Ao Guang’s Palace
“C
HEN
L
IU.
”
“Your Imperial Majesty.”
Liu found it hard, as ever, not to stare at the imperial yellow silks which draped the walls near the throne. They were embroidered with scarlet phoenixes and peonies, and in among them, tiny human warriors.
The embroidery moved constantly. The warriors battled each other, spears thrusting, swords slashing. Tiny limbs fell to the ground. Embroidered scarlet blood spilled down the yellow silk. There were no screams, only a constant whisper as the silk threads shifted.
It was the liveliest part of the room.
Where the Queen’s court gave the impression of a kind of chaotic carnival, the Court of Ao Guang was as ponderously smooth and regular in its workings as some giant, slow machine. The courtiers, each with their specific modes of dress, moved along their assigned lines at the assigned intervals. Here, the stratifications, the motions up and down the scale of precedence and influence, could be seen at a glance. Even now, not having been a member of the court for some years, Liu could tell who had risen, who had fallen, who had dug in.
Ao Guang was on his throne. It was, of necessity, huge; he did not confine himself to human form, generally considering it below him. The throne was of fine lacquer-work, as scarlet as the blood embroidered on the curtains, piled with cushions in yellow and crimson and purple. He curled among them like a great cat, his gold eyes with their slit pupils fixed on Liu.
Liu walked towards him, doing his best to look suppliant without losing all of his swagger. Too little would suggest he was already defeated – too much would be dangerous.
He was not aiming these subtleties at Ao Guang himself, but at whoever currently had his ear. This appeared to be an elderly man – or at least, someone who bore the shape of an elderly man. He raised his head. He had the long beard that denoted wisdom, and was carrying Ao Guang’s own eating implements in a massive silver box.
Liu recognised him at once. Ao Min. He was not a man, but a sea-creature who in his other form was something like a kraken. Even as an elderly man he had a certain toothy, tentacly look about him, and his beard had a habit of moving and shifting about as though the hairs were looking for something to grasp onto. He looked at Liu as though Liu was something particularly unpleasant that had been spilled on the floor, and that he would take pleasure in ordering the servants to wipe up.
This was not promising. Between Ao Min and Liu’s father, Chen Shun, there was an established hostility whose origins Liu had never discovered.
And Ao Min had obviously moved up in Ao Guang’s favour. That was... unfortunate. But then, as soon as he had received the summons, Liu knew that this was likely to be a complex dance, where getting the steps wrong could result in the loss of worse than one’s dignity.
Liu wondered where his father was. He was conscious of a faint sense of relief at his absence, which he tried to suppress, and considered his former lord as he approached the throne.
Ao Guang was in some ways easier to deal with than the Queen. She liked to do the manipulation, whereas he, often bored but lacking imagination, (possibly, Liu considered, he was bored
because
he lacked imagination) liked others to come up with new entertainments, new intrigues, and new insults for him to take offence at. But once fixed upon a course, he was stubborn as a mountain and harder to move.
One great claw, longer than Liu’s entire body, tapped upon the arm of the throne. His latest concubine, a new one since Liu’s last visit, played upon a
pipa
– quite well, as far as Liu could judge. Her eyes were courteously lowered. She was, or at least was currently, human, and very young; perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old. She was pale and delicate as a windflower, her gown jade green, her black hair elaborately dressed with white flowers and pearls.
Liu did not look at her after that first glance. Taking too great an interest in Ao Guang’s concubines could be unhealthy.
He stopped at the prescribed point on the carpet, (deep blue, worked with peacocks in pink and gold), and made the kowtow. He had thought about this quite hard, as it would, almost inevitably, get back to the Queen. Either she would consider it a sign of too great respect shown to his former master, and would punish him for it, or she would consider it an amusing example of the barbaric ways of Ao Guang’s court. He would do his best to ensure it was the latter.
“Chen Liu. It is strange to see you in this Court again.”
Liu bowed again.
“You no longer belong here. I have no liking for having the barbarian woman’s spies and toadies in my court. You carry her stink about you. You may speak.”
“I abase myself in horror, my Lord, if I offend your nostrils.”
Ao Guang looked at him with those vast, yellow eyes, then waved a claw, dismissing the matter. “It was necessary to summon you. You remember, I am sure, a certain mechanism of the humans. Made in my image. You may speak.”
“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.” Liu felt a creeping cold. Surely, surely no-one had guessed the secret of the Etheric dragon? It represented, potentially, the only human weapon that might actually offer a threat to the Folk – though it had been altered so that this was no longer obvious. They had been so careful, and everyone connected with it was either aware of the danger the secret represented – or dead.
Evvie knew the dangers – could she have spoken carelessly? Or perhaps her mother, with her love of mechanisms, her desire that Etherics be recognised as a science... but Madeleine was a woman of sense, who had a rather better idea of the threat the Folk posed than her daughter did. She, of course, remembered an earlier time, when the Folk of her country had much more to do with humans.
Evvie, if you’ve been so careless, I’ll strangle you when I get back,
he thought. The cold in his stomach deepened.
If you’re still there when I get back.
If
I
get
back.
“I was told that it was gaudy, ugly, inelegant: an attempt at my image that was not only poor but insultingly, even
amusingly,
so.” His lip lifted, showing another inch of a tooth that was already, in Liu’s view, quite sufficiently long. “I have since received a differing report. You may speak.”
“Imperial Majesty.”
Who? And different how?
“Min,” Ao Guang said.
“Imperial Majesty.”
“Remind me, what was your opinion?” Ao Guang said, looking at neither Liu nor Min but over both their heads, as though at some higher plane of thought.
Min bowed. “Remembering always that my opinion is that of the most worthless and humble of your servants, Imperial Majesty, and that I would hesitate even to venture on such an opinion were I not concerned only for your Majesty’s honour...” Ao Guang, who never seemed to tire of this sort of thing, gave the slightest of nods. Liu kept his face fixed in an expression of bemused innocence.
“I have gathered information from what the barbarian is laughably pleased to call her Court, Imperial Majesty,” Min went on, “and it appears that the mechanical dragon pleases her greatly. Though it is not in the highest tradition of gifts, it was none the less obtained with sacrifice of time, and effort, and blood. And what is perhaps more troubling is that it appears it could have been of strategic worth to Your Imperial Majesty’s human subjects. Its removal to the Queen’s jurisdiction may prove disadvantageous to them.”
“So.” Ao Guang turned his gaze once more to Liu. “Among the humans, and indeed, here, were you still a subject of my Court, that might be considered an act of treason.”
Relief that the Etheric dragon’s true nature was still undiscovered drenched Liu like heavy liquid. However, this was still an unfortunate situation, obviously created by Min for reasons of his own.
How bad was it, though? Liu was
not
a subject of Ao Guang’s Court, not any more. He had been banished, thus freeing him to become a citizen of the Queen’s Court.
And there were rules, custom and practice.
Ao Guang would be unlikely to simply execute Liu, or restrain him from returning to the Queen. The rules of the Folk governed even their human subjects, though in terms of humans they were rather more complex, and dependent on which earthbound territory the human was in, and whether they had reached their majority, and other such things.
The fact that there were such customs did not mean Ao Guang could not make Liu’s life unpleasant and difficult if he wished to do so – and if he so desired, terminate it entirely, and risk irritating the Queen. He was only one of the four dragons of the seas, but he was the most powerful – which was why he was able to demand and receive the Imperial form of address, and be considered sufficiently important to be noticed by the Queen.
However Ao Guang was, as a rule, insular; his interest in the battles his human subjects fought was maintained only as long as he found it entertaining and could be persuaded that sacrifices were being made in his honour.
Liu bowed again, thinking furiously.
“Well?” Ao Guang said. “You may speak.”
“I am thrice desolated that such reports should have been allowed to bring Your Imperial Majesty a moment’s distress. My situation is a delicate one, and only by persuading my mistress that she had something you would desire could I retain the position of trust in which she currently holds me.”
He left it there. Ao Guang was sufficiently full of his own importance that he would easily accept the idea that Liu was establishing himself as a spy in the Queen’s court in order to curry favour and a possible invitation to return to Ao Guang’s court. Of course, if Liu was ever made such an offer, he would have to work out how to refuse without causing so much offence he would never be able to return either to Ao Guang’s court or to China itself. That would be annoying.
Liu was fairly certain he could dance his way through that situation, but this one was not over yet. Ao Guang had summoned him here to do more than simply complain, and Min was looking far too smug.
“Summon Chen Shun,” Ao Guang said.
Liu barely had time to control his face before his father appeared, in his mostly human form. His gown was dusty, his hat showing trailing threads where his button of office had been cut away. He trod lightly still, his tails glossy and full, his eyes bright, and he prostrated himself before his master with grace.
“You may stand.”
Chen Shun bounced to his feet.
“Your son disgraced this court,” Ao Guang said. Chen Shun waited, his expression one of injured innocence.
“You may speak,” Ao Guang said.
“Yes, Imperial Majesty.”
“His disgrace reflects badly on you. You may speak.”
“I know, Imperial Majesty.”
“You are only still at our court because of the entertainment you have provided us and because we wish to practise the virtues. Although I fail to recollect which one applies, except perhaps there is one regarding extraordinary generosity. You may speak.”
“The generosity and virtue of your Imperial Majesty are beyond compare.”
Min leaned over and whispered in Ao Guang’s ear.
“Ah yes,” Ao Guang said. “Now I recall. One of the eight virtues is filial piety.”
Liu’s father opened his mouth, remembered that he had not been permitted to speak, and closed it again. Ao Guang, having paused, fixed him with a stare, and said, “You have our permission to speak with your son. You may use the Room of Lesser Celestial Influence for your conversation.”
“We humble ourselves in astonishment at Your Imperial Majesty’s divine beneficence.”
Ao Guang gave the smallest of nods in acknowledgement and clapped his great paws. “I am hungry. Bring me pork. And wine.”
As servants scurried to his bidding, Liu’s father came trotting over to him. Liu bowed. His father looked him over, and shrugged. “I see. Well, my boy, come along, come along.”
Liu knew better than to ask questions while they were in the midst of the court. He followed his father along the corridors, hearing the murmured conversation and feeling glances on the back of his neck, where the hairs were already aquiver.
The Room of Lesser Celestial Influence was small, for the palace, being only large enough to hold about a hundred people in comfort. The walls were pale blue and painted with stars, planets, suns, and moons; these were all considered things of lesser celestial influence than Ao Guang himself – at least by Ao Guang.
Being beneath his notice, this was one of the few rooms that contained no image of him.
Liu closed the door after himself, gently, but still said nothing.
“Well, this is a fine thing,” Shun said, flinging himself into one of the blue-silk-upholstered chairs, his tails draped over the arm. “I hope you brought some wine.”
“No, Father, I’m sorry.” Liu glanced back at the door.
“You might have thought of it. I have been wanting to try some new wine, and since your antics it’s so hard to get any. Well you can get me some when you do what’s asked of you.”
“Father...” Liu glanced at the door again. The room appeared empty, but everyone who had been in the throne-room knew where they were, anyone who hadn’t been would within minutes, and the chances that someone was listening to them were so high as to be a certainty.
“You think we’re overheard?” Shun grinned. “Why should it matter? All they will hear is your father making a request of his son, which his son will not, of course, dishonour him by disobeying.”
Liu’s heart was already sinking. “You’ve been punished because of me?”
Shun shrugged. “Of course, but it won’t last, if you do as you’re told. Oh, do stop looking at the door, boy; if Min or one of his toadies is listening, much good may it do him. Our Emperor requires something and you are to get it. Any attempt to interfere with this can only harm the one doing the interfering.”
“What does he want?
“A harp.”
“A harp?” A chill spread from the backs of Liu’s knees up towards his spine. He couldn’t mean...
“Yes. A harp. One for which your new mistress has a fondness. He wants it. Go fetch it, bring me some wine while you’re about it, and then everything will be as it should be.”