“Er… this Golden Carp program… is it not a reference to the idea that a golden carp leaping over the Rufizo Falls will turn into a dyran? And Rin mentioned young women… so… I’m glad that I amuse you, Rénga.”
Kuni was now laughing so hard that he was bent over at the waist. “Oh Luan, Luan! You have been away for too long. I should be wounded that you think so little of me as to believe that I’m holding some sort of beauty pageant to choose for myself new wives from among the commoners of Dara. The very idea!”
“Then what is it that you’re asking Rin to do?”
Kuni struggled to get his laughter under control. “Ahem… Zomi Kidosu is right that the Imperial examinations, as fair as I’ve tried to make them, are not a good way to attract the talents of all of Dara. Though I’ve opened the examinations and the civil service to women, few have applied to take the examinations and even fewer have risen through the ranks. I have been asking Rin to find girls of promising talent and to secretly offer their parents a stipend to encourage them to attend school and take the tests—that is what I meant by the Golden Carp. But so far the results have been poor, even in Haan. Most parents do not want their daughters to leave home and seek a career in the service of the Imperial bureaucracy.”
“Custom is a hard thing to change,” said Luan. He was very relieved to see that his guess had been wrong. Perhaps he had been too cynical about Kuni Garu. After all, he was a lord who had been willing to take the most interesting path, to gamble for success.
“It takes time,” agreed Kuni. “I’ve had to keep the project a secret because the Moralists are so ascendant and loud. If this became public knowledge, I’m certain that the College of Carping”—Luan smiled at Kuni’s alternative name for the College of Advocates—“will bury me under a mountain of petitions denouncing me for ignoring tradition and straying from virtue. My life is all about compromises.”
“Why don’t I help you carry water, Lord Garu?” asked Luan. For a moment, he was concerned that slipping into the old familiar form of address would upset the emperor, but Kuni’s relaxed face assured him. Not all customs were bad.
“You should be at court and help me carry the burden of administration.”
“I am an old buffalo, Lord Garu, suitable for wandering the wilderness but no longer capable of taking up the plow.”
“Ha! There you go again. Excessive humility disguising a boast. It’s all right, I know you love your freedom. If I were in your position, I wouldn’t want to come back to court either.”
“I do have a request for you.”
“Oh?”
“Will you fund an expedition to the north? The records of Emperor Mapidéré’s voyage to the Land of the Immortals bother me. We know so little of the sea. The ancient books speak of walls made of storms and living islands that devour all travelers, but the truth is hard to come by.”
Luan retrieved the strange pieces of wreckage—filled with carvings of winged and antlered beasts—from his sleeves and explained his plan.
“You really have made up your mind not to stay at the court, haven’t you?” asked Kuni, disappointment evident in his voice. But he shook it off. “All right. I can’t force you to stay. But I won’t be able to afford an expedition on the scale of Mapidéré’s folly.”
“A few small but capable ships—equipped to my specifications—are all I require.”
“I will do my best.”
As the two men carried water to the vegetable patch and continued to converse about family and work, Luan realized that there was a dark cloud under Kuni’s easy manners.
“Though you’re steering the ship of state through treacherous waters,” Luan said, “the hand on the wheel seems confident enough. But perhaps there is something deeper that concerns you?”
Kuni glanced at him. “There is. Maybe it’s a good thing that you’ve decided not to come back to court.” The emperor looked around to be sure that none of the servants were nearby in the garden, but he nonetheless lowered his voice further. “Without a place here, you might be able to give me more objective advice. Like the ship of Métashi, the House of Dandelion faces a coming storm.”
Luan paused to consider the reference. Métashi was the name of an ancient Tiro state. Though the balance of power between the Seven States prior to the Unification Wars of Emperor Mapidéré had persisted in some form for more than a thousand years, they were not the only Tiro states of history. After the Diaspora Wars, the Islands of Dara had been divided into many more, smaller Tiro states that fought each other, and the Seven States were the ones that had managed to survive the early period of chaotic warfare.
Métashi, one of the smaller states established on the northern shore of the Big Island, had attempted to unify the Big Island more than a thousand years ago. King Gota of Métashi managed to secure all the territories north of the Damu and Shinané Mountains, and established a capital at the site of present-day Boama. However, after Gota’s death, his three most powerful generals, Haan, Faça, and Rima, each supported a separate heir and tore the nascent empire apart. The partition of Métashi into three separate states was memorialized by the Boama court poet Para with the following lines:
“You’re still young, Rénga,” said Luan.
Kuni gave him a bitter smile. “We’re all young in the eyes of the gods and old in the eyes of our children. A young dynasty must pass through a wall of storms before the first succession—no less treacherous than the mythical walls in your ancient tomes. If we succeed, this empire might last as long as the Seven States; if we fail, my fate will be no different from that of Mapidéré. Jia and Risana both have been pushing, in their own ways, for me to name the crown prince. Who would you choose?”
Startled, Luan lowered his head diffidently. “I do not know the princes well.”
“I know you had been standing under that bridge before the children’s arrival,” said Kuni evenly. “A single move is sometimes enough for an observer to judge the strength of a cüpa player.”
Realizing that he had no choice but to voice an opinion, Luan proceeded carefully. He thought over what he had observed of the children’s performance at the Palace Examination and their interactions with their father. “Prince Timu is learned in the ways of the Ano sages; he will no doubt gain the support of the civil ministers and the College of Advocates. He’s prudent and respectful, and he’ll be an able administrator.”
Kuni said nothing, but nodded for Luan to go on.
“Prince Phyro yearns for honor and glory, and he has a natural charm that appeals to the generals and nobles. I can see echoes of you in his easy manners, and I believe he’ll be a good leader in a time of war.”
Kuni looked at Luan. “Did I ask you to tell me which of my children should head the College of Advocates or suit up in armor and ride by Gin’s side? You know well that it takes more, much more, to steer the ship that is Dara.”
Luan sighed and remained mute.
“Your silence is more telling than what you did say.” Kuni said. “So now you see my dilemma.”
“Either of the princes would succeed at the task, if properly advised.”
“If. If! But that is precisely the problem—the advisers want to run the show. They’re already lining up and waiting for me to die.”
“Surely things are not as bad as that!”