The Initiate Brother Duology (80 page)

Sutso took the frail hand in her own. Botahara protect her, she prayed silently. So much is dependent on this woman, so much.

At last they came to the bottom of the stairs, to the relief of Sister Sutso, and then to the Chambers of Council. A gong was rung as the Prioress approached and the large doors swung open, the Door Wardens carved into their panels seeming to gesture entrance. A last squeeze of the Prioress’ hand and Sutso stopped short of the Chambers. The bearers returned almost immediately and the doors were closed, no one to enter until the Council was over. She stood a moment, staring at the doors, and then hurried off. There was so much to be done.

*   *   *

Lamps suspended by gold chains hung from the lacquered beams and flamed impressively, casting shadows into the deepest corners of the room and the highest reaches of the ceiling. The floor of polished woods reflected the light like a bronze mirror and the twelve senior Sisters who knelt there seemed almost like some mysterious part of the structure, positioned in two straight lines as they were.

The Prioress sat, propped on pillows in her sedan chair, facing her Council. The lines were not drawn clearly in this arrangement: of the twelve Sisters four,
including their leader, were of the Sister Gatsa faction; five, including the Sister who sat in Morima’s place, supported the Prioress; and the remaining three were called, when they were not present, the
Wind Chimes—
those who swayed this way and that, making sounds according to the direction of the wind. As one would expect, the Wind Chimes were both courted and despised.

The Sisters bowed their heads to the floor and rose, waiting impassively.

“Who called this Council?” The Prioress asked the ritual question.

Sister Gatsa spoke in her refined aristocratic voice. “This Council was called by the collective will of the Twelve, Prioress.”

“Then let the will of our Lord, Botahara, be done through word and deed.”

Signs to Botahara were made and silence reigned as each woman present prayed to the Perfect Master for guidance. A gong sounded softly and the Council began.

“Who will speak for the Twelve?” the Prioress whispered.

“Sister Gatsa,” the women answered together.

The Prioress nodded to Sister Gatsa, conceding the floor.

Sister Gatsa drew herself up to her considerable sitting height before beginning. “Prioress, honored Sisters, there is news from the Province of Seh that is of grave concern to our Order. There are reports that a large barbarian army makes ready to assault the Empire’s northern borders. Does our Order have information about this situation?”

A silence ensued. The Prioress sat looking at her Council who, as was proper, did not meet her gaze. Only Gatsa would dare to do that. It occurred to the Prioress to wonder who in the Priory in Seh had managed to find a copy of Sister Yasuko’s letter. Most annoying.

“I have received information from Seh that would indicate this is true, Sister Gatsa,” the Prioress said at last.

There was a minute shifting of position as though in discomfort among some of the Council.

“Excuse my presumption, Prioress, but should not the Council have been informed of this?”

“In time of war,” the Prioress said so quietly that she forced the others to lean forward to hear, “the Prioress has authority to act without the Council. It has always been so.”

Gatsa nodded, her face not quite masking her pleasure. She had sprung
her trap. “In time of war, Prioress, this is true. But war has not yet come and there is much that should be done in case a calamity should befall us. There is much that we all should do.”

“A fine point, Sister,” the Prioress said. “Shall we put it to a vote?”

Sister Gatsa hesitated noticeably. She had expected to request this herself. “If the Council so desires, Prioress.”

The Prioress smiled her beatific smile, unsettling Senior Sister Gatsa even further. Of course, the Prioress knew she would lose—she could read her Council that well. But after the Wind Chimes had gone against their Prioress once, they would be less willing to do so on each subsequent issue, especially when the true nature of the situation was made clear to them. Today they would ring to the words of Prioress Saeja, the old woman was certain of that.

“Let the proceedings begin,” the Prioress whispered. Yes, let them begin. In three hours she would have approval of everything she had already begun. Let the vultures gnaw on that. She smiled again and closed her eyes to wait.

T
HE GREAT AUDIENCE Hall of the Empire of Wa was the largest chamber in the known world and considered to be a marvel of both art and engineering. The rows of pillars that lined the central hall were each carved from a single iroko tree and lacquered to a deep sheen. Rafters soared in elongated curves up into the tiered roof structures and light filtered down from on high without an identifiable source. So polished was the marble floor that it reflected images and light as faithfully as clear, still water.

At the farthest end of the hall the dais seemed to float on this unrippled surface. Three steps of the finest jade led up onto the dais, the blocks joined so seamlessly that the steps appeared to have been carved of a single, massive block of green-blue stone. Behind the dais, seven painted panels showed the Great Dragon in flight among stylized clouds above a landscape of rugged beauty—ancient Cho-Wa of the Seven Princes. The Princes themselves sat their gray steeds at the foot of the Mountain of the Pure Spirit about to create the Seven Kingdoms that would one day become the Empire of Wa.

Below the center panel sat the Dragon Throne of Wa carved from a single block of flawless green jade.

Upon the Dragon Throne sat Akantsu II, Emperor of Wa. His voluminous ceremonial robes flowed over the carved stone, reaching almost to the floor, where a small cushioned stool protected his feet from contact with the earth. His sword of office stood in a silver stand to one side, and it was apparent to any who knew him that he missed its feel and hardly knew what to do with his hands without it.

The Ministers of the Left and Right sat in their appropriate places, before the dais to either side, while down the length of the Audience Hall the Great Council of State was arrayed: Reminders, Major and Minor Counselors, and the senior Officials of various ministries. They sat in rigidly defined rows, dressed in their state robes that created a most pleasing pattern of color and form, each man a tiny island on the unbroken, liquid surface.

Behind the senior officials sat functionaries of high rank, scribes, and bureaucrats, and behind them stood the ceremonial guards—generally younger sons of favored peers—dressed in ornate armor.

On the first step of the dais knelt the Major Chancellor who governed all proceedings, listening carefully to the whispered comments of the Son of Heaven and proclaiming these to the Great Council.

At the moment all sat listening to a senior Counselor who spoke in glowing terms of the recent efforts to rid the canals and roads of brigands. Several minor decrees, that had been issued almost after the fact, were singled out as showing great foresight and the senior Counselor bowed in the direction of the officials responsible for these—members of his own faction, as everyone present knew.

While the great statesmen of the Empire involved themselves in this activity, the man who had convinced the Emperor to embark on this program sat quietly in the ranks of the minor functionaries. It would be out of the question that Colonel Jaku Tadamoto would ever speak on such an occasion or to such an august assembly, yet in his sleeve rested a summons to the Emperor’s private chambers. He would meet alone with the Son of Heaven later that same day—something many of the senior officials present had never done.

The Council carried on, largely ceremony, for, in truth, real government took place elsewhere, in less impressive chambers with far fewer involved. Jaku Tadamoto waited patiently, trying to keep his mind focused on the conversation, not for the content but for what it told him of the shifting alliances within the Council. Even so his gaze shifted and he found himself contemplating the Dragon Throne, remembering the history, or perhaps myth of the ancient seat of power. He turned away before the Emperor might notice his gaze, but the image stayed in Tadamoto’s mind.

It was said the artist Fujimi had cleansed his soul through fasting and prayer for seven days before locking himself in his studio with the untouched stone.

Fujimi’s apprentices gathered outside the doors while the Master toiled. The sounds of stone being worked would go far into the night and whenever they stopped the apprentices could hear the Master chanting in a language none had heard before. In the early morning of the twelfth day all noise ceased—no sound of stone being polished, no chanting…stillness. By midday the apprentices’ concerns were such that they appointed their most senior member to knock on the door and call out the Master’s name. Three times this was done, but there was no answer and still no sounds came from within. They waited.

By sunset it was decided to break down the doors to the studio. With some effort this was done. The shattered doors swung open and the setting sun illuminated the throne shining as though it had its own light within. A dragon flowed around the seat and back of the throne, a dragon so real, so alive it seemed to have turned to stone in mid-flight.

The apprentices stood in awe until the light of sunset faded and then, remembering their purpose, lit lanterns and began searching the building. The Master could not be found. All the doors were securely locked from within, yet Fujimi was gone, never to be heard of again.

Taken to dwell among the gods, some said. Murdered by the Great Dragon for stealing her soul and encasing it in stone, said others.

*   *   *

When the final ceremonies were completed and the Emperor and senior officials had left, Tadamoto rose and returned to his chambers without retinue or fanfare. In the privacy of his own rooms he removed a letter from a locked box and held it a moment as though the thought of opening it caused him pain. With some care he unfolded the paper on which he had written a deciphered version—the letter in his own hand noticeably more elegant than his brother’s original.

Moving to a nearby screen, Tadamoto opened it a crack to catch the gray winter sunlight that a covering of cloud did its best to obscure.

Tadamoto let the letter fall to the mat where he knelt. It was so impossible!
If what Katta said was true, and he had trouble convincing himself that it was so, then the Empire was almost certainly lost. Tadamoto knew Akantsu II as well as any man and he did not believe for a second that the Emperor could be convinced that Katta had done anything but joined the Shonto. That Fanisan daughter and Katta’s interference with her…that was the seal on his fate. It was all so impossible.