Under Heaven

Wei Song was with him on those rides, with four of the other Kanlins. All of them poised, alert, even before word of Roshan’s rising came, and panic began.

Heads would turn to watch as they rode past. Who was this unsmiling man on a magnificent Sardian horse, guarded by the black-robed ones?

Who, indeed?

HE HAD NEVER BEEN inside the palace. Never nearer than standing in crowds at festivals to receive the emperor’s elevated blessing. Xin Lun made the same joke every time: how did they know it was Glorious Emperor Taizu up there, so far away, in white and gold?

Three hundred thousand bodies could be in the square at festivals, a crushing, dangerous press in the vast space before the Ta-Ming’s inner wall. People did die: trampled, a lack of air, sometimes knifed in a quarrel, then kept upright by the dense mass of people even after they were dead, while the murderer squeezed himself away. Nimble-fingered thieves could retire on what they stole at such times. Lun had said that, too, often.

There was no crowd this morning as Tai rode up with his Kanlins. The Gold Bird Guards were present in numbers, keeping traffic moving briskly through the square and along the streets. No one was being permitted to linger and look up at the palace. Not with a rebellion under way. Order and flow were the mandate, Tai realized, or at the very least a simulation of such things, the illusion of calm. Appearances mattered.

His own appearance was formal. His steward had been unyielding. The man showed indications of being a tyrant. Tai wore blue liao silk, two layers, two shades, a wide black belt, black shoes, a soft felt hat, also black. The pins holding it, placed carefully by the steward himself, were gold, with ivory elephants for decoration. Tai had no notion how he’d come to own gold hatpins with elephants.

He wore the emperor’s ring.

The emerald was noted, he saw, by all those in the chamber into which he was finally ushered. He had proceeded, under escort, through five enormous courtyards and then, after dismounting and leaving Dynlal with his Kanlins (who were not allowed any farther), up a prodigiously wide flight of fifty stairs, through two large chambers into this one, the ceiling supported by massive pillars of pink-and-yellow marble.

Twelve men were seated cross-legged on couch platforms, advisers standing behind them, servants in the distant corners of the room.

At the head of the gathering was Wen Zhou.

Tai made a point of meeting his gaze, and so tracked the prime minister’s glance as he approached. Approaching took time, the room was ridiculously oversized. He had to cross an arched marble bridge over a pool. There were pearls embedded in the railings of the bridge.

Because he was watching, refusing to look away, he saw when the first minister’s expression shifted from frigid to uneasy—in the moment Wen Zhou’s gaze registered the emerald ring.

Sima Zian had predicted this would happen.

It was very simple, he’d said the night before, drinking the season’s first lychee-flavoured wine. Tai had not yet been formally received. Newcomers to the court were not seen by the emperor without precise observance of protocol and priority. No one knew of the emperor’s visit through the walls at Ma- wai two weeks ago.

The ring was a signature, it was known to be Taizu’s. And tomorrow a new arrival, a man who hadn’t even taken the examinations, let alone passed them, who had no military rank that mattered, no claim by birth to favour, was going to walk into the Ta-Ming wearing the emperor’s ring.

The poet had expressed a wish that he could be there to see it.

Tai looked away from the first minister, beyond him to his brother behind Wen Zhou. For the first time in his life—and it was unsettling—he saw extreme anxiety in Liu’s face, staring back at him.

Tai stopped with his palace escort beside the platform couch opposite the first minister’s, the one evidently left for him. He bowed, turning slightly each time, to include all those here.

He saw the heir, Shinzu, halfway along one side. The prince had a cup of wine, the only one there who did. He smiled at Tai. If he noticed the ring, if it surprised him, there was no sign of it.

Tai had briefly wondered if Jian would be here, but it had been an idle thought. Women did what they did behind such scenes as this—not among a council tasked with running an empire facing an armed rebellion.

He’d known, not being a complete innocent, that the emperor would not be present. Once, he might have been. Not any more. Kitai’s glorious emperor would receive a report—or more than one—in due course. Although …

Tai looked around, trying to do so casually. There were tall room screens behind Zhou, between him and the doors at the back. If someone wanted to listen and observe, unseen, it would not be difficult. The servants would see him, or her, but servants didn’t matter.

“Be seated, Second Son of Shen Gao.” Zhou’s voice was almost casual. “We have been discussing the movements of the Sixth Army. This does not concern you. Your presence has been solicited on a small matter, by the imperial heir.”

Tai nodded, and bowed again to the prince. He gathered his robes and sat down opposite the first minister. There was something almost too direct about that. Shinzu was between them, on Tai’s right side.

Wen Zhou went on, “We saw no reason—as ever—not to accede to the illustrious prince’s wish to summon you.”

We, Tai thought. He wasn’t sure what that meant.

He inclined his head again. “I am anxious to be of any possible assistance, among such august company.”

“Well,” said Zhou airily, “I believe I have a sense of what his excellency has been thinking. In truth, the matter is already in hand.”

“Indeed? How so, first minister?”

It was Shinzu. And though he still held his wine cup at a lazy, indifferent angle, his voice wasn’t lazy at all. Instinctively, Tai glanced at his brother again: Liu’s expression was transparently unhappy.

Suddenly uneasy himself, Tai looked back at the prime minister. Zhou said, with an easy gesture, “It is the western horses, of course, my lord prince. How else could this fellow be of significance? Accordingly, I dispatched twenty men yesterday to fetch them from the Tagurans. I trust your lordship is pleased.” He smiled.

Tai stood up.

It was almost certainly barbaric, he thought, to do so at such a gathering. It might even be an offence. There were precise rules for how one spoke to power in the Ta-Ming, especially if one had no proper standing. He didn’t care.

What was astonishing was how calm he’d suddenly become. It was when you cared, he thought, that you felt at risk. He said, without any salutation, “Did you ask your adviser, my brother, before you did that? Did Liu really let you do something so foolish?”

There was a shocked silence. Wen Zhou stiffened.

“Have a care, Master Shen! You are in this room only—”

“He is in this chamber at my invitation, first minister. As you noted. What were you about to say, Master Shen, while wearing my revered father’s ring as a sign of very great honour?”

So he had noticed. The prince put down his wine.

Tai couldn’t help himself: he looked again at the room screens behind Zhou. It was impossible to tell if anyone might be behind them.

He bowed again, before answering. “I only asked a question, august lord. Perhaps my brother might be allowed to answer, if the first minister remains disinclined?”

“My advisers do not speak for me!” Wen Zhou snapped.

Shinzu nodded briskly. “A sound policy. It would undermine confidence in the first minister even further if they did. So tell us, was this done after consultation with your advisers?”

Even further. No possible way to miss that.

“The proceedings of the first ministry are hardly a matter for this council. Decisions are taken in widely varied ways. Anyone with experience of governance knows that.”

A return arrow shot at a dissolute prince.