Speaking Bones, page 32
The impulse passed, unheeded. She was the empress regent, the holder of the Seal of Dara. She was watched, observed, spied upon. Even a dream-utterance could betray her and risk everything she had worked so long and so hard to achieve.
“So you pay for peace,” said Gin, “appease the Lyucu to keep the hostages alive. You wait, hoping something will change.”
Jia nodded. “And to succeed, I must remove the very possibility of an invasion from the minds of the people. Patriotism is like fire, a dangerous sentiment that can easily roar out of control when stoked. If the Throne holds military parades in Pan, if Imperial airships fly over temple consecrations, if the banner of Dara were flown above government buildings and public forums, if veterans were esteemed and honored at festivals, if Imuri’s song were chorused as a patriotic anthem before the Imperial examinations—then it would be natural for the people to feel roused to war, to account little of its cost. That is why I have starved the military, neglected the veterans, suppressed accounts of the suffering of the people of Unredeemed Dara, hobbled commanders with civilian monitors…. The people of Dara must not be allowed to think a military invasion is the answer.”
“You’ve always been suspicious of Kuni’s generals,” said Gin. “But to treat the military as though they were the enemy… to subject the veterans to contempt and chill their hearts… You’ve seen what happens when you carry that suspicion too far.”
“I have made mistakes,” acknowledged Jia. “But too little investment in defense can be easily remedied in a crisis, for there will always be brave men and women like you willing to take up the banner of Dara against our enemies. The opposite error, of trusting the army too much, is a far more perilous condition for the body politic. Courage can all too easily metastasize into a darker ambition with no cure. You remember what happened during the Principate: War became its own end, and warlords ruled the land.
“A standing army is an insatiable beast: It demands foes and growth. More, always more. More funds, more weapons, more soldiers, more victories. It comes to dominate the economy, as inventors devote their minds to methods of killing and industry becomes entwined with the machinery of war. Expropriation and conquest become more valued than cultivation and production.
“And when the army has run out of enemies, it will manufacture them. War is a drug that creates an unquenchable thirst. After Mapidéré conquered the Six States, he sent Admiral Krita’s fleet beyond the Wall of Storms in search of the land of immortals. After Tenryo Roatan was finished with the Agon and Admiral Krita’s fleet, he set his eyes on the Islands of Dara, though we had nothing to do with Mapidéré’s folly. What will Phyro do, when he has ‘liberated’ Unredeemed Dara into charred reefs strewn with bones? Will he not want to launch an expedition to Ukyu to punish the Lyucu and avenge the dead? When will the cycles of slaughter end?
“In facing our enemies, we must take care not to become like them. As founders of a new dynasty, Kuni and I must always keep in mind that our actions are constitutive acts for subsequent generations, and weighty as precedent. If we do not prize peace, it becomes harder for successive sovereigns to do so. To protect the people of Dara from the dark future of militarism, the army must be caged and the generals chained.”
Gin gazed into Jia’s impassioned eyes. At length, she said, “You speak of broad trends as though they are certainties; you speak of historical patterns as though they dictate the future. But how can you claim to know the future when even the gods speak ambivalently? Time may not be a cycle. History is not the only story we can tell. Honor and courage do not have to devolve into ambition and zealotry.”
“I wish I could have your faith,” said Jia. “But I cannot gamble with the lives of the people of Dara, whether they live in Pan or Kriphi. Peace must prevail.”
“You are a worthy Empress of Dara, but as always, I’m saddened by your way of looking at the world, an ugly, brutal world that I do not want to live in.”
“It is the only world we have,” said Jia. “I expect we’ll never be able to convince each other of the truth of our respective visions.”
Both smiled, reminded of a very similar debate they had had a long time ago.
The stars began to fade; the dream was about to end.
“It’s good to see you, Gin,” Jia said. She meant it.
“One last thing, Rénga,” said Gin. “You say that the price of confronting evil is too high. But if in your peace, the people of Dara devolve to be all like Mosoa, is that not also too high a price?”
She strode away, leaving Jia alone with her thoughts.
* * *
These days, it was getting harder and harder for officials to secure a private audience with Empress Jia. She sometimes even skipped meetings of the Inner Council, complaining of headaches or other sources of discomfort. She preferred to spend her time in seclusion with Lady Soto, playing cüpa or reminiscing about the past. Soto never lobbied her for some policy or other, and such tranquil company was hard to find.
But this time, even Soto didn’t know where the empress was. Unable to locate her in either the public sector of the palace or the private quarters of the Imperial family, Prime Minister Cogo Yelu eventually came to the Pellucid Cocoon Shrine.
A pair of Dyran Fins barred his way at the shrine door.
“Our mistress is meditating,” said Teké, one of the Dyran Fins, her tone polite but firm. Like all Jia’s bodyguards, she spoke in the distinctive accent of Boama, their mistress’s home topolect, different from the courtly accent derived from Kuni’s Central Cocru. Though only about twenty in age, she acted with no deference toward Cogo’s station or seniority.
Cogo nodded and knelt down on the brick-lined path. “I’ll wait here. It’s important.” He placed the tray laden with thick bundles of scrolls on the grass next to him.
Teké made no move to report his presence to the empress—not that Cogo expected her to. To the Dyran Fins, nothing mattered except what Jia wanted. The two Dyran Fins remained at the shrine door, looking vigilantly ahead. A distinctive birthmark next to Teké’s right eye, shaped like a plum, seemed to glare at Cogo like a third eye, ensuring that he was no trouble.
Cogo sighed and closed his eyes, contemplating the shrine before him in his mind.
Located on the former site of the Moon-Gazing Tower, the Pellucid Cocoon Shrine was both the tallest and most distinctive structure in the entire palace complex. Unlike most buildings in Pan, which sported angular, sweeping roofs and stately columns of thick oak, the shrine was constructed from a bamboo frame wrapped in layers of gray and white silk. Cylindrical at the base, the shrine narrowed as it rose into the air, twisting and gyrating like a climbing vine or a wriggling silkworm until it came to a narrow tip topped by a giant pearl. Viewed from a distance, it resembled the tall spire of a sea snail shell, or a column of coiling smoke.
The shrine was dedicated to the memory of Empress Risana, who had fallen to her death here from atop the Moon-Gazing Tower (the guilty edifice had been torn down after the event to remove the taint of ill fortune). Every year, on the day of the Grave-Mending Festival, Empress Jia honored her sister-wife with another title that was recorded by the court historians and added to the row of stone tablets erected along the bamboo groove path leading to the entrance of the shrine: Sea-Compassionate Empress, Cloud-Fair Consort of the Dandelion Throne, Mountain-Wise Mother of Dara, Breeze-Gentle Sister, Clear-Seeing Smokecrafter, Earth-Sturdy Adviser, Paragon of Faith and Piety, Counselor of Victory-Without-Shedding-Blood, Most Moral Exemplar of Feminine Virtue, Merciful Advocate for the War-Torn….
Some poets praised Empress Jia for her solicitousness of the memory of Risana. It was but one sign of the grandness of her soul, the poets wrote, because Risana was rumored to have claimed a greater portion of Emperor Ragin’s affections, especially in his later years. Yet, instead of seeking to bury her in oblivion out of jealousy, Jia highlighted Risana’s achievements—though they were obviously outshone by Jia’s own accomplishments as regent and supreme ruler of Dara—and heaped lavish honors upon her, going so far as to grant the junior consort the title of empress posthumously.
Others saw something more sinister in Empress Jia’s actions. After all, Consort Fina, youngest consort of Emperor Kuni, who had died giving birth to Princess Fara, never received even a fraction of the honors given to Risana. Could it be, these gossips whispered, that Empress Jia was using the effusive titles stacked on his mother’s memory to placate the young Emperor Monadétu? Was it perhaps a way to compensate him, at least symbolically, for the seemingly interminable regency? Fara, by all signs devoid of ambition, needed no such psychic bribery.
Whatever her real motives, Empress Jia often came to the Pellucid Cocoon Shrine to offer incense and to meditate, especially when momentous decisions had to be made, claiming to seek her sister-wife’s spiritual counsel.
“Cogo.” The empress’s voice came from the door of the shrine. “My apologies. Have you been waiting long?”
Eyes snapping open, Cogo bowed deeply. “Not at all.”
Eyeing the scrolls lying next to him on the grass, and without changing her expression, Jia backed into the shrine and swept one arm in a gesture of invitation. “Come inside.” She turned to the Dyran Fins. “Go to the edge of the grove and keep everyone away.” After a brief pause, she added, “Including Koko and Tutu.” The empress never bothered to learn the names of her lovers-of-the-month, preferring to rename them like pets.
Cogo grabbed the tray of scrolls and followed the empress into the shrine. Though it was high summer, the inside was cool and comfortable. They climbed the long, spiraling bamboo staircase. From time to time, both paused to catch their breath.
Neither of us can move as effortlessly as we did in our youth, reflected Cogo. Time catches up with all…. How much longer can we wait?
Eventually, they reached the small sanctum at the top. Calming incense burned in a brazier, and comfortable cushions lined the floor. The empress sat down in géüpa and sighed with contentment.
“You must not strain yourself, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Cogo. Carefully, he knelt down in mipa rari. It was his habit when in her presence never to break protocol, the same way he never called her Rénga. If Jia noticed, she never commented on it. “Be solicitous of your own health. So much depends on you.”
“You seemed to desire privacy for your audience,” she said, catching her breath. “Climbing up here is the quickest way to achieve it.”
“There is nothing so urgent that I would presume to risk your well-being.”
Coolly, Jia regarded Cogo, who did not meet her gaze. The corners of her mouth turned up in a bitter smile.
“I am getting old,” she said, “much as I dislike to admit it. But you’re an old friend, Cogo, and I think we have earned the right to demand honesty from each other.”
“My thoughts have always been as transparent to you as my speech,” Cogo said, without looking up from the silk-lined floor.
Jia sighed as she poured tea for Cogo and herself. This was always Cogo’s way. Despite her declaration, she couldn’t be sure they were friends. They were more like partners in a boat, rowing in the same direction and with the same stroke, most of the time.
When she pushed, he often yielded and then flowed around her like water, giving her no purchase. He never confronted her, but there were times when he arranged things in a way that carried out the letter of her orders instead of the spirit. Alone among all the ministers, he seemed to understand what she feared and what she hoped to accomplish. Yet, she couldn’t trust him with the totality of her vision.
“I assume this isn’t about Fara.”
Cogo shook his head. “The farseers haven’t been able to locate the princess. Secretary Kidosu can’t spare more people on the task until the crisis in Ginpen—”
“Tell Zomi to call off the search,” said Jia, her voice weary. “Fara is old enough to take care of herself. If she doesn’t want to be found, so be it. Children, even princesses, go where they will.”
She took a sip of tea and then pointed to the tray of scrolls. “What are these? More petitions from the College of Advocates complaining about the treaty? The fact that Aya was halted by a few warmongering fools means nothing. Delivery of the treaty is a mere formality. I’ve already ordered that a new emissary be nominated.”
Instead of answering, Cogo handed her one of the scrolls. Reluctantly, she accepted it.
As Jia scanned the columns of logograms, her expression didn’t change. Wordlessly, she set the scroll down, and picked up a second one.
Cogo looked around the sanctum. He had not been up here in some time. Behind the incense burners hung an embroidered portrait of Empress Risana. In line with the ethereal, light design of the shrine itself, instead of an elaborate, gilded statue, this simple portrait was the only object of veneration.
But what a portrait it was! Done entirely in shades of black and gray, the figure of Risana was realized with only abstract lines rather than the detailed, lifelike brushstrokes characteristic of the hand of a painter trained in the camera obscura and at formal model sittings. A short black dash evoked her left shoulder; three short curves elicited the shape of her face; a series of wavy silver ripples filled in the rest of her half-glimpsed body; two long, sinuous gray swirls, as airy as smoke trails, suggested the motion of her famed long sleeves in dance.
The entire creation was reminiscent both of Lady Mira’s abstractionist portraits of the Hegemon and of Risana’s own unique style of smokecraft. It was, of course, the work of Princess Fara, who had made it as a present for her elder brother when they were younger. Phyro had kept the portrait in his room and wept in front of it daily. When his attendants informed Empress Jia, she praised the portrait and ordered it removed from the young emperor’s room so that it could be hung here, replacing the gaudy gold-and-ivory memorial statue that had been commissioned by Jia herself. Phyro had refused to speak to her for months after that.
She finished reading the last scroll. “These petitions may come from different hands, but the arguments show a remarkable unity.”
Cogo Yelu bowed slightly. “Members of the College of Advocates do work closely.”
Empress Jia chuckled without mirth. “Someone is feeding them arguments—someone who enjoys crawling through musty, worm-ridden scrolls for specious legal reasoning.”
“The precedent set by Üthephada of Amu is good law,” said Cogo, his tone even.
“There is no such thing as ‘law’ when it comes to relations between states,” said Empress Jia, an edge coming into her voice. “All that matters is power. Do you think the Lyucu care about these precious ‘precedents’ set by the petty Tiro states? The treaty has been signed; the debate is over.”
“The Lyucu may not care,” said Cogo, his voice as gentle as water, “but the Dandelion Court does. There is a building consensus among the ministers and generals that since the treaty has not been delivered, debate isn’t over.”
Jia sighed. “What is the point of further debate? We’ve all heard everything we need to hear. A decision has been made.”
“Not one that takes into account the new argument,” said Cogo, pointing at the scrolls.
“These don’t contain any new argument. Most of the petitions circle around the same theme: the desire of the few for a safe and peaceful life must not outweigh the yearning of the many for justice. This is nothing but a clever way to twist my words and clothe the same old argument in fresh garments.”
“The argument comes now with previously unweighed support,” said Cogo. “The people have spoken. The advocates describe vividly the scale and vehemence of the protests in Ginpen that stopped Princess Aya—”
“It’s the fault of that foolish girl!” said Jia. “Why did she have to march through the streets of Ginpen as though she were returning from a triumph, making herself a convenient target for political drama? She should have relied on stealth, secrecy—”
Cogo shook his head. “Aya should not be blamed. Veterans’ societies from all around Dara are unified in their opposition to the treaty, and many scholars are standing with them—”
“I’ve told you that I don’t trust these veterans’ societies,” said Jia. “This protest has all the signs of being stirred up by pro-war agitators.”
When the veterans’ societies began popping up around Dara a couple of years ago, Jia had been suspicious and ordered Zomi, as Farsight Secretary, to investigate them. Zomi claimed that she found nothing incriminating. Unconvinced, Jia had then asked Cogo to conduct an investigation, but the Prime Minister pleaded lack of resources and expertise. Jia would have liked to conduct her own surveillance with the Dyran Fins, but unfortunately, Wi and Shido had their hands full overseeing the secret trade arrangement with Tiphan Huto.
“Even if some of the veterans have been manipulated,” said Cogo, “it doesn’t make their sentiments inauthentic. To lure all the fish into one weir may be a trick, but that only works if the river is already full of fish.”
“A few veterans can hardly represent the voice of the people. I will not back down from the right path for Dara because some disgruntled old soldiers—”
“It’s far more than that,” said Cogo. “The people of Dara are speaking out through multiple channels: members of the College of Advocates fill your desk with petitions; hundreds of veterans have pledged not to ingest a single grain of rice until you relent; hundreds of monks and nuns have declared ill omens seen in the sky and the sea, showing the gods’ displeasure with this treaty; fifty-eight ministers kneel at this moment in the Grand Audience Hall, demanding that you reopen the debate in formal court; stevedores and students in Ginpen have formed human chains around the docks of Ginpen, vowing to stop anyone from boarding the tribute ships; elders in fishing villages along the northern coast have organized fleets to blockade the port of Ginpen, promising to ram their boats into the tribute fleet if it tries to depart; in Boama, Dimu, Çaruza, Müning, and other cities, crowds have gathered around government buildings, chanting songs from patriotic operas—”
“So you pay for peace,” said Gin, “appease the Lyucu to keep the hostages alive. You wait, hoping something will change.”
Jia nodded. “And to succeed, I must remove the very possibility of an invasion from the minds of the people. Patriotism is like fire, a dangerous sentiment that can easily roar out of control when stoked. If the Throne holds military parades in Pan, if Imperial airships fly over temple consecrations, if the banner of Dara were flown above government buildings and public forums, if veterans were esteemed and honored at festivals, if Imuri’s song were chorused as a patriotic anthem before the Imperial examinations—then it would be natural for the people to feel roused to war, to account little of its cost. That is why I have starved the military, neglected the veterans, suppressed accounts of the suffering of the people of Unredeemed Dara, hobbled commanders with civilian monitors…. The people of Dara must not be allowed to think a military invasion is the answer.”
“You’ve always been suspicious of Kuni’s generals,” said Gin. “But to treat the military as though they were the enemy… to subject the veterans to contempt and chill their hearts… You’ve seen what happens when you carry that suspicion too far.”
“I have made mistakes,” acknowledged Jia. “But too little investment in defense can be easily remedied in a crisis, for there will always be brave men and women like you willing to take up the banner of Dara against our enemies. The opposite error, of trusting the army too much, is a far more perilous condition for the body politic. Courage can all too easily metastasize into a darker ambition with no cure. You remember what happened during the Principate: War became its own end, and warlords ruled the land.
“A standing army is an insatiable beast: It demands foes and growth. More, always more. More funds, more weapons, more soldiers, more victories. It comes to dominate the economy, as inventors devote their minds to methods of killing and industry becomes entwined with the machinery of war. Expropriation and conquest become more valued than cultivation and production.
“And when the army has run out of enemies, it will manufacture them. War is a drug that creates an unquenchable thirst. After Mapidéré conquered the Six States, he sent Admiral Krita’s fleet beyond the Wall of Storms in search of the land of immortals. After Tenryo Roatan was finished with the Agon and Admiral Krita’s fleet, he set his eyes on the Islands of Dara, though we had nothing to do with Mapidéré’s folly. What will Phyro do, when he has ‘liberated’ Unredeemed Dara into charred reefs strewn with bones? Will he not want to launch an expedition to Ukyu to punish the Lyucu and avenge the dead? When will the cycles of slaughter end?
“In facing our enemies, we must take care not to become like them. As founders of a new dynasty, Kuni and I must always keep in mind that our actions are constitutive acts for subsequent generations, and weighty as precedent. If we do not prize peace, it becomes harder for successive sovereigns to do so. To protect the people of Dara from the dark future of militarism, the army must be caged and the generals chained.”
Gin gazed into Jia’s impassioned eyes. At length, she said, “You speak of broad trends as though they are certainties; you speak of historical patterns as though they dictate the future. But how can you claim to know the future when even the gods speak ambivalently? Time may not be a cycle. History is not the only story we can tell. Honor and courage do not have to devolve into ambition and zealotry.”
“I wish I could have your faith,” said Jia. “But I cannot gamble with the lives of the people of Dara, whether they live in Pan or Kriphi. Peace must prevail.”
“You are a worthy Empress of Dara, but as always, I’m saddened by your way of looking at the world, an ugly, brutal world that I do not want to live in.”
“It is the only world we have,” said Jia. “I expect we’ll never be able to convince each other of the truth of our respective visions.”
Both smiled, reminded of a very similar debate they had had a long time ago.
The stars began to fade; the dream was about to end.
“It’s good to see you, Gin,” Jia said. She meant it.
“One last thing, Rénga,” said Gin. “You say that the price of confronting evil is too high. But if in your peace, the people of Dara devolve to be all like Mosoa, is that not also too high a price?”
She strode away, leaving Jia alone with her thoughts.
* * *
These days, it was getting harder and harder for officials to secure a private audience with Empress Jia. She sometimes even skipped meetings of the Inner Council, complaining of headaches or other sources of discomfort. She preferred to spend her time in seclusion with Lady Soto, playing cüpa or reminiscing about the past. Soto never lobbied her for some policy or other, and such tranquil company was hard to find.
But this time, even Soto didn’t know where the empress was. Unable to locate her in either the public sector of the palace or the private quarters of the Imperial family, Prime Minister Cogo Yelu eventually came to the Pellucid Cocoon Shrine.
A pair of Dyran Fins barred his way at the shrine door.
“Our mistress is meditating,” said Teké, one of the Dyran Fins, her tone polite but firm. Like all Jia’s bodyguards, she spoke in the distinctive accent of Boama, their mistress’s home topolect, different from the courtly accent derived from Kuni’s Central Cocru. Though only about twenty in age, she acted with no deference toward Cogo’s station or seniority.
Cogo nodded and knelt down on the brick-lined path. “I’ll wait here. It’s important.” He placed the tray laden with thick bundles of scrolls on the grass next to him.
Teké made no move to report his presence to the empress—not that Cogo expected her to. To the Dyran Fins, nothing mattered except what Jia wanted. The two Dyran Fins remained at the shrine door, looking vigilantly ahead. A distinctive birthmark next to Teké’s right eye, shaped like a plum, seemed to glare at Cogo like a third eye, ensuring that he was no trouble.
Cogo sighed and closed his eyes, contemplating the shrine before him in his mind.
Located on the former site of the Moon-Gazing Tower, the Pellucid Cocoon Shrine was both the tallest and most distinctive structure in the entire palace complex. Unlike most buildings in Pan, which sported angular, sweeping roofs and stately columns of thick oak, the shrine was constructed from a bamboo frame wrapped in layers of gray and white silk. Cylindrical at the base, the shrine narrowed as it rose into the air, twisting and gyrating like a climbing vine or a wriggling silkworm until it came to a narrow tip topped by a giant pearl. Viewed from a distance, it resembled the tall spire of a sea snail shell, or a column of coiling smoke.
The shrine was dedicated to the memory of Empress Risana, who had fallen to her death here from atop the Moon-Gazing Tower (the guilty edifice had been torn down after the event to remove the taint of ill fortune). Every year, on the day of the Grave-Mending Festival, Empress Jia honored her sister-wife with another title that was recorded by the court historians and added to the row of stone tablets erected along the bamboo groove path leading to the entrance of the shrine: Sea-Compassionate Empress, Cloud-Fair Consort of the Dandelion Throne, Mountain-Wise Mother of Dara, Breeze-Gentle Sister, Clear-Seeing Smokecrafter, Earth-Sturdy Adviser, Paragon of Faith and Piety, Counselor of Victory-Without-Shedding-Blood, Most Moral Exemplar of Feminine Virtue, Merciful Advocate for the War-Torn….
Some poets praised Empress Jia for her solicitousness of the memory of Risana. It was but one sign of the grandness of her soul, the poets wrote, because Risana was rumored to have claimed a greater portion of Emperor Ragin’s affections, especially in his later years. Yet, instead of seeking to bury her in oblivion out of jealousy, Jia highlighted Risana’s achievements—though they were obviously outshone by Jia’s own accomplishments as regent and supreme ruler of Dara—and heaped lavish honors upon her, going so far as to grant the junior consort the title of empress posthumously.
Others saw something more sinister in Empress Jia’s actions. After all, Consort Fina, youngest consort of Emperor Kuni, who had died giving birth to Princess Fara, never received even a fraction of the honors given to Risana. Could it be, these gossips whispered, that Empress Jia was using the effusive titles stacked on his mother’s memory to placate the young Emperor Monadétu? Was it perhaps a way to compensate him, at least symbolically, for the seemingly interminable regency? Fara, by all signs devoid of ambition, needed no such psychic bribery.
Whatever her real motives, Empress Jia often came to the Pellucid Cocoon Shrine to offer incense and to meditate, especially when momentous decisions had to be made, claiming to seek her sister-wife’s spiritual counsel.
“Cogo.” The empress’s voice came from the door of the shrine. “My apologies. Have you been waiting long?”
Eyes snapping open, Cogo bowed deeply. “Not at all.”
Eyeing the scrolls lying next to him on the grass, and without changing her expression, Jia backed into the shrine and swept one arm in a gesture of invitation. “Come inside.” She turned to the Dyran Fins. “Go to the edge of the grove and keep everyone away.” After a brief pause, she added, “Including Koko and Tutu.” The empress never bothered to learn the names of her lovers-of-the-month, preferring to rename them like pets.
Cogo grabbed the tray of scrolls and followed the empress into the shrine. Though it was high summer, the inside was cool and comfortable. They climbed the long, spiraling bamboo staircase. From time to time, both paused to catch their breath.
Neither of us can move as effortlessly as we did in our youth, reflected Cogo. Time catches up with all…. How much longer can we wait?
Eventually, they reached the small sanctum at the top. Calming incense burned in a brazier, and comfortable cushions lined the floor. The empress sat down in géüpa and sighed with contentment.
“You must not strain yourself, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Cogo. Carefully, he knelt down in mipa rari. It was his habit when in her presence never to break protocol, the same way he never called her Rénga. If Jia noticed, she never commented on it. “Be solicitous of your own health. So much depends on you.”
“You seemed to desire privacy for your audience,” she said, catching her breath. “Climbing up here is the quickest way to achieve it.”
“There is nothing so urgent that I would presume to risk your well-being.”
Coolly, Jia regarded Cogo, who did not meet her gaze. The corners of her mouth turned up in a bitter smile.
“I am getting old,” she said, “much as I dislike to admit it. But you’re an old friend, Cogo, and I think we have earned the right to demand honesty from each other.”
“My thoughts have always been as transparent to you as my speech,” Cogo said, without looking up from the silk-lined floor.
Jia sighed as she poured tea for Cogo and herself. This was always Cogo’s way. Despite her declaration, she couldn’t be sure they were friends. They were more like partners in a boat, rowing in the same direction and with the same stroke, most of the time.
When she pushed, he often yielded and then flowed around her like water, giving her no purchase. He never confronted her, but there were times when he arranged things in a way that carried out the letter of her orders instead of the spirit. Alone among all the ministers, he seemed to understand what she feared and what she hoped to accomplish. Yet, she couldn’t trust him with the totality of her vision.
“I assume this isn’t about Fara.”
Cogo shook his head. “The farseers haven’t been able to locate the princess. Secretary Kidosu can’t spare more people on the task until the crisis in Ginpen—”
“Tell Zomi to call off the search,” said Jia, her voice weary. “Fara is old enough to take care of herself. If she doesn’t want to be found, so be it. Children, even princesses, go where they will.”
She took a sip of tea and then pointed to the tray of scrolls. “What are these? More petitions from the College of Advocates complaining about the treaty? The fact that Aya was halted by a few warmongering fools means nothing. Delivery of the treaty is a mere formality. I’ve already ordered that a new emissary be nominated.”
Instead of answering, Cogo handed her one of the scrolls. Reluctantly, she accepted it.
As Jia scanned the columns of logograms, her expression didn’t change. Wordlessly, she set the scroll down, and picked up a second one.
Cogo looked around the sanctum. He had not been up here in some time. Behind the incense burners hung an embroidered portrait of Empress Risana. In line with the ethereal, light design of the shrine itself, instead of an elaborate, gilded statue, this simple portrait was the only object of veneration.
But what a portrait it was! Done entirely in shades of black and gray, the figure of Risana was realized with only abstract lines rather than the detailed, lifelike brushstrokes characteristic of the hand of a painter trained in the camera obscura and at formal model sittings. A short black dash evoked her left shoulder; three short curves elicited the shape of her face; a series of wavy silver ripples filled in the rest of her half-glimpsed body; two long, sinuous gray swirls, as airy as smoke trails, suggested the motion of her famed long sleeves in dance.
The entire creation was reminiscent both of Lady Mira’s abstractionist portraits of the Hegemon and of Risana’s own unique style of smokecraft. It was, of course, the work of Princess Fara, who had made it as a present for her elder brother when they were younger. Phyro had kept the portrait in his room and wept in front of it daily. When his attendants informed Empress Jia, she praised the portrait and ordered it removed from the young emperor’s room so that it could be hung here, replacing the gaudy gold-and-ivory memorial statue that had been commissioned by Jia herself. Phyro had refused to speak to her for months after that.
She finished reading the last scroll. “These petitions may come from different hands, but the arguments show a remarkable unity.”
Cogo Yelu bowed slightly. “Members of the College of Advocates do work closely.”
Empress Jia chuckled without mirth. “Someone is feeding them arguments—someone who enjoys crawling through musty, worm-ridden scrolls for specious legal reasoning.”
“The precedent set by Üthephada of Amu is good law,” said Cogo, his tone even.
“There is no such thing as ‘law’ when it comes to relations between states,” said Empress Jia, an edge coming into her voice. “All that matters is power. Do you think the Lyucu care about these precious ‘precedents’ set by the petty Tiro states? The treaty has been signed; the debate is over.”
“The Lyucu may not care,” said Cogo, his voice as gentle as water, “but the Dandelion Court does. There is a building consensus among the ministers and generals that since the treaty has not been delivered, debate isn’t over.”
Jia sighed. “What is the point of further debate? We’ve all heard everything we need to hear. A decision has been made.”
“Not one that takes into account the new argument,” said Cogo, pointing at the scrolls.
“These don’t contain any new argument. Most of the petitions circle around the same theme: the desire of the few for a safe and peaceful life must not outweigh the yearning of the many for justice. This is nothing but a clever way to twist my words and clothe the same old argument in fresh garments.”
“The argument comes now with previously unweighed support,” said Cogo. “The people have spoken. The advocates describe vividly the scale and vehemence of the protests in Ginpen that stopped Princess Aya—”
“It’s the fault of that foolish girl!” said Jia. “Why did she have to march through the streets of Ginpen as though she were returning from a triumph, making herself a convenient target for political drama? She should have relied on stealth, secrecy—”
Cogo shook his head. “Aya should not be blamed. Veterans’ societies from all around Dara are unified in their opposition to the treaty, and many scholars are standing with them—”
“I’ve told you that I don’t trust these veterans’ societies,” said Jia. “This protest has all the signs of being stirred up by pro-war agitators.”
When the veterans’ societies began popping up around Dara a couple of years ago, Jia had been suspicious and ordered Zomi, as Farsight Secretary, to investigate them. Zomi claimed that she found nothing incriminating. Unconvinced, Jia had then asked Cogo to conduct an investigation, but the Prime Minister pleaded lack of resources and expertise. Jia would have liked to conduct her own surveillance with the Dyran Fins, but unfortunately, Wi and Shido had their hands full overseeing the secret trade arrangement with Tiphan Huto.
“Even if some of the veterans have been manipulated,” said Cogo, “it doesn’t make their sentiments inauthentic. To lure all the fish into one weir may be a trick, but that only works if the river is already full of fish.”
“A few veterans can hardly represent the voice of the people. I will not back down from the right path for Dara because some disgruntled old soldiers—”
“It’s far more than that,” said Cogo. “The people of Dara are speaking out through multiple channels: members of the College of Advocates fill your desk with petitions; hundreds of veterans have pledged not to ingest a single grain of rice until you relent; hundreds of monks and nuns have declared ill omens seen in the sky and the sea, showing the gods’ displeasure with this treaty; fifty-eight ministers kneel at this moment in the Grand Audience Hall, demanding that you reopen the debate in formal court; stevedores and students in Ginpen have formed human chains around the docks of Ginpen, vowing to stop anyone from boarding the tribute ships; elders in fishing villages along the northern coast have organized fleets to blockade the port of Ginpen, promising to ram their boats into the tribute fleet if it tries to depart; in Boama, Dimu, Çaruza, Müning, and other cities, crowds have gathered around government buildings, chanting songs from patriotic operas—”
