Cai Jing strode past the retinue of serving men and women, up the Imperial Stairs to pause at the threshold of the audience chamber he had frequented a thousand times.
He had bathed and changed from his ruined clothing before responding to the summons. Now his fine padded robe of gray and blue silk was belted with an embroidered sash beneath meticulously groomed hair and beard—just as polished as he always was when waiting on the Lord of Heaven.
His garb matched his confidence. The Emperor would of course have received full and immediate reports of the day’s events; the Emperor would have realized that Cai Jing had been correct all along. As Cai Jing always was. The Emperor would have called him here to grant exactly those edicts of fire his Chancellor had so wished for.
The Court, those who had derided him behind closed doors—they would be strangling on their own misplaced arrogance.
Cai Jing waited for the silver rods to clang three times, and for those waiting in attendance to assume their positions, divided by civilian and military authorities. A herald proclaimed, “Long live the Emperor! Long may the Empire prosper!” three times in succession, and those in the audience chamber knelt.
Only once the Emperor ascended to the throne and took his place did the herald announce the Chancellor of the Secretariat.
Cai Jing stepped forward with his head respectfully lowered, traversing the long audience chamber on silken boot soles until he was at the center of the shining floor. He swept his robes aside to fold elegantly to the ground, pressing his forehead to his hands, murmuring the requisite words.
“This servant is unworthy to be in the presence of your Imperial Majesty.”
The Emperor usually invited him to rise at once.
The moments dripped past. The Emperor said nothing.
Why does the Lord of Heaven not speak…?
Cai Jing’s thoughts cleaved against themselves. The Emperor—did the Emperor, his Imperial Majesty, did he blame—
No. Impossible. Cai Jing had never been in disfavor with the Emperor.
He had worked very hard to ensure it.
His tongue leapt in his mouth, yearning to put things right, back the way they ought to be, but he could not speak until His Radiance the Emperor allowed for it …
“Tell me.” The voice came at last, from far above. “Tell me, my Chancellor. What would you do with an official who let free two traitors of the realm, handed them a dangerous new invention, then stood by while they placed the Imperial City and this palace at risk? What would you do with such a person … Chancellor?”
Cai Jing’s prized calm teetered. The endless eyes of those in attendance at the Court today seemed to drill into his skin, seeing the bones of his shame.
No. He would not bear it. This is what you are made for, a whisper reminded him. Convince the Emperor, then protect the Empire. This is only another challenge. Nothing more.
The Emperor would not wait much longer for his answer …
Cai Jing kept his head down, his eyes on the polished stone, his beard pooling in snowy white beneath him.
“I would kill him, Radiant Majesty,” he said.
A beat, as Cai Jing fancied he could feel the Emperor shifting above. Certainly muted shuffles came from the sides of the chamber, though no one would be so disrespectful as to make any other noise. Cai Jing waited just a hair beyond the peak of shocked tension, then continued.
“Your Imperial Majesty’s grace and mercy has always far exceeded my own, and I do not deserve its light. If I am spared by Your Majesty today, I will have eaten a cake of ash and humbleness in learning the wisdom of the Lord of Heaven’s generosity. If I fall for my errors, I ask only to be remembered as a loyal servant of the Empire.”
He fell silent. Waited. He thought he had thrown correctly. The Emperor always wished to be loved.
Always wished to be generous and merciful. To be seen as generous and merciful.
Cai Jing had served for so many years …
The idea that this might end ill for him—it was too large to fathom.
Finally—finally—the Emperor spoke.
“Rise.”
The tension folded away, and Cai Jing knew he had moved correctly.
He stood. His robe fell smooth. His hands clasped each other in serenity. He was calm.
The Emperor sat on his throne above, rich red and gold robes dripping against it, his great winged headdress spreading a pace on either side. Lines of stress carved themselves deep in his royal face.
The Lord of Heaven carries a great burden, Cai Jing reminded himself.
Cai Jing rarely doubted his own correctness, but he did not carry an entire righteous land across his shoulders. He waited.
“You wish an army to go after these bandits at Liangshan,” the Emperor said.
“I do, Your Majesty.”
“I am told you asked ten thousand men.”
“Their stronghold is said to be extremely well-fortified, Your Majesty, and we know not the full extent of ill powers they traffic in. My reports are that the countryside cowers in fear of them, and they murdered an entire regiment at the village of Dongxi in Ji Province. I believe the seditionists who attempted to attack Bianliang today to have always been among their number, and this was some culmination of a conspiracy of theirs. Their sickness has vast tendrils. A fungus that must be rooted out.”
The Emperor’s head bowed over steepled fingers. “Your troops are granted. Take General Guan.”
Cai Jing took care not to show it, but his heart danced for joy.
General Guan Sheng’s renown rang across the forty-five prefectures. The descendent of a god of war, he had a fine ruddy face and a peerless beard, and he wielded a long-handled, moon-bladed saber with a hilt as long as a spear haft.
“I also have fortunate tidings that have come out of the attack today,” Cai Jing reported, emboldened. “In their failure, the traitors revealed secrets of the research I have been pursuing for Your Imperial Majesty. I believe we have learned what we need to build the Empire a devastating new advantage. In addition, this Scholar Ling demonstrated a great weapon in his uncontrolled use of our materials—this too can be a magnificent boon to the Empire, and may even serve to secure our interests forever.”
The Emperor studied the tips of his steepled fingers. Then he said, “No.”
The word struck Cai Jing in the middle of the chest, a nearly physical blow. “If Your Imperial Majesty would allow an elaboration on my counsel—” he began.
“No.” The Emperor’s eyes came up, then down, resting on his Chancellor. “The heavens have spoken. You will cease all such research immediately. These realms are not for men to meddle with.”
But what of the Jin, Cai Jing wanted to cry. The northern armies stand poised to invade. The omens in the blood and bones … did His Majesty the Emperor forget why they did this?
The spectacular progress on the god’s fangs—it was the Empire’s great chance. They could solidify the safety of the entire land and all its borders, even take back territory that should rightfully be theirs. Having another cunning advantage against these Liangshan bandits and any like ilk was only a secondary bonus—the possibilities here were so much larger, so much farther-reaching …
Inside his sleeves, Cai Jing’s hands curled against each other. The Emperor had never wanted absolute power. He wanted safety.
He refused to see that the one could not be had without the other.
“We shall speak no more of this,” he announced to Cai Jing now. “You have your decree.”
Dismissed, Cai Jing bowed his way out, the motions rote and barely with the proper obeisance. He returned to his own chambers and paused, stomach churning, knives slashing in his gut.
He never should have worried for his own fate. The true threat was to the Empire, and Cai Jing would give his life a thousand times to protect it.
He never should have lost sight of that.
He would not forget it now.
He had one last chance. The Emperor had halted any more use of the god’s fangs, but not everyone would know of his decree, not yet. The army would march soon to a place a full day’s ride from Bianliang, a place Cai Jing would have absolute authority for as long as it took news to travel to and from the capital.
The one way, the only way, to convince the Emperor would be to prove the accomplishment and ask forgiveness afterward. A stabilized version of the god’s fangs. Not the superweapon that so scared His Majesty, but a calm, brutal, controlled power Cai Jing would place directly in the Emperor’s hands.
They were so close. Lady Lu was not one to exaggerate or falsify, and she said it could be done. She was sufficiently in fear of what the uncontrolled god’s fangs might wreak to ensure her continued pliability; she need not be told of the Emperor’s decree. She also need not know that this must now be a final, leaping attempt, one that, if it failed, would surely mean Cai Jing’s death.
That did not matter. The Empire was all.
Gao Qiu would be the key. Grand Marshal Gao Qiu, who so coveted this power that Cai Jing would easily be able to manipulate him into claiming this test for himself, with no sense for how they sprang forward untried. If they succeeded—surely they would succeed; they must succeed—Gao Qiu would serve to save Cai Jing from the Emperor’s wrath.
Gao Qiu and his newfound glory.
If they failed—Gao Qiu would die, most likely, and Cai Jing would face execution.
He felt very calm about it. He had tossed the coins before. This would be no different.
Gao Qiu, of course, was not a reliable military mind. Cai Jing would send in General Guan to annihilate the bandits, with this experiment held back for the final dramatic victory. In one move, the Empire’s Chancellor of the Secretariat would wipe out a plague upon the land and prove the method of raising a new god.
The Empire would burst into glorious strength as had never before been seen, an era of gods and dragons made from men. It would be safeguarded forever, able to deal a harsh hand against any who rose in defiance—whether inside or outside Imperial borders. The Empire would be able to gain any resource, stake claim to any land, and prosper as never before.
A golden stability that none could threaten. It would become an era of wealth and security, and would be Cai Jing’s legacy.
Liangshan would be the perfect testing ground.
For the first time in many days, Lu Junyi arrived home before dark. Her workspace and research in the inner city were gone, with nothing left for her to stay and oversee. Those of her men who did not lie dead or injured she’d dismissed back to the safety of their homes. If Cai Jing asked, she would say they had too little expertise on their own, absent their superiors.
It was not a lie. The people who could most help her were the ones who had destroyed everything.
She might have considered keeping one of the alchemists to consult, as she herself barely qualified, but there had only been two, and both men lay buried beneath the rubble. She would have to make every dangerous guess on her own, and hope. The impossibility of the task yawed, like a tower that leaned and creaked above her head, ready to collapse and crush her.
If she could not satisfy him … how much of the Empire might Cai Jing destroy, in the name of his revenge?
She’d written out more lists with numb fingers, ores and powders and extracts of animal and plant, plus gathering every possible scroll or treatise on alchemy and every tattered instruction of Fan Rui’s that could be salvaged from the ruins. She could do this. She must do this, and she must do it without aid. She felt clumsy and full of gaps in knowledge and instinct, but tried to remind herself that she’d read up on the alchemical theory for years … but I only played at knowledge then. What a naive dilettante she had been.
Still, as new as she was at the practice and as much as Fan Rui’s motives had lay hidden, Lu Junyi had been learning from no less than a master of the craft. Her knowledge had multiplied quickly. She might succeed.
In the end, she had no choice in it.
She’d given what additional orders she could pry out of her haze, pretending an authority she did not feel. Then she’d returned to her empty house to pack her own personal sundries for the journey.
Not truly empty—the servants rushed to greet her at this unaccustomed time. Without Jia, however, their respectful queries seemed to echo softly off a dead space where nothing lived.
My dear Jiajia, I did you wrong. I’m not sure how or when or what I might have done to move down a different path, but you would have known. You could have told me, if I had let you. I was such a fool, thinking I had everything under control.
Thinking I had anything under control.
She’d brushed Jia aside and now Jia was gone. Maybe forever. Even if she intended to return … chances were not poor that Lu Junyi was the one who would not be stepping across this threshold again. Armies and war and desperate battles and god’s fangs that would tear off the face of the earth unless she stopped it from happening, and even if she did prevail, might tear only a little less and take only the lives of her friends instead of innocent farmers and villagers.
Her lips moved against each other, instructing the servants to pack for a weeks-long journey with the calm of one already dead. One of the older maidservants inquired discreetly about drawing her a bath, and it was only then that Lu Junyi realized she must look a ghost—torn clothes, grime still crusted over her hair and skin.
The water and clean clothes did not wash away the guilt that caked her.
With nothing left to do, her feet found their way to her study. Jia’s message from last night still lay on her desk, turned so the blank obverse stared up at her.
If she was not to return … she should write a message of her own.
She swept her robes aside to sit. Took up a bar of ink to grind it in careful, detached strokes. Mixed it to a liquid, took up a slim brush between her fingers. The soft animal hair hovered above the black.
She sat frozen. She who had written so many words, so many times.
Finally she dipped the tip of the brush and wrote only: Forgive me.
She sat back, perspiration prickling her skin as if she’d just run to exhaustion. It wasn’t enough. It was all she had.
She stayed motionless, staring at what she had written, hoping wretchedly that the few characters would say more to Jia than their meaning, would say every thought she couldn’t form. She stayed that way until her eye fell on the study’s hearth, the accusing smear of ash and soot from the night before, yet another way she’d failed someone, failed a friend, and somehow again today even as she’d helped save them, because she’d done it only to kill them. She’d been trying so hard not to betray someone—anyone—anything—friends, her own ideals, the Empire, the Grand Chancellor—but she’d betrayed them all anyway, at every turn.
The words from the burned page sang through her mind again, telling a tale of freedom. Of a crusade for justice and heroism. Of escaping the harsh strictures placed by gender or social class, of defying marriages that were prisons, authorities who were jailers, or creditors who would gleefully sink their teeth into any suffering.
Of a wild and beautiful place, filled with riches and excellence, where true rightness ruled the day. Where a person didn’t have to decide between infinite betrayals, but could always be secure in rewarding truth and being rewarded in turn.
The imagery had been painted as written by a poet. But Lu Junyi could remember enough.
She pressed her palms to the desk, heartbeats thumping loud through her head. Then she carefully moved the note to Jia to the side and slid out a fresh, clean sheet. Ground more ink, slowly, as if in sacred ritual, then mixed in the water. Her brush dipped into it, precise and calculated, then hovered above the blankness.
She stayed poised that way, a carved statue, for a long rivulet of time. She told herself the first touch of the brush was no inevitable decision, that she would have a thousand more opportunities to turn back. But she knew, at the root of her souls—the moment she let ink brush paper, she had committed.
Once she started, the words came slow but rock-steady, as if a ghost guided her hand until the last definitive stroke.
She sat and stared at what she had written. Quietly. Unmoving. Like sinking into a serene pool with the full intention of letting the water close over her head forever.
Then she powdered the wet page, folded it carefully between several others, and went to dismiss the servants. Only after she was truly alone did she take the paper into her back rooms. It burned against her hand.
Her press had lain silent for weeks now. Lu Junyi lit the lamps and settled between the vast circular typecases, spinning them to draw and sort the carved wooden blocks she would need out of their depths. She was practiced enough at it that collecting all the tiles barely took her into evening.
She loaded the press. The backward characters stared up at her out of their orderly rows, like carven soldiers at attention.
She deliberately did not read back the meaning in their order. Only symbols, symbols she arranged in the same sequence as her page.
She ran the press frequently enough that she had a storeroom full of neat stacks of paper already cut. Thousands of blanks, ready. The wide brush dipped in wet ink, painting over the prepared blocks until they gleamed black. Press the first page down, rolling it end to end before peeling it off with care.
That was one.
She wiped the ink from her hands and prepared to see how many she could print by morning.
The quiet span on the wrong side of dawn found her in the back room of an inn, passing ingots of silver and thick stacks of printed circulars to a woman in a patched apron. Then in an alley with a grinning, toothless man helming a porridge cart. Then breathing incense in an alcove of a monastery, then in a smoky gaming room, then in the silken and bejeweled presence of the madam of a brothel. The papers would go out via every tavern keeper, every child on the streets, passed with proclaimed innocence until the Guard realized the festering treason under their noses and cracked down—and then, like anything else not permitted, the circulars would be passed far more zealously, secretly, with the most delicious curiosity. Copied in brushwork, too, most probably, the more the originals were confiscated and burned.
Cai Jing would know it was her. If the army left too soon for the report to reach him immediately, then certainly when they returned from Liangshan.
By then, all the bandits of Liangshan would likely be dead, the mountain nothing more than ash. This last act of hers would have become meaningless. Making legendary the haojie who’d already burned, and scarring her with the same culpability in the process.
Cai Jing would execute her no matter what. That part was not in question. Only whether any of Liangshan would still be alive to benefit from her sacrifice.