and the King of Gan might still call each other brothers, and by that night Gan's ships might already be sailing around the Big Island for a sneak attack, aided by fast cavalry from the King of Faça, who just that morning had sworn that he would never forgive Gan for past treacheries.

And then came Réon, and everything changed.

The emperor looked around.

He was in Pan, the Immaculate City, standing in the middle of the broad expanse of Kiji Square in front of the palace. Normally the square was empty, save for children who flew kites in spring and summer and built ice statues in winter. Occasionally an Imperial airship landed in it, and nearby citizens would gather to watch.

But today the square was not empty. He was surrounded by colossal statues of the gods of Dara. The statues, each as tall as the Throne Pagoda, were made with bronze and iron and painted with bright, lifelike colors.

Long ago, Thasoluo, the World Father, was called away by the King of All Deities, Moäno, never to return. He left behind his pregnant wife, Daraméa, the Source-of-All-Waters. Alone in the void, she cried hot, large tears of lava as she gave birth. The sizzling tears fell from the heavens into the sea and solidified into the Islands of Dara.

Eight children were born. As the gods of Dara, they staked out their claims to the Islands and watched over the native inhabitants. Daraméa, comforted, withdrew to the great ocean, leaving her children in charge of Dara. Later, when the Ano arrived and spread throughout the Islands, their fates also became inextricably bound with the doings and undoings of the deities.

The emperor had long dreamed of confiscating all the weapons of Dara, all the swords and spears, all the knives and arrows, and melting them down into their constituent metals so that they could be turned into statues honoring the gods. Without weapons, there would be eternal peace in the world.

He had always been too busy to convert his grand vision into reality, yet somehow here they were. Perhaps this was a chance for him to plead his case directly to the gods, to ask for long life and good health and restored youth.

Mapidéré knelt first before Kiji, the source of Xana's strength. The statue depicted a middle-aged man with white sideburns, a bald head, and a white cape on his back. Mapidéré admired the intricate designs on the cape, showing Kiji's mastery over wind, flight, and birds. On Kiji's shoulder sat his
pawi
, the Mingén falcon.

“Lord Kiji, are you pleased by this sign of my piety? There is yet much that I can do to glorify you, but I need more time!”

The emperor wished that the god would give him a sign that his prayer was heard. But he well knew that the gods preferred to work in obscure mystery.

Next to Kiji were the Twins, Kana and Rapa, patrons of Cocru. Kana wore a black dress and had brown skin, long silky black hair, and dark-brown eyes, while Rapa, with a face identical to her sister's, wore a white dress and had pale skin, snow-white hair, and light-gray eyes. Over the sisters' shoulders stood their
pawi
, a pair of ravens, one black, one white.

Mapidéré may have conquered all the Tiro states, but he sought the approbation of all the gods. He lowered his head to the goddesses next. “I honor you, Lady Kana, mistress of fire, ash, and death. I honor you, Lady Rapa, mistress of ice, snow, and sleep. I have taken away men's weapons and ended their strife so that they may all turn their hearts to thoughts of you. May you see fit to grant me many more years of life.”

The statues of the goddesses shifted and came to life.

The emperor was too stunned to move or speak.

Kana turned her bronze eyes to the kneeling Mapidéré like a woman turning to gaze at an ant. Her voice was loud, harsh, discordant, recalling the scraping of rusty swords across an old sharpening stone.

“Even if Cocru lives on only in the heart of one man, it will bring about the fall of Xana.”

Mapidéré trembled.

“Do you think I will stand by and do nothing?”

Mapidéré looked back and saw that the thunderous, sonorous voice belonged to Kiji, who had also come to life. The statue took a step forward and the ground quaked beneath Mapidéré. The Mingén falcon took off from his shoulder and circled over the statues of the gods; Kana and Rapa's ravens took off also and cried challengingly at the falcon.

“Have you forgotten our pact?” said Rapa, whose voice was melli­fluous, cool, harmonious, but no less powerful than her sister's. She and Kana were as far apart as ice and fire, yet as close as sleep and death.

“I'm not the one agitating for further bloodshed,” said Kiji. He lifted his left hand, which was missing a pinkie, placed the index and middle fingers into his mouth, and whistled. The Mingén falcon, still gazing balefully at the ravens, reluctantly returned to his shoulder. “Xana has emerged victorious. The time for war is over. Mapidéré has brought peace, however much you may dislike him.”

The statue of Fithowéo of Rima, a lean, muscular man in leather armor carrying a long spear with an obsidian tip, shifted and spoke next. “Taking away men's weapons will not bring peace. They'll fight with sticks and stones, and tooth and nail. Mapidéré's is a peace supported only by fear, as secure as a nest built on a rotten branch.”

Mapidéré despaired at the words of Lord Fithowéo, the god of the hunt, of metals and stone, and war and peace. The emperor looked into the god's eyes, the cold, dark obsidian from Mount Fithowéo, and saw no compassion. His
pawi
, the wolf, howled to accompany the end of his master's rumbling speech.

Fithowéo bared his teeth at Kiji and let out a bloodcurdling war cry.

“Do not mistake my restraint for weakness,” said Kiji. “It has been eons since my falcon pecked out your eyes and you had to replace them with stones. Would you like to experience blindness again?”

“Listen to how you talk!” Kana's discordant laughter made Kiji wince. “The last time we fought I singed off all the hair on your head and your beard so that you now have to make do with these ridiculous sideburns. I'd be happy to leave you some deeper scars—”

“—or make you lose more than just your pinkie from frostbite,” said Rapa. Her lovely, cold voice made the threat seem even more frightening.

Mapidéré fell to the ground and scrambled away on his hands and knees to the statue of Rufizo of Faça, lord of life, healing, and green pastures. He grabbed a big toe with both his arms, but the cold metal provided no comfort.

“Lord Rufizo,” Mapidéré cried out, “protect me! Stop this strife among your siblings.”

Rufizo was a tall, lanky young man wearing a cape of green ivy. His sad eyes came to life, and he shook his foot carefully, casting off Mapidéré like a dirt clod. He stepped between Kiji, Fithowéo, and the Twins and spoke in a voice as gentle and soothing as the pools fed by Rufizo Falls, whose water was hot year round, keeping nearby pastures green despite the cold climate of the Faça Highlands.

“Enough of this posturing, my brothers and sisters. After the Diaspora Wars, during which all of us caused our mother much grief, we vowed that the gods would never again harm one another, as Moäno is our witness. During all the years of Mapidéré's wars, we kept peace among us. Today is not the day to break that promise.”

Mapidéré, lying on the ground, was comforted by this speech. He remembered that in the aftermath of the mythical, bloody Diaspora Wars, when the gods had accompanied ancient Ano heroes onto the battlefield, the divine siblings had vowed to never again take up arms against one another. Henceforth they would only interfere in the affairs of men indirectly, by persuasion, trickery, inspiration, or prophesy. The gods also agreed to never again directly fight against the mortals, but to work through other men.

Emboldened by the thought that the gods were honor-bound to not harm him, a mere mortal, he stood up and croaked out to Rufizo, as loudly as his frail body could manage, “You, of all the gods, must understand how my life has been dedicated to a war to end all wars.”