Speaking Bones, page 56
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Upon the eight-foot-tall dais was the lonely figure of Empress Jia sitting in mipa rari. The powerful men and women who kept the machinery of the empire running stood in two columns along the sides of the Grand Audience Hall: civil ministers to the east, military officers to the west.
Up front, at the foot of the dais, was the neglected Dandelion Throne, shrouded in its silk veil.
Compared to the days when Emperor Ragin had presided over formal court, the western column was now noticeably shorter and sparser. The ranks of enfeoffed nobles, who had once fought for Emperor Ragin and put him on the Dandelion Throne, had been harshly culled. Years of reduced funding to the military had led to few senior officers being promoted. In the absence of Than Carucono and Puma Yemu, who were away fighting with Emperor Monadétu, the ranking military officer at court was now improbably Prince Gimoto, a proxy for his reclusive father Kado Garu, the titular King of Dasu. And since even Gimoto was absent today due to an illness—no doubt an excuse contrived by his mother and advisers, who understood better than he that his estimation in the empress’s eyes could only be diminished by his voicing of any opinions on matters of state—Princess Aya Mazoti stood at the head of the western column. Though she had been stripped of her command after the debacle that was the aborted peace treaty with the Lyucu, she remained an Imperial princess and had been retained at court as a strategist.
This was undoubtedly the court of Empress Jia, regent and holder of the Seal of Dara.
At the center of the hall knelt Noda Mi, once a Tiro king of Dara and now the voice of the Lyucu. For this occasion, he dressed like an official at the Dandelion Court, save for the vest made of long-haired cattle fur—more decorative than functional—worn outside his silk robe, and the crested mynah skull capping his hair bun—a symbol of his office as the clever-tongued envoy.
“Greetings,” began Noda Mi. “My sovereign, Pékyu Vadyu Roatan of Ukyu-taasa, Protector of Dara, bids me to inquire after the health of Her Imperial Majesty, Most August Regent of Dara, Empress Jia.”
The more politically astute ministers and generals exchanged meaningful looks. By refusing to address Empress Jia as “Rénga,” was Noda Mi trying to insult her or merely following formal court protocol?
The empress’s face betrayed no reaction. “How is my daughter-in-law? Is she sleeping well these days? I am an herbalist of some skill and can recommend some happy dream recipes for dear Tanva-tika.”
Though a few of the palace guards tittered at this, most of the ministers and generals managed to suppress their mirth. Phyro’s own messengers had brought to court news of the triumph at Crescent Island (as well as the sad news of Than Carucono’s passing), and already preparations were underway for Emperor Monadétu’s triumphal march through Pan. By completely ignoring Tanvanaki’s title and calling her by a diminutive, Empress Jia was toying with this Lyucu lapdog.
Noda refused to acknowledge the insult. “I’m most humbled by Your Imperial Majesty’s solicitousness. My votan sleeps well, knowing that Ukyu-taasa blossoms under Emperor Thaké’s gentle rule and the maternal protection of her firm hand.”
The ministers and generals glared at Noda Mi, and more than a few wished they could tear the traitor apart with their bare hands.
Zomi, in particular, could no longer hold back. Just remembering the way her mother had died and the stories told by the refugees made her blood boil. She took a step forward, out of the line of ministers on the east. “How dare you lie—”
“Silence,” said Jia, without even turning to look at her. Her voice was as cold as the first winds of winter.
Zomi pressed her lips together and stepped back into her place.
Next to her, at the head of the line, Prime Minister Cogo Yelu considered the exchange, his eyebrows furrowed almost imperceptibly. Noda Mi was no great scholar, but he was cunning and devious, and no doubt advised by erudite collaborators back in Unredeemed Dara. Noda’s words had to be parsed carefully for hidden meaning, much like those traditional logogram-covered puzzle boxes from Ginpen. Only by pressing the logograms in the correct sequence—usually clued by an obscure poem—would the box open and yield its secrets.
Cogo remembered that Kuni Garu had given his firstborn son a name drawn from Kon Fiji’s poem:
The gentle ruler governs without seeming to govern.
He honors his subjects as he honors his own mother.
By referring to Timu’s “gentle rule” and emphasizing the “maternal,” Noda Mi was obviously playing on Jia’s concern for her son, Timu.
Still revealing no emotion, Jia spoke to Noda Mi. “I’m sorry to see that you’ve been away from Dara for so long that you’ve forgotten the proper use of simple words like ‘gentle’ and ‘protection.’ But I am not your language tutor. What is it you want?”
“To negotiate a continuing peace between our two states, Dara and Ukyu-taasa.”
Jia chuckled mirthlessly. “To negotiate requires that you have something to offer. My armada has destroyed your defenses. At this moment, liberating Rui and Dasu is as easy for me as plucking a ripe peach dangling before my nose. You have nothing to offer.”
“Emperor Monadétu is indeed valiant and cunning,” said Noda Mi. At some point during this exchange, he had shifted from mipa rari to géüpa, as though he were an intimate friend of the empress. “And the pékyu agrees that his armada makes a nice wall sheltering the Great Tent from southerly winds. But to say we have nothing to offer is to gravely misread the strategic situation.”
Cogo’s eyelids twitched. While Jia had referred to the invasion force as hers, Noda Mi was deliberately emphasizing Phyro’s role. Cogo’s unease grew.
“A witless cur has no right to speak of strategy,” sneered Princess Aya Mazoti. In the aftermath of the humiliation of the botched peace mission in Ginpen, she had become an ardent member of the pro-war party. At court these days, she advocated for Phyro more zealously than just about anyone, as though trying to redeem herself—Zomi was very pleased by this turn of events.
Jia frowned but did not berate her. “Please enlighten us with your strategic vision.”
Noda Mi bowed his head. “Permission to approach Your Imperial Majesty.”
Surprised murmurs passed through the columns of ministers and generals.
“In open court,” said Jia, “there are no secrets. Speak from where you sit or do not speak at all.”
Noda Mi looked awkward. “There is much hostility toward me in this hall. Though I am only a messenger, I fear the violence of the mob when I speak a truth that many do not wish to hear.”
The murmurs of consternation only grew louder.
After a moment of hesitation, Jia beckoned at Noda Mi. He stood up, approached the base of the dais, and took out a small folded square of silk. Keeping his head bowed, he held the folded fabric above his head with both hands.
Empress Jia shuffled out of her seat to the edge of the dais, plucked the square of silk out of his hands, unfolded it, and began to read.
Noda Mi retreated back to his place in the center of the hall and sat down again in géüpa. “There is also a chest containing presents from the pékyu to prove our sincerity. I’ve left it with the palace guards.”
Every breath was held in the Grand Audience Hall as the empress read over Noda’s secret message. Whatever was written on that piece of silk wasn’t in logograms as the fabric was perfectly flat. Minutes trickled through the water clock as the assembly waited.
At length the empress folded the cloth and put it away in her sleeve. “Idle threats do not a strategy make,” she said, her tone as placid as a still pool.
Noda Mi wasn’t surprised. He had never thought the threat on the silk cloth would work. His “third path” had only been devised to assuage Tanvanaki’s panic and to please Cutanrovo’s single-minded devotion to the “Lyucu spirit.” He couldn’t have survived in Kriphi for so long without being able to come up with tricks that pleased his masters.
Sure, the barbarians were powerful and cruel, but sometimes they weren’t cruel enough to come up with the best ideas. Noda Mi had tried his best to devise the most efficient and ingenious design to carry out Cutanrovo’s deepest desires. His ostensible plot had won the backing of both the mad hard-liner thane and the pékyu, convinced them enough to allow him to be the ambassador. But no, deep down, he didn’t believe such a threat would deter the Empress of Dara.
The trouble with the barbarians, he reflected, is that they never try to look at the problem from the perspective of their opponent. Why would cold-blooded Jia be moved by the fate of the peasants of Ukyu-taasa? I certainly wouldn’t. To her, they must be as insignificant as weeds!
No, he had always had a fourth path in mind.
He and Wira Pin, the cashima whose intestines were as knotted as his own and just as full of twisted ideas, had convened in secret on how to persuade the empress. They could see that Jia shared with them the same nature of ambition and desire for more. Wira, being far more steeped in the Ano Classics and conversant with logograms than he, had helped him perfect his approach. Almost wistfully, he lamented that the Lyucu were too stupid to ever truly appreciate the value he and Wira Pin brought to their cause.
Maybe I will finally have to do something about that.
But first things first. It’s time to put my real design into action.
Almost carelessly, he dragged his hands along the floor to describe a circle around himself. In fact, he grew even more insolent as he now looked up to lock eyes with Empress Jia for the first time during this discussion. “The hearts of the people of Ukyu-taasa are united against all external threats.”
Emboldened by the fact that Empress Jia hadn’t stopped her the last time, Aya Mazoti spoke up. “This ‘people of Ukyu-taasa’ you speak of consists largely of natives pressed into service to defend a conqueror they despise. In The Mazoti Way of War, my mother wrote, ‘A volunteer is worth three draftees, and a draftee is worth ten slaves.’ How can you possibly imagine that you’ll triumph over Emperor Monadétu, who commands an army of volunteers with morale swelling like a tsunami?”
Noda Mi now leaned forward, and quickly swept his hands ahead, once again describing a circle around himself. “It has been a long time since I last saw you, Princess. I was once good friends with your mother, you know? Indeed, I often lament that Gin did not join me and Doru Solofi when she still had the chance. Had she been more clearheaded about her own strategic condition, she might not have suffered—”
“You’re not fit to speak the name of my mother!” shouted Aya Mazoti, and she took a few steps toward him, fists balled. Noda Mi was responsible both for her mother’s fall from Imperial grace—when he and Doru Solofi had taken shelter with her after their failed rebellion—and also her death at Zathin Gulf, by stabbing her in the back. It was all she could do not to kill the man on the spot.
Like Cogo, Zomi was listening to Noda Mi with growing dread. What is on that cloth he showed the Empress? Noda Mi’s boast about the defenses of Unredeemed Dara made little military sense, but his sudden appeal to his history with Gin did. Gin was always known to favor Phyro’s claim to the throne, and Jia had been convinced that a rebellion from Dara’s most powerful warlord was only a matter of time. By referring to Gin, Noda was highlighting the complicated history of mutual suspicion between Jia and Phyro. Zomi watched the man closely with unblinking eyes. What exactly is his game?
Noda Mi showed no fear at Aya’s approach. If anything, he seemed satisfied to have provoked her. Once again, he leaned back, dragging his hands along the floor. It appeared to be a nervous tic of some sort. “You speak of morale, but know that the Lyucu will be fighting for their survival with their backs against the sea. They’ll fight with more spirit than the Hegemon’s berserkers.”
Aya took another step forward, raising the ceremonial staff in her hand threateningly. “Your comparison is flawed. You’ve lost most of your garinafins. No matter how fiercely the Lyucu resist, how can they possibly hope to overcome our dominance in the air?”
Noda Mi stood up and backed away from the princess. He bowed slightly and swept his arms over the circle of land he had been obsessively describing with his dragging fists. “Princess, I invite you to imagine this plot of land as Ukyu-taasa, and to imagine the Lyucu and those loyal to them as ants scurrying across the land. I invite you, as a garinafin rider, to kill all the ants with your mighty staff.”
Aya Mazoti looked to the ground, looked back up at him, and flushed with rage and embarrassment.
At court, each minister or military officer carried a ceremonial implement as a symbol of their office. Zomi Kidosu, for example, carried a small silver balance scale for “weighing the fish,” the duty of the Farsight Secretary. Cogo Yelu, on the other hand, held a blue jade compass, symbolizing the Prime Minister’s responsibility for setting the direction of the Inner Council in policy debates. Military officers generally carried ceremonial weapons made of stiffened paper, coral, or porcelain, depending on rank. As Aya Mazoti had been stripped of all command, she carried a blunt staff constructed from stiffened paper, painted with the stylized winter plum of the House of Mazoti. Such a staff, of course, was not particularly effective against scurrying ants, imaginary or otherwise.
Aya understood that Noda’s real point wasn’t about the inadequacy of her ceremonial staff, but that air superiority alone was insufficient to secure Rui and Dasu. Noda was suggesting that the Lyucu would fade into the terrain of the islands, and the Dara conquerors would have to be prepared to dig up every tunnel, find each mountain hideout, fight a long and bitter ground war against guerrilla resistance before killing the well-defended queen.
“In a sustained ground fight, Emperor Monadétu will ultimately triumph,” said Aya Mazoti. “Once he establishes a beachhead, he will be able to call upon an endless supply of reinforcements to secure his victory.”
“Ah, yes,” said Noda Mi. “But at what price? You love the wisdom of your mother, so let me quote to you something the Marshal once said to me. ‘To kill ten enemy soldiers, we must be prepared to lose at least eight of our own.’ A war of attrition will not be any kinder to your side than my side.”
“But you’ll ultimately lose!” said Aya Mazoti. “Why not skip all the slaughter and surrender so that you can have some hope of our mercy?”
“Mercy is not the Lyucu way,” said Noda Mi. “The pékyu has given orders that all the Lyucu, whether pure-blooded, togaten, or loyal native, must resist to the utmost. We will fight you in every valley and on every hill, in every copse and on every pond, in every street and on every roof. We’ll die before we’ll yield, and so long as we kill enough of you, we’ll have no regrets. You ask what we have to negotiate with, and the simple answer is that we possess the eternal, invincible Lyucu spirit.”
“A pretty speech,” said Empress Jia at last from the dais. “But it would be far more convincing if it came from an actual Lyucu instead of one of their chained dogs. You’re about as steadfast as a reed in the wind.”
Now it was Noda Mi’s turn to blush. “Your Imperial Majesty’s wit is as blunt as it is erroneous. Regardless of your assaults on my character, I can assure you that the pékyu’s orders will be obeyed to the last syllable. Unless you’re willing to watch the sea around Rui and Dasu turn crimson as lava and the fields of Ukyu-taasa salted with the bones of the dead, I suggest that you and I”—once again he locked eyes with the empress—“sit together here”—he pointed to the circle of ground he had been sitting in earlier—“and discuss a peaceful resolution to this unnecessary conflict like civilized human beings.” He looked askance at Aya Mazoti, holding her ceremonial staff. “And leave the weapons standing, unused, outside the negotiations.”
Throughout, his movements were stiff and formal, and his tone oddly wooden, as though he were a third-rate actor in an unfamiliar role—or, perhaps more likely, terrified at facing the judgment of the people he had betrayed.
Aya Mazoti growled at the hated man, ready to lunge at the turncoat responsible for her mother’s death. But Jia broke in again. “Go back to your place.”
Still glaring at the despised Lyucu envoy, Aya backed slowly into her place at the head of the column on the western side of the Grand Audience Hall.
“You’ve presented your case, Noda Mi,” said Empress Jia, sounding distracted. “You may retire so that I and the Lords of Dara may discuss your proposal in detail.”
Noda Mi bowed his head. “A quick answer is necessary. Emperor Monadétu is an impatient man and has given us only five days before launching a direct assault on Ukyu-taasa.”
Cogo Yelu finally shuffled forward. Years of sedentary living at court had given him a crooked back and a protruding belly, and he no longer looked the part of the expert administrator who had once helped Kuni Garu conquer the world. Yet, his gaze was sharp like an eagle’s beneath those bushy, pure white eyebrows, and his voice, though aged, did not tremble.
“Noda, if time is so pressing, why have you not argued your case to the emperor, who is much closer to Kriphi, but decided to cross the sea to come to Pan?”
“Emperor Monadétu may be a skilled field commander,” said Noda. “But in a game of zamaki, it’s always best to keep in mind where the king is.”
Empress Jia looked at Cogo, and the corners of her mouth curved up in a bitter smile. “Do you think I like wielding the Grace of Kings, Cogo?”
Instead of responding, Cogo turned slightly, not to face Empress Jia looming high above, but toward the empty veiled throne in front of the dais, and bowed.
The assembled ministers and generals looked at one another. The mood in the Grand Audience Hall crackled with tension like the air before a storm.
Cogo held the bow for a long moment, his hands wrapped around the blue jade compass and extended respectfully before him.
“I promise you, Cogo. Remember the estate you once bought in Rui,” said the empress, her tone almost pleading.
