Asimov's SF, February 2010 (16 page)

The Prince walked ahead of her, in perfect control of protocol. He did not look back. “I don't believe that,” he said.

He didn't trust her, then—but he had made it clear what he thought of White Horse. “Even if you didn't,” Shinxie said, wearily, “what does it change? He only indulges us by staying here."

"Exactly,” the Prince said. “If he is innocent, then we have no right to take his life. But, if he turns out to be a danger to the Emperor's mandate ... then we'll take what opportunity we can to strike at him."

Shinxie nodded—it made sense, although he was wrong about Gao. But, clearly, she would not dispel his worries on her own.

"What you told him about White Horse...” she said, slowly, carefully.

The Prince made a quick, stabbing gesture with his hands, in a swish of silk. “Don't be a fool, Yue. What I told him clearly doesn't apply to you."

Didn't it? Wasn't she, too, a dreamer, a troublemaker? Not all troubles were political, and the prolonged affair of a minor official with an Imperial Prince had disrupted enough of the Court's protocol. And who but a dreamer would remain for so long in exile?

The Prince, though he was insensitive to humors, must have felt her hesitation. “Yue,” he said, turning so that his gaze met hers—his whole body softening to the pose between a man and his concubine. “Every place must have its hierarchy of officials in charge—someone to wield the authority of the Court. And to impose order on chaos requires higher discipline than living in the midst of order. You're no troublemaker."

Just a jailer for a jail, Shinxie thought—and, suddenly, she wasn't sure she'd be able to contain her bitterness. To see him there—unchanged, radiating his usual, careless ease, the silk robes as out of place in the monastery as a scholar in the fields—bothered her more than she'd thought it would.

"No,” she said, finally. “I'm no troublemaker."

That night, Shinxie could not sleep. Confused memories of the Imperial Court mingled in her mind with the monastery—the quiet of the meditation hour mingling with the gongs announcing the Tianshu Emperor's arrival, and the hum of the alchemists’ machines becoming deeper and stronger, a memory from the huge contraptions at Pavilion of Going to War, hammering men into the elite of the army, with the ring of metal on metal, and the hiss of fire meeting water, and the thud-thud of metal striking earth...

She sat up with a start, an uneasy feeling of loss clenching her chest like a fist of ice. There was nothing around her but silence.

She got up, and stared for a while at the four chests that held her clothes—a vanity from her court days that she'd kept even here, at White Horse, where the only dress was white robes for alchemists, brown for teachers, and grey for students. Then she laid the palm of her hand on the Autumn chest, and pulled out a robe of silk embroidered with three-clawed dragons, watching it flow in her hands like sunlit water.

The Prince had seen her in this, once—with ceruse whitening her face, and her lined eyebrows joining in the shape of a moth. In another lifetime, he had asked for her in his chambers, and bent toward her as he served her tea, his lips wide and inviting in the shadows. He had—

Slowly, she folded the robe back inside the chest, and went for a walk.

In the Hall of Cultivating the Body and Mind, the students all sat in meditation, cross-legged on the ledge that ran along the walls. Their eyes in the darkness were wide open, the facets catching and reflecting moonlight—their faces slack and smooth, though she could still feel the faint threads of emotion radiating from them, as if they were all sleeping. Dreaming.

Dreamers. Troublemakers. Was that all White Horse was to the Flowering Empire: a regulator, an escape valve—a place where the alchemists would take those who had erred, who could still err, and mold them into people who could no longer care enough to be a threat? And—if she searched her heart and mind long enough, would she remember that, when she sent them upward into Penlai Station, she saw them as already dead?

"You look troubled,” a voice said behind her.

Her heart leapt, painfully, into her throat. She turned; but even before she did, she knew whom she would see.

Gao stood where, a moment before, there had been only emptiness. She couldn't see the singularity that had brought him here; but, of course, they closed quickly. “Aren't you supposed to be in your holding cell?” Shinxie asked, but the heart wasn't in it.

Gao bowed his head, gravely. “And aren't you supposed to be in bed?"

"My own business,” she said. She should have been irked, but his presence—his utter lack of salient emotions—was potent, a balm to her troubled spirits. “Just as being troubled is my own business."

"Remorse,” Gao said, thoughtfully. His eyes seemed reflections of the students', blank and unmoving and utterly unreadable. “Regret. Lust."

Of course, he too could read humors.

"Not lust,” Shinxie said, with a quick shake of her head. She should have told him—something else. To go back to his cell, perhaps? But, when no locked door would hold him, did that rigmarole still have any sense?

"No,” Gao said. “Not lust. Love. Perhaps it's worse."

"There are those,” Shinxie said, stiffly, “who'll tell you that love holds up the world."

"The followers of the Crucified Man?” Gao's hands moved, slightly. “Perhaps, in some other world, that is an inalterable truth—perhaps love does keep Earth under Heaven and the world on its axis. But consider—” He paused for a moment—not because he hesitated, Shinxie suspected, but solely for effect. “You long for this man, even now, even after so many years. You humiliate yourself for him. You would die for him. Perhaps, given enough time, you might even kill for him."

"That's nonsense,” Shinxie said, abruptly. “I wouldn't do anything for him."

"Really? If he told you, tomorrow, that you could come back as his concubine, what would you do?"

She thought about it for a while. There was something about him that compelled honesty—or perhaps it was merely that she was tired of lies, hidden beneath the thin coat of makeup that was protocol. “I don't know,” she said.

"That's what's wrong,” Gao said. “By your love, you set him apart from other men."

"Do you believe that nonsense, then, that all men are equal?” Shinxie asked.

"All men are,” Gao's lips stretched into what might have been a smile. “All men are born of a woman's womb: the Emperor, the laborers; even the foreigners. They do not choose the circumstances of their birth; but, sometimes, they may alter the course of their lives. And, of course, we die, all of us, at a time that is seldom of our own choosing."

Shinxie shivered. “I did not come here to listen to philosophy."

"As you wish,” Gao said. “I merely wished to point out some facts to you."

"Wished?” Shinxie said. “You have none of those, I'd have thought."

"No,” Gao said, finally.

"Why are you here?” Shinxie asked, again. “Surely not for the pleasure of talking about my private life, Gao. Surely not for angering the Sixth Prince."

"I know the Sixth Prince,” Gao said. “I know what he will do, and that is of little interest to me."

"I thought knowing everything was wrong."

"Some things you can know,” Gao said.

She looked at him; at the expressionless face, the aura that was perfectly in balance. “Why are you here?"

"You know,” Gao said, gravely.

She had heard his explanation about the dandelions—about going where the wind would carry them, flowering where the earth would have them. “No,” she said. “If you came by whim, why aren't you leaving?"

"I might,” Gao said. “Who knows what I will do tomorrow?"

"There is something, isn't there?” she asked. But, looking into the glint of his facets, feeling the perfect, oppressing balance of his elements, she knew that she was wrong, that the Prince was wrong: there was nothing more to him than this. He was the clouds, he was the storm: here one day, gone the next. He cared not about what he brought with him, or about what the Prince would do.

Oh, Celestials, she thought. What have we wrought here, in White Horse?

The Sixth Prince came into Shinxie's office two days later, looking pleased with himself—like a tiger who has just successfully stalked a man. He settled himself near the door, waiting for her to finish reading Fai Meilin—an unnerving presence at the edge of her field of vision.

Fai Meilin's aura was more subdued than usual, with none of the water that usually dominated her thoughts. She submitted herself meekly to Shinxie's examination, uncaring of the presence of a man in the room; and bowed to Shinxie when she was finished.

"Soon,” Shinxie said. “One or two weeks, I'd think, if you keep this up."

Fai Meilin nodded, distantly—she had already reached the stage where it didn't truly matter anymore.

When she was gone, the Prince detached himself from the wall. “Come with me, Yue.” He sounded almost eager, his aura roiling with fire. “I've found a way."

"A way?” Shinxie asked.

"A way to solve our problems,” the Prince said, with a stab of his hands. “A way to beat him on his own ground."

"Gao Tieguai?” Shinxie said. “Your Excellency, I humbly submit you are mistaken. I spoke with him two days ago—” she stopped then, but the Prince didn't question her further—"and I don't think he would do anything to harm the Flowering Empire.” He wouldn't do anything, just drift through the monastery until he left—staring at students or at buildings with no real interest, as if knowing already how unreal all of this was, all bound to crumble.

The Prince's aura roiled more strongly, fire taking true precedence over the other four elements. But then he seemed to remember who he was talking to, and—for a bare moment—remorse and affection filled his eyes. Shinxie's heart tightened.

"Yue,” he said. Unexpectedly, he stopped, facing her equal to equal—her eyes tingled with unexpected tears. “He may well be. I trust you, but I have to be sure. I can't face His Imperial Majesty without being sure. This goes higher than what's between us."

"I see,” Shinxie said, slowly.

"You do?” the Prince looked at her for a while. “Don't worry. It will soon be over—and then we'll see. Perhaps you don't need to be at White Horse anymore. There are far better places in your future. In our futures."

If he told you, tomorrow, that you could come back as his concubine, what would you do?

He took her, not to the Hall of Cultivating the Body and Mind, but to the World of the Celestials, one of the smallest courtyards in the monastery. On the short flight of stairs that led up to the Memorial Pavilion, Gao stood waiting for them, surrounded by a handful of Imperial soldiers.

Other soldiers were moving toward them, escorting two prisoners, their shoulders weighed under the metal frame of a cangue.

Shinxie looked from the prisoners to the Prince—and to Gao, whose face still had not changed.

The Prince said to Gao, when they reached the dais. “You'll know who they are."

The prisoners—a young man and middle-aged woman, their faces thin, emaciated —were forced to kneel. Their cangues were removed; they kept their gazes to the ground, not daring to look up at the Prince.

"Enlighten me,” Gao said. He had not moved.

"Gao Yuhuan, Gao Jiajin,” the Prince said. His voice, too, was low and even. “Your wife and son."

The woman started, and her aura roiled with the agitation of water—but when she made to move, one of the guards hit her in the back with the butt of his weapon, sending her sprawling to the ground.

"I see,” Gao said. He might as well have been talking about the weather. “It has been a long time, Your Excellency."

The woman, Shinxie saw, was weeping; and her son held himself rigid. Both auras were shot through with metal—the element of anguish.

The soldiers moved into position, stretching the prisoners flat on the ground. Two of them hefted bamboo canes, looking thoughtfully at the bodies before them.

Shinxie had seen many such scenes, when she was a court official; it was common to be beaten. But, nevertheless, she couldn't help the shudder that ran through her.

"You will read him,” the Prince said to Shinxie. His face was a mask, his own aura dominated by fire—but, when she brushed him on her way to Gao Tieguai, she felt the other element: metal, anguish, and disgust. He was doing his duty, and not caring much for it.

Gao Tieguai extended his hand to her; she'd expected a little shrug, a little sign that he was also finding this distasteful, but there was nothing. “Gao,” she said, but found all words had gone.

"Begin,” the Prince said.

The canes rose, fell. The first blow tore the clothes from collar to hem; the second drew beads of blood; and each subsequent one widened the wounds even further. Shinxie could see the bodies arch against the pain—could feel the anguish and pain of metal in the auras, roiling stronger and stronger—could hear the woman's quiet sobs, slowly rising into raw screams—could see the son's body, shuddering every time the blows came. And still it didn't stop—blood was flowing over the beaten earth of the courtyard, watering the earth, and neither of them could hide their suffering any more, neither of them could bear it any more....

Her hand tightened around Gao's, strongly enough to crush the fingers of a mere man.

"Again,” the Prince said, his voice flat.

The soldiers nodded—and it went on, the even rise and fall of the canes, the little snap as the thin bamboo bent to strike the skin, the blows coming one after the other, the sheer repetition of it all....

And, throughout, Gao's aura never wavered, never tilted out of balance—all five elements, no anguish, no anger, no pain. Nothing. The canes rose and fell and the blood splashed, and once there was a crunch like bones breaking, and the son finally cried out, his leg sticking out at an awkward angle from his hip, his flesh glistening in the morning sun, and the canes rose and fell and there was only blood and pain and a smell like charnel-houses, and still Gao said nothing, moved nothing, felt nothing.

At last, at long last, it stopped, and Shinxie drew in a shuddering breath, half-expecting the Prince to raise his hand again. But he didn't. He merely looked at her holding Gao's hand, as if she had the answers to everything.