The Hand of the Sun King

by J. T. Greathouse

  On a dais at the far end of the hall, the Emperor sat his throne.

  Folded legs of burnished gold formed the Emperor’s seat, a waist and torso his backrest. Eyes with whites of pearl and pupils of jet watched over the court and seemed to study some distant, divine horizon. From the shoulders of the throne sprouted its thousand arms, arrayed in layers like the feathers of an eagle’s wings, reaching outward and upward to cover the entire wall. A tetragram worked in silver filigree glimmered in the palm of each hand. Which one, I wondered in a moment of awe, represented me?

  Three ribbons--two red and one yellow--had been laid on the floor. We knelt and bowed our foreheads to each red ribbon and counted thirty heartbeats before rising again. At the yellow ribbon, we waited with backs bent and faces low for the Emperor’s permission to rise.

  The weight of his presence gripped my bones and filled my mouth with ashes. Never had I felt magic like this. I had thought to see the sorcery of transmission--for even now he worked that spell, conveying the canon throughout the Empire--as streamers of light, or hovering globes, or an argent halo. There was only the Emperor, his throne, and the depthless wake of sorcery, heavy as all the oceans of the world.

  His voice boomed out from the throne. “Lift your eyes, Hands Usher and Alder, and look upon your Emperor.”

  The red silk of his robe showed in crimson patches through gold and silver embroidery so dense that one image bled into another. He wore a crown fashioned after the antlers of a lion-serpent. A gold thread had been woven between the brow tines, and from it hung strings of jade beads polished to shine like green stars. They swung gently at the touch of his breath.

  “You seek our blessing,” the Emperor said.

  “We do, your eminence,” Hand Usher said.

  A servant appeared from beside the Emperor, a beautiful youth so delicately featured as to seem ageless. The youth paused in front of me and waited.

  “I, ah, I your humble servant,” I said, extending my arms toward the youth. “I present this gift to the Emperor and accept, ah, humbly, your commission to the province of An-Zabat, Your Eminence.”

  The book was taken from me, and the youth disappeared into the shadows behind the throne.

  “We accept this gift, and wish you a safe journey,” the Emperor said. “May you carry the light of civilization to the far corners of the world.”

  We walked backward away from the throne, bowing again at the red ribbons. A steward led us to a side exit and out into the garden. After the heady smoke of the audience chamber, the fresh air and sunlight gave the feeling of waking from a dream.

  “Well done, Alder,” Hand Usher said, clapping me on the back.

  I shrugged out from under his hand. “Don’t mock me.”

  “I wasn’t! The first time I met the Emperor I fainted right there on the first red ribbon. Now, will you have a farewell drink with me? I must return to Nayen, and you have your own path to follow.”

  “He didn’t even read my book,” I muttered, but followed Hand Usher back to our rooms.

  We spent the night drinking and talking. Associates, now, no longer master and student. I hoped that Voice Rill--the governor of An-Zabat--and his subordinate Hands would be more straightforward teachers.

  After we opened our second bottle of plum wine, Usher paused, his cup in hand.

  “Oriole would be proud,” he said suddenly, with a twinge of genuine feeling. A crack in his usual mask of ironic detachment. No hint of that ghostly smile.

  A lump formed in my throat as I returned the toast. “To his memory,” I said.

  “And to your future,” Usher said. “To the wonders and challenges that await in An-Zabat. May you return wiser and more worldly.”

  As the night wore on, I realized that I would miss Hand Usher. Though our relationship had soured, he had been a part of the brightest years of my life, the languid days in Voice Golden-Finch’s garden, full of learning and companionship, before the horror of Iron Town. Days I still recall with fondness, no matter how time and war may darken them.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The City of Water and Wind

  The obelisks of An-Zabat stood like columns holding up the blue dome of the sky, glimmering with silver filigree that mimicked the patterns the wind writes on desert dunes. Red banners bearing the Emperor’s tetragram hung from each obelisk. A reminder to the people of An-Zabat, who had conquered the desert and the sky, that they had been conquered in turn.

  I had seen the wonders of Northern Capital, sailed on man-made canals across the great plains of western Sien, and crossed the deserts of the Batir Waste by windship. I thought myself worldly after so many weeks of travel, but even the Thousand-Armed Throne paled in comparison to the obelisks.

  Crewmen struck all but the steering sail as the windship coasted on its runner blades into the elevated harbor. The ship’s windcaller breathed deeply and planted his feet wide. I tried and failed, not for the first time, to comprehend the magic he wielded. It was brisk and subtle, like a cool breeze on the back of my neck that left little wake in the pattern of the world. A slight ripple like light on fractured glass ran along the whorled tattoos that covered his arms. He pushed the wind up and around into the steering sail to turn the ship about. It coasted into place facing out toward the rolling dunes.

  During the fifteen days of our journey I had hardly taken my eyes from the windcaller. The An-Zabati had shrugged off the Empire’s every attempt to add their magic to the canon, which only deepened my desire to learn it. I knew it would not be the true, unbridled power I had felt before my grandmother marked me. Yet I nursed a hope that deeper understanding could be gleaned from the magics that Hand Usher would call primitive, and which I knew to be just as powerful as the canon. Hopefully there would be opportunities to indulge my curiosity--and investigate An-Zabat’s goddess, and her miracle--after I had begun my work as Minister of Trade.

  Any such magic would likely be as constrained as witchcraft, I knew, and would not offer me mastery. Yet I was thirsty for any knowledge that lay beyond the limits of the canon. Any deeper truth I might glean was a paving stone on that third path through the world I would build for myself, first to the Academy and then beyond, to true freedom.

  A palanquin carried me through the city toward the imperial citadel, whose broad sandstone walls competed with the obelisks for dominance of the skyline. Every few blocks we passed a ruin blasted apart by chemical grenades, or a structure scarred by battle-sorcery. The people were strange to me--bronze skinned and light haired--and though I had studied their language the snatched phrases I heard fluttered past my ears, as meaningless as the wingbeat of a moth. Stranger still were the dromedaries that pulled carts or carried bundles on their humped backs. They seemed to me creatures from outlandish mythology.

  At the heart of the city, in the shadow of the citadel, we passed the Blessed Oasis. A statue of Naphena, the city’s patron, giver of rain and spring water, stood at the heart of the square. She had been carved in sandstone and gilded with silver, and she held an urn in her arms bedecked in rubies and sapphires. A quartet of guards--two men and two women, all wearing long, curved blades on their hips and with whorled tattoos upon their arms--stood nearby, almost as still as the statue, as though they were a part of the sculpture. Until, I suspected, the moment someone dared to desecrate it. Water that sparkled as brightly as the jewels cascaded from the urn to splash in the basin at the goddess's feet. Children played there in the clear, cool shallows. The statue was not Naphena’s miracle itself, but the wealth of water here, in the middle of a dry and wasted land. I felt for some remnant of the magic she had worked hundreds of years ago but could identify only the brisk wakes of windcalling from the harbor.

  A vast bazaar filled the square around Naphena; a feast of sound, color, and life. Merchants hawked all manner of goods imported from the Empire and the western lands; shimmering silks and brightly feathered birds, clockworks and spices and luxurious wines. Tumblers and magicians performed between the
stalls to thunderous applause and a rain of coin. The largest crowd surrounded a woman who spun and leapt in stunning arcs, all the while sending a pair of silver-embroidered scarves fluttering from hand to hand.

  A by-now-familiar chill ran down the back of my neck as she tossed the air to make her scarves dance and flutter. I watched her for a dozen heartbeats, trying to trace the wake her magic left in the world. The windcallers, it seemed, used their magic for more than war and windships.

  As we drew closer to the great stone gate of the citadel, I saw that the walls bore the fractal scoring left by battle-sorcery, and other scars where it looked as though great blades had been deflected by the stone. Outward-facing ballistae threatened the city from newly built towers at the four corners of the wall. Guards walked the battlements carrying heavy crossbows and wearing bandoleers of grenades.

  I turned away from them. They reminded me too much of Iron Town. I needed to focus on the present, and on the future, not on old wounds better left behind in Nayen.

  * * *

  Winding canals flowed through the citadel courtyard, feeding shallow ponds. Pink-plumed herons imported from southern Sien waded among the lilies. Pavilions built of imported wood stood throughout a sculpted landscape of grassy hills, bamboo groves, and porous limestone boulders dredged from distant lakes. After the Batir Waste and the dusty, crowded streets of An-Zabat, to find a garden from the heartland of Sien was surreal.

  As I stepped down from my palanquin, a thin steward approached me.

  “Welcome, Your Excellence Hand Alder,” he said, and bowed deeply. “I am called Jhin, your humble steward for your tenure in An-Zabat. The servants will bear your luggage to your rooms. Excellences Hand Cinder, Hand Alabaster, and Voice Rill await you.”

  Jhin was tall, slight, and dark. He reminded me of Koro Ha, and I felt a wave of nostalgia for my old tutor.

  “Where do you hail from, Jhin?” I said, while he led me deeper into the garden.

  The steward dipped his head. “We are all servants of the Emperor, and citizens of his Empire, Your Excellence.”

  “Yes, but we all come from somewhere,” I said, feeling flustered but not entirely certain why. “I can tell just by looking at you that you’re not Sienese, just as anyone could tell at a glance that I hail from Nayen.”

  Jhin’s deference never faltered. “Toa Alon has been long a province of the Empire,” he said. “We do not think of these things the way you seem to in Nayen.”

  I recalled Koro Ha’s warning, early in my education, that my allegiance would be questioned again and again and decided to press the issue no further. What had happened in Toa Alon, I wondered, to make its people so careful to show loyalty?

  We arrived at the Pavilion of Soaring Verse, where three men lounged on couches around a narrow, artificial stream that spiraled across the floor. An-Zabati servant boys waved fans of peacock feathers while others filled cups with mild plum wine, then floated them on paper rafts down the stream. The lounging officials plucked the cups from the water to sip at their leisure.

  “Welcome to An-Zabat, Hand Alder,” Voice Rill said as I lowered myself to a fourth couch. He was older than Voice Golden-Finch had been, and the imperial tetragram on his forehead shone from between sun-darkened wrinkles. “You must be tired from your journey, but you are welcome to join us while Jhin and the servants see to your luggage. We have been composing poetry in turns. A bit of idleness in the heat of the afternoon.”

  “Not that there is much demand for court poetry in An-Zabat,” Hand Cinder said. His dark blue robes were embroidered with a design meant to imitate plates of armor. He grinned at the third man. “I suppose one must keep the dream of a more sophisticated posting alive, eh Young Alabaster?”

  Hand Alabaster adjusted his brass spectacles and tossed his long, silk-smooth hair over his shoulder. “I can, Hand Cinder, but I fear An-Zabat may be the apex of your capacity.”

  Cinder’s grin broke into a guffaw. He waggled a finger at Alabaster.

  “Watch out for this one, Hand Alder. You’ll find no crueler wit in this city.”

  “I believe it was Alabaster’s turn to recite, was it not?” Rill said, reining in the conversation.

  Alabaster shot Cinder a baleful look, then straightened his back and assumed an aloof, performative posture. While he gathered his thoughts Voice Rill explained the rules of their contest. Each man took a turn composing and reciting a poem. If the others approved of the composition, they would take the next cup to float by on the artificial stream. If they judged the poem banal, clumsy, or otherwise unsuccessful, they would let the cup pass.

  It seemed odd that all the imperial sorcerers in An-Zabat would spend an afternoon drinking, but I told myself that they were making a minor festival of my arrival, and that I should be flattered. Besides, it would be imprudent to begin such important relationships with criticisms of their drinking habits.

  A paper fan snapped open in Hand Alabaster’s fingers. Cued by the fan, the servants prepared the cups and paper rafts. He began his recitation.

  “Three herons leap from their pool, taking flight.

  Broad wings flash silver in the sun.

  My hand skips across the page, smearing ink.

  I dip my brush and think of home.”

  He snapped the fan shut, and Voice Rill plucked a cup from the stream. I reached for one as well. The poem was derivative of the classics, but nonetheless evocative.

  “Ha! I win!” Hand Cinder said. “He took the cup with his right hand! You owe me, Alabaster. The ‘Left-Handed Easterling’ my ass!”

  I looked between the two of them, feeling conspicuous. Hand Alabaster rolled his eyes at Cinder, then smiled at me apologetically.

  “You are somewhat notorious, being the first Nayeni to rise to Hand of the Emperor,” he said. “We were sent your pedigree along with the announcement of your commission, as well as a few…other notes. Cinder and I had a small wager about whether or not you were truly left handed, or if that was only a nickname, considering the…unusual…placement of your tetragram.”

  “Nayeni on my mother’s side,” I said, trying to sound flippant and stifling mixed embarrassment and anger. I had traveled the entire breadth of the Empire and found a derogatory nickname waiting. “And, to settle the wager, I am ambidextrous. My tutor saw to that after an injury in my youth.” I showed the scars on my right hand. “A plate shattered in my hand. Was that part of the story left out? Perhaps abandoned somewhere around Northern Capital?”

  “I fought in Nayen, you know,” Hand Cinder went on as though I had not spoken. “Aren’t there still skirmishes with bandits in the highlands? Ha! Voice Golden-Finch and Hand Usher have bungled that province, haven’t they?”

  “No mere bandits,” I said, then bit back a sharp word and fought down thoughts of Oriole.

  “Hand Cinder, you did not take a cup,” Voice Rill said.

  Cinder balked at the sudden change of subject. “Of course not! It was his third composition about homesickness in a row.”

  “You oppose the theme?” Alabaster said, peering over the rim of his glasses.

  “Yes,” Cinder said. He plucked at the embroidery on his sleeve. “And the imagery was overwrought.”

  Alabaster looked to Rill for support.

  “I thought it was lovely, Alabaster,” Rill said. “Hand Alder, would you like to recite next?”

  “Hah! Yes!” Cinder said. “Let’s hear what the Easterling can do.”

  Twice now Cinder had insulted me. I breathed deeply and grasped for composure. The servants had already prepared the next batch of paper boats. Cinder, Alabaster, and Rill were growing impatient. I blurted;

  “Sweet plum trickles from the bottle lip…”

  My mouth hung open. Was I a child, deriving images from whatever was happening around me? The servants studied me as they poured, wondering if I had finished. I grasped for the next phrase, something congenial, and impressive without being showy, and classical without being derivative, and quic
kly! Cinder drummed his fingers on the table. I pressed on;

  “Hearth fire warms our frigid bones,”

  “New companions on the mountain road,

  Come and sit and share my wine.”

  They all took cups, to my astonishment. Alabaster swirled his for a moment, considering.

  “The rhythm was a little odd,” he muttered, then drank.

  We passed the rest of the afternoon drinking and criticizing each other’s poetry. By the end I felt comfortable enough to let my cup pass the third time Hand Cinder compared the spears of the Sienese legions to a crescent moon, and later when Voice Rill drunkenly stammered a pastoral verse about butterflies. At nightfall, servants brought a meal of traditional Sienese dishes; fire-pepper beef, wheat noodles with wood-ear mushrooms, and young cabbage stir-fried in garlic. All made from ingredients imported from the heartland at heavy expense. I ate, then excused myself. Jhin showed me to my rooms, which were as spacious as my father’s reception hall.

  Perhaps it was Hand Cinder’s repeated use of the pejorative “Easterling,” or perhaps simple homesickness and vertigo at having been suddenly thrust into a new place and a new role. Or perhaps something deeper, some perpetual sense of dislocation that had dogged me since my bifurcated childhood, agitated by Cinder's thoughtless cruelty. Regardless, in the privacy of my quarters I felt the urge to practice the Iron Dance that night, something I had not done since before taking the examinations. Uninhibited after several bottles of liquor, I fell into the first forms without thinking.

  After a dozen steps I reached the part of the dance--a strike with my elbow, a forward lunge--that I had used to kill my guards in Iron Town. I let my arms fall slack. What was I doing, clinging to the traditions of Oriole’s killers?