The Gate of the Iron Fist was flanked by two giant warriors. The golden giant was helmeted and armed in the ancient style, and held one hand upraised as if in blessing, although the stern set of his stone mouth did not bode well for the red warrior who knelt bareheaded on the far side of Supplicants’ Square, broken sword before him and jeweled tears sparkling on his face.
Jian could hardly begin to imagine the lives that had been spent to carve these giants from the living rock and bring them down the Kaapua from the mountains, bound with the souls of a thousand willing soldiers and set here for all time, a testament to the emperor’s implacable might. The walls of the city gleamed silver in the early light, and the square before them was split in two by a road of cobbled bloodstone ringed all about with skulls.
A riff of birdsong tickled down from the mountains and across the Kaapua to dance upon the jewel-blue moat, and the air was thick with the scents of jasmine and sweet puali’i. Jian looked upon the Forbidden City, the heart of Khanbul. He felt himself moved to fear, and to something approaching love.
“Stay clear of the water,” Xienpei warned. “We lost three Daechen to the zhilla last year, and the emperor was not pleased.” The flag bearers changed course to set foot upon the wide red road, and the bloodstone rang a martial welcome beneath their booted feet.
Jian followed at the head of his squad, aware and wary of the position. Perri marched at his shield, and Naruteo beyond him, carrying Jian’s bundle as well as his own. After the day by the river when Jian had defeated him so soundly, the boy’s yendaeshi had abandoned him to Xienpei, and he had become little more than a servant. Naruteo walked alone, and ate alone, and though the two of them had not spoken since that day something in his eyes made Jian grateful that access to weapons was strictly controlled.
The other boys whispered that Naruteo was being punished for losing a fight before his yendaeshi, but Jian wondered. It felt to him as if they were pieces in some elaborate game, and the players were still pondering their opening moves.
“Where are the soldiers?” Jian asked as they crossed the broad square. “I thought this was the Wall of Swords?”
“Look,” Perri breathed beside him. “Look.”
Then he saw it. The wall that surrounded the heart of the Forbidden City, so high that a man could scarce hope to reach the top of it with a well-shot arrow, so broad that on a misty morning you could not see one side from the other, bristled and glittered with the swords of thousands of vanquished enemies. Tens of thousands, perhaps. He could see them as they neared. Daggers and scythe-swords and shamsi from the west, glaudrung and shikkar and needle-thin pigstickers from the east. A massive two-handed greatsword crusted with jewels thrust from the stone beneath a short, rusted dagger.
“Come peasant, come king,” he whispered, “fall to your knees before me and despair.”
Xienpei, resplendent before them in her robes of spidersilk, glanced over her shoulder and smiled. The gems in her teeth dazzled and mocked him.
Naruteo snorted. “Idiots and weaklings. They were fools to think they could stand against the emperor’s armies.”
“We are the emperor’s armies now,” Jian said. “I would not say such things, if I were you.” He did not look at Naruteo, but the other boy subsided with a grunt and Xienpei’s smile widened before she turned away.
“If we are his armies, when do we march?” Naruteo complained. “My belly is full to aching with stories of the Dragon King’s magic and his search for an heir. I say we strike while he is weak, before there is another to take his place. Strike the head from the downed serpent,” he made a chopping motion with his hand, “and take his lands for our own, just as we have taken the East.”
Perri hopped a bit in order to catch up with the others. His shorter legs made marching in step a challenge for him. “We are not the emperor’s armies yet,” he reminded them. “First we must be presented to the seers.”
“I do not doubt that I will pass my Inseeing, do you?” Jian could not see Naruteo’s face, but there was a sneer in his voice. “Perhaps you will fail and become lashai. Perhaps you will go mad. That happens sometimes to the weak, or so I have heard.”
“Arrogance is a fine quality in Daechen.” Xienpei spoke without turning, “But do not presume to know anything. Not even I can guess who the seers may send on, who they fail… or who they will consume.”
“I am no easy meat,” Naruteo growled. “I will march with the emperor’s armies, and our enemies will fall to my sword. You ladies may wash my smallclothes for me, if you wish.”
“I hear that the barbarian prides have lady warriors.” Perri laughed. “And that they slice off their own breasts so that they will not catch on their bowstrings.”
“I hear that you are a lady warrior,” a voice called from the rear of the formation, “and that you sliced off your own dick because it was too small to be of use.”
The banter degenerated from that point, but Jian was not paying attention. Inseeing. He knew that each Daechen would have to stand before the emperor’s seers, and pass some sort of test, but the nature of that test—and the consequences of failure— were little more than conjecture in the halls of the Yellow Palace. The Yellow Daechen knew nothing, and Xienpei’s malicious smile had warned him not to ask.
As if summoned by the thought, she dropped back to walk beside him, and spoke in a voice pitched for his ears alone.
“Naruteo has learned nothing from your fight,” she told him. “Were every sword upon the Wall in the fist of a soldier as strong as he, still we would not have sufficient might to knock the Dragon King from his accursed throne. The might of Ka Atu is not measured in soldiers, but in the magic of the land beneath his feet, and that magic answers to him alone. Three times an emperor has thrown his might against the fortress Atukos, and three times have our armies been crushed beneath the weight of fell sorcery. We are more powerful now than we have been at any point in our history, and it is not enough. We cannot defeat the Dragon King in battle by waging war in his land, and we cannot draw him forth.”
“Why fight the Dragon King at all?” Jian flinched inwardly at the sound of his own words, but it was a question he had wanted to ask for some time. “Why not leave him where he is, and be content with the lands we hold? If we cannot expect to win…”
“Do not even ask that question in your own head,” she warned him softly, “not unless you wish to lose it. The coin does not get a say in how it is spent, and our lives are no more than coins in the emperor’s purse. Do not hope for more than that, Daechen Jian.” She tapped her sword thoughtfully as they marched on. “The emperor cannot ignore the Dragon King, any more than you could ignore a rotting limb. The taint of Atualon’s sorcery spreads outward like poisoned blood. If the corruption is not sliced from the body, it will eventually reach the heart of the empire. The Sundering will be remembered fondly if ever that day comes to pass.
“And it will come to pass, if we fail to stop it.”
“But if the Dragon King cannot be defeated…”
“I did not say he could not be defeated,” she corrected him, “only that he cannot be defeated by bringing war to him on his own terms and on his own lands. Even a coin in a purse may wish to be spent wisely, and I am afraid that our beloved emperor is being counseled to cast his pearls before the swine. Not that he has asked my opinion.” Her laughter was self-mocking and bitter.
Jian recalled maps that he had studied. “What if we did not come to this king through his own lands? We could approach by sea…”
“And feed the sea-beasts with our flesh.” She smiled and shook her head. “Oh, if we had a thousand of you Issuq. Or better yet, fifty thousand, perhaps we could persuade the serpents to our cause. But Karkash Dhwani whispers into the emperor’s ear, and Karkash Dhwani is afraid of the sea. It was foretold that his death would come from the sea, and he will never allow such a plan to be spoken of in the emperor’s presence.”
Jian lowered his voice to match hers, conscious of the press of bodies all around them. “What if…”
She cut her eyes at him as they marched on.
“What if Karkash Dhwani did not have the emperor’s ear? What if someone else were to lead the emperor’s armies? Would such a thing be possible?”
“What if, indeed,” she breathed. “You should know that under the direction of His Valiance, the Issuq and the Skaana, the Arluq and the Keyet—every sea-kin child born to the empire—have been all but eradicated. It has taken me a score of years to get two of you, and to keep you alive for even this long.”
“Two of us?”
“It is my belief,” she continued as if he had not spoken, “that if we could find a way to lull the serpents and the sea-beasts, if we could tame the waters of Nar Bedayyan to our cause, if, if, if… it might be possible. If every woman in the empire were to sing praise the sea during the Moonstide, and birth for us a sea-kin prince come Nian-da… perhaps. Perhaps the moons will come down from their lofty seats to dance a jig for us at dinnertime.”
“Do you think they might?” Jian smiled. “I would love to see that.”
“If your tongue grows too sharp, Daechen Jian, I will cut it from your mouth.”
He bowed his head. “Yes, Yendaeshi.”
They came to the end of the Path of Righteousness, and passed through the Gate of the Iron Fist, and the newest Daechen princes set foot for the first time upon the hallowed grounds of the Forbidden City. Jian had walked the streets of the city in his dreams for as long as he could remember, but neither his daydreams nor his nightmares had prepared him for the real thing.
As immense as the Forbidden City had seemed from the outside, it seemed to expand and unfold before him as if by magic. The city was as limitless as the ocean, as beautiful and every bit as perilous. A thin jade serpent of a river writhed before them, spanned by five wide stone bridges. The centermost was the emperor’s Way, and death to anyone else. The Bridges of Daechen were paved in yellow and red, black and white, and carved with symbols of fealty. Across the jade river stretched the wide expanse of Companions’ Square, and he could see that it was crowded already. The Yellow Daechen, youngest and least likely to survive, were last to arrive.
Xienpei and the other yendaeshi led their charges across the yellow-paved bridge, past the cart-merchants hawking their wares, and onto the wide square beyond. Jian followed close at the head of his squad, and his eyes felt wide as an owl’s as he peered at the wonders all about him. The wall, so wide and vast as one approached the city, disappeared from view in each direction, as if the city itself was bigger on the inside. He could just see the Gate of Perseverance on the far side of the square, and great halls and towers to either side of it, slender as sea-reeds and red as garnets in the sunlight.
Tiny pale oval faces peered at them from the windows, and the brightly clad senior Daechen and yendaeshi who were already crowded into the square turned to regard them as well. Jian felt like a small crab that had been spotted by a flock of hungry gulls. A tall man all in black, hair drawn back in an old-style queue and pointed beard gleaming with oil, threw his head back and laughed at them like a barking fox. Jian saw that his teeth were small and sharp and white as jagged bone.
Jian reached up and touched the pearls at his throat. Have courage, my son.
Beyond the pointed man in black, beyond a cluster of red-clad men playing some sort of kicking game, stood a man so brilliant, so apart, it seemed he must have been fashioned from the flesh of the moons. He was clad all in leather armor like the overlapping scales of some great serpent over billowing silk—silver and white and pearl. A pair of massive antlers sprung from his brow. A long, elegant sword hung at his hip, and his eyes were as clear and bright as stars at twilight. Those eyes met Jian’s, and the pale soldier favored him with a long, slow smile before nodding and turning to one of his companions. Jian saw that the man was flanked by pale shadows, soldiers whose arms and armor had been fashioned in imitation. Like… but less.
“Yendaeshi,” he breathed. “Who is that?”
“That,” Xienpei replied, “is a Sen-Baradam with his Dammati. His name is Mardoni, but that is unimportant.”
The Yellow Daechen drew to a halt and waited, every bit as tense as that moment between breaths when it is not sure whether a person will live, or die.
“Dammati?”
“Companions. Bloodsworn. Dammati are sworn to their Sen-Baradam. Their lives are his to direct, to spend, even to end. They would flay the skin off their own backs, did he ask it of them. In return, the Sen-Baradam spreads his power and wealth over the heads of his Dammati even as the emperor shields us with his love.” Xienpei leaned in so close that Jian could smell the mint and garlic of her breath as she hissed into his ear. “Here is the power of Khanbul, boy, and as much freedom as any of us could ever hope for in this lifetime.”
“Freedom?” He held his breath. Did she speak heresy?
“Sen-Baradam belong to the emperor, Daechen Jian, but they belong to themselves as well. Any Daechen may rise on high in the Khanbul. Unlike Atualon, where the Dragon King sucks the world dry and people are born into their place, here Daechen may persevere and become more. You must learn to form alliances and dance the dance of blood and fire. Gain this, and you earn your place in the Forbidden City. Earn this, boy, and you earn your freedom.” Her eyes were fever-bright as she leaned back. “Freedom for your family, as well. Your wives, you children… your mother, should you wish it.”
“Freedom.” As well tell a child that he might hold the moons in his hands. As well weave a net of starlight to catch a dragon.
The pale man turned and walked away without a backward glance.
“Tell me,” he breathed, “how do I become Sen-Baradam?”
Her eyes took on an odd, pale look. “There is a price to pay for this knowledge, Daechen Jian. Are you willing to pay?”
He did not hesitate. “Anything.”
“There is a ritual…”
She took his hands in hers, and her lacquered nails dug into his palms deep enough to draw blood, as she explained to him what he must do. It seemed simple.
It felt like a trap.
“How do I pay for this?” he asked, when she had finished. “I have no coin.”
“All the coin you need is right here, Daechen.” She tapped his chest, just over his heart, and laughed.
“Forgive me, Yendaeshi, I do not understand.”
“You will, soon enough.” She smiled and turned away.
“Xienpei,” called a man Jian had never seen before, dressed as yendaeshi but all in leaf-bright green. “Well met, and well timed! We are commanded to the Hall of the Fallen with all haste to hear the Enlightened word…”
Only yendaeshi were allowed to hear the words of the emperor, Jian knew, and that only after they had passed through the mouths and quills of the Enlightened. Mere Daechen would have to rely on the wisdom of their betters to distill and disseminate the word as they would, and of these the Yellow Daechen were least, and last.
They would spend this evening in the western barracks, and return to the square for the Feast of the Companions on the morrow. Jian was not displeased. They would be allowed some small freedom of the marketplace, time to bathe and rest from the day’s exertions, and, best of all, respite from the watchful eye of the yendaeshi.
Jian had no wish to come any closer to the emperor, not this day, not even so close as to hear the translated whisper of his least imaginings.
And he had work to do.
* * *
After finding what he sought at the market, Jian returned to the barracks of the Yellow Daechen. It was cool and dim within. The walls were red lacquered wood and painted screens, the floors sweet sandalwood worn smooth and warm with the passing of a thousand thousand footsteps. The young men bathed in silence in deep copper tubs, attended as always by the ever-voiceless lashai. Jian slid beneath the surface of the water and remained for some time with his eyes closed, listening to the slow muted sounds of his companions and the water’s memories of rain and river, sea and storm, and rain again.
* * *
Later, Jian caught one of the lashai alone and gestured for her to attend.
“I will host a select few of my yearmates tonight,” he informed her. “We should eat well in the Imperial City. Dragonfish and cat-faced eel, so fresh it does not yet know it is dead. Yellow ling and stone crab, and a bucket of blue oysters if they are to be found. Rosewater rice and noodles, and such vegetables and fruits as are young and tender.”
The lashai nodded, eyes opaque. “Are you prepared to pay the price?”
“I have paid thrice over.”
“As you say.”
“As you say, Daechen.” He had paid dearly to become a prince of the Forbidden City, and these slaves would do well to start treating him like one.
“Yes, Daechen.” This time she bowed, and hurried away to do his bidding.
It was a beginning.
She brought to his quarters fragrant rice and rice noodles, crisp vegetables and soft fruit, and the firm, sweet flesh of fish from the Kaapua. Jian prepared the fish with his own hands as his mother had taught him, tucking flesh and rice and roe in tidy nests of seaweed and river-cabbage. As the lashai set out the feast, Jian laid out the gifts Xienpei had bidden him procure for his guests— daggers of bright empire steel with grips of ebon fashioned to look like hawks’ heads, and wyvern-hide scabbards embossed with the yellow Rose of the West. He had paid a terrible price to obtain these things.
Three words. Three names. Three drops of Daechen blood. Xienpei had told him that this was the only way out, and he would take it.
Or die trying.
He was arranging the daggers in the middle of the low table when the boys wandered in, Naruteo at their head. His face was flushed and his eyes narrowed to slits as he regarded the table set before him with open contempt.
“You dare,” he ground out between clenched teeth, “you dare summon us like slave-girls to your pleasure.”
Jian stood before the table and crossed his arms over his chest to still the pounding of his heart. “Hardly slave-girls,” he protested, keeping his voice steady as best he could. “I invited you as friends—”
“Friends!” Naruteo spat. “I know what you seek to do, bai dan. You think to buy our blood with shit and trinkets.”
Jian gripped his forearms to keep from throttling the other boy. “If you wish to leave, wang sao,” he replied with exaggerated politeness, “do not trip over my shadow on your way out.”
Naruteo bared his teeth and lowered his head as if to charge. A long moment hung in the air, breathless and still. Then he pivoted on his heel and strode from the room, shoving others out of his way, and a handful of others left with him. One or two shot regretful or angry looks over their shoulders, but most just shuffled along in Naruteo’s wake like fish trying to survive in rough waters.
“Jai tu wai,” Jian whispered. He could feel the coming storm in his bones.
None of the Daechen seemed surprised. The yendaeshi must have told them all about this ritual. Perri was the first to claim a knife. He used it to cut a shallow slice across the palm of his hand, and then stirred his blood into the waiting cup of mare’s milk.
“Sen-Baradam,” he said. He bowed to Jian and took his place at the table as if it were the most natural and inevitable thing in the world. One by one the other boys followed suit. Gai Khan and Bardu, Teppei and slight, dark Sunzi from the northern peaks, all mixed their blood into the milk and watched in dark silence as Jian lifted it to his lips and drank their allegiance.
“Dammati,” he bowed to them, “well met.” He took his place at the head of the table and reached for a piece of fish. The flesh was salty and sweet on his tongue, and tasted of blood and victory.
His mother’s pearls weighed heavy about his neck as he watched his Dammati eat. It was a small thing, but not without power.
It was a beginning.