“This—this—this is barely a protocol at all! Where are the Classical Ano titles? Where are the model walks designed to cultivate the soul? Where are the quotations from the sages to guide debates? It’s like something taken out of a folk opera to please an audience snacking on sunflower seeds and candied monkeyberries!”
Kuni patiently explained that Master Ruthi had misunderstood. He had simply refined Master Ruthi’s ideas in a way that preserved their essence while remaining capable of being carried out by mere mortals. He did not explain that he had indeed taken much inspiration from the staging of folk operas, consulting Risana to gain her expertise. Thinking of the whole thing as a big play was the only way he could stomach working on it.
Back and forth the emperor and the Master of Rituals debated, trying to compromise on something that had enough formality to satisfy the desire for propriety by the old nobles and scholars and also contained enough fun to be accepted by the emperor and his wartime companions.
“Why am I the only one sitting?” asked Kuni, pointing at the latest illustration of formal court seating.
Ruthi explained that this was based on the protocols of the Xana Imperial court, which had been designed by the Imperial Scholar Lügo Crupo, a strict Incentivist. Emperor Mapidéré had preferred to sit in the extremely informal position of thakrido, with his legs stretched out in front of him, while all his ministers and generals stood at attention.
“Crupo believed that men were more efficient if they stood for meetings,” said Ruthi. “Though he was wrong about many things, I do think his reasoning is sound in this regard. Efficient administration is important, Rénga.”
“But I would look like some bandit king in council with his underlings! The ordinary people will view it as a play about despotism.”
“I’m not asking you to sit in thakrido!” said Ruthi, a bit outraged. “I am not a barbarian. You should sit in géüpa, which would be appropriate by reference to the poem written—”
“The point is for everyone to sit,” said the emperor.
“But Rénga, if you sit like everyone else in attendance, it will obscure the difference in your positions. Your person is a symbol of the state.”
“So are the ministers and generals who serve me—if I am the head of the state, they’re the arms and legs. It makes no sense to pamper the head and torment the body; formal court should model harmony among all the people of Dara. In this audience hall, we debate and decide the fate of the people as a whole, not just my personal preferences and dislikes.”
Ruthi was pleased by this speech, which held a hint of the Moralist ideal for the relationship between the ruler and the ruled. He was forming a new opinion of Kuni Garu, the emperor who had turned Dara upside down, brought women into the army, and swept away the Tiro states in his rise to power. Perhaps there was—he thought hopefully—a Moralist soul deep within that beer belly. He would try to be more flexible and serve this interesting lord.
And so Kuni and Ruthi worked together for weeks, designing courtly regalia (or as Kuni thought of them, “costumes and props”), formal speeches (“scripts”), and etiquette protocols (“blocking”)—they debated long into the night and used up reams of paper with rough sketches, frequently calling for midnight snacks and herbal drinks prepared by the empress that kept the mind alert—until the final result reflected Kuni’s vision without offending Moralist traditions too much.
Kuni was willing to suffer for his art. The formal robe and crown took time to put on—even with servants—and the regalia forced him to kneel stiffly in uncomfortable mipa rari. But the example set by the emperor ended any complaints from the unruly generals—everyone put on the stiff robes, ceremonial armor, and heavy official headgear and knelt up in mipa rari.
Viewed from the ceiling of the Grand Audience Hall, Kuni’s court resembled a cruben cruising at sea: The two columns of advisers along the walls outlined the scaled whale’s powerful body, resplendent and sumptuous; the dais at the end was the head of the cruben, with Empress Jia and Consort Risana as the two bright eyes; and Emperor Ragin, of course, was the proud horn at the center of the forehead, charging through a turbulent sea and mapping an interesting path.
The First Herald consulted the sundial mounted on the southern wall, behind the Imperial dais, and stood up.
All the murmurs and whispers in the hall ceased. Everyone, from the emperor to the palace guard standing by the grand entrance, straightened their backs.
“Mogi ça lodüapu ki gisgo giré, adi ça méüpha ki kédalo phia ki. Pindin ça racogilu üfiré, crudaügada ça phithoingnné gidalo phia ki. Ingluia ça philu jisén dothaéré, naüpin rari ça philu shanoa gathédalo phia ki.”
The herald chanted the words solemnly, sticking to the rhythm of the old meters of Diaspora-Era heroic sagas, as was deemed proper in Moralist treatises on the proper rituals for government. The Classical Ano words meant: May the sky-lights careen smoothly and the whale’s way sleep in tranquility. May the people be joyous and the gods pleased. May the king be well-counseled and the ministers well-led.
The First Herald sat down while echoes of his voice continued to reverberate around the hall.
Emperor Ragin cleared his throat and intoned the ceremonial words that began formal court, “Honored lords, loyal governors, able advisers, brave generals, we gather today to praise the gods and to comfort the people. What matters do you wish to bring to my attention?”
After a pause, Zato Ruthi, Imperial Tutor, stood up. “Rénga, on this auspicious day, I wish to present to you the pana méji of this session of the Grand Examination.”
Kuni Garu nodded, the cowrie strands hanging in front of his face clinking crisply. “I thank you and the other judges for your service. Having to carefully evaluate more than a thousand essays in such a brief period of time is no mean accomplishment. The examinees are fortunate to have their words weighed by minds as learned as yours.”
To the side, King Kado shifted imperceptibly on his knees and gazed at the Imperial Tutor. He was thinking of the complaining cashima he had run into on the way here. This old man may soon find out how much trouble he’s in.
Zato Ruthi bowed. “It was a pleasure to commune with so many supple and fresh minds.” He pointed to the left-most scholar in the first row, a dark-skinned young man with delicate and handsome features, and the examinee stood up. “This is Kita Thu, of Haan. His essay was composed in an exquisite hand—the calligraphy calls to mind the best works of the late King Cosugi. Though his passion is the study of mathematics, his essay proposed a reform of the schools of Dara to emphasize the works of Kon Fiji.”
Silence. Not a single murmur of admiration could be heard in the hall.
Kado frowned. That sounds like the most boring proposal for reform I can imagine. Either this young examinee knows how to weave a dazzling pattern out of plain threads like a skilled lace maker of Gan, or else Zato Ruthi just revealed even more evidence of bias by giving high marks to a kid who knows only how to recite musty books by the Moralists’ favorite sage.
But the emperor only gazed steadily at the young man, and the dangling cowrie strands obscured his face so that no one in the Grand Audience Hall could discern his feelings. As he spoke, his tone was perfectly tranquil, expressing neither pleasure nor displeasure. “Are you related to King Cosugi?”