“And why is that wrong?”
“Because trust is fickle and will not bear a heavy load. Kuni has made the empire dependent on him because he thinks only he can see a path forward. That is a fragile state. Phyro, though he is young, shows the same tendencies.”
“But in a time of great tumult, is it not best to be sure the reins are held by a man strong enough to guide the carriage? Timu does not have such strength.”
“Perhaps not. But instead of a Dara kept tranquil by vows of loyalty and friendship, I want a Dara founded upon systems, institutions, codified behaviors that, through repetition, become reified. The only way to build lasting peace is to strip power away from individuals and invest it in structures. Kuni thinks that when men are moral, they will do the right thing. But I think it is only when men are doing the right thing—regardless of reasons—that they can be said to be moral.”
“You might speak the language of the Moralists, Jia, but at heart I think you’re an Incentivist. The only way to achieve what you wish is to reduce governance to a system of punishments and rewards.”
Jia smiled wistfully. “It could be said that all good kings are Incentivists dressed in Moralist clothing, perhaps assisted by able Patternist ministers.”
“What of the Fluxists?”
“They live in a realm beyond mere mortals. In the sublunary sphere, we must always think the worst.”
Soto sighed. “Risana is playing sparrow tiles while you’re playing cüpa.”
Jia laughed. “You make me sound so calculating and… cold.”
“Aren’t you?”
“I have said all I can. Even a trusted friend… well, I have been frank on what I think of trust.”
Soto searched Jia’s face. Eventually, she sighed. “You have grown ever more subtle. I cannot tell what is in your mind.”
“Remain my friend, and think not so lowly of me. When you think well of someone, all their actions appear to you in a kinder light. What if the plot you think you see is but an echo of your own fears projected onto an innocent act?”
“Advocate Kidosu!”
Zomi stopped just beyond the bridge over the stream that led to the private part of the palace. She turned and saw that it was Princess Théra, who was walking toward her from the middle of the emperor’s vegetable garden. Though she was dressed in a plain robe meant for the field and her hands were muddied, her graceful movements and confident demeanor proclaimed her status as though she were dressed in silk and wore gossamer gloves.
Zomi suppressed her impatience and nodded. “Your Highness.” Every time she came to the palace—which wasn’t often, since a junior advocate like Zomi might be summoned to court only a handful of times a year—Théra seemed to find some excuse to talk to her. But the princess never had anything interesting to say.
“Are you busy?” the princess asked. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“How can I be of assistance?” Zomi asked, failing to keep the stiffness out of her voice.
She berated herself for her rudeness. She could not explain to herself why she felt such annoyance with Théra every time she saw her. In truth, she ought to be grateful to her. Théra was the one who’d managed to secure her a pass into the Grand Examination and gave her a chance.
But she didn’t feel grateful. In fact, the intervention of Théra and her brothers had, in some way, taken away from the purity of her victory—yes, that was it: They were from different classes, as different as a chrysanthemum was from a dandelion, and yet Théra insisted on acting as though they were equals, without acknowledging her privileged life, without the delicacy to be embarrassed by the gulf between their circumstances. What was a mere game for her and her brothers—getting that pass to the examination—had meant the difference between achieving a dream and having it dashed to pieces.
She disliked the way Théra played at being other than who she was: the way she’d disguised herself as a commoner at the Three-Legged Jug, the way she dressed up to play at being farmer here in the Imperial garden, the way she asked after Zomi as though they were friends when, in fact, their lives had nothing in common.
“Oh, nothing,” said the princess. “I didn’t mean… I just wanted to…” Her face turned red.
Zomi waited.
“I’ve been thinking about your proposal for abolishing the use of Ano logograms,” said the princess, her words tumbling over one another in a jumble. “I found a reference in a poem Kikomi once wrote that reminded me of it I wasn’t sure if you had read it I could copy it out for you if you want or you could get it at the library of course you could—”
“Your Highness, I can’t be late to see the empress, who has summoned me.”
“Oh,” said the princess, disappointed. “I’m sorry.” Then she seemed to screw up her courage and blurted out, “I admire you, Advocate Kidosu. In fact, I envy your life. You’re free to live by your merit, while my only worth is bound up with my birth, a tool to further the ambitions of others.”
It took every ounce of Zomi’s strength not to lash out at her. Instead, after a few deep breaths, she simply said, “Your Highness, do not use the word ‘envy’ so casually when you do not know the paths others have trod on. Few women—no, few people—have the advantages you possess. If you lament that you cannot live as you like, perhaps it is because you have not tried to live as yourself at all.”
“I am honored beyond words, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Zomi Kidosu, sitting in formal mipa rari. She felt extremely apprehensive. The empress had never summoned her, and she still felt flustered from her encounter with Princess Théra.
“Not at all,” said Jia. “Relax.” She shifted into géüpa and gestured for Zomi to do the same.
They were in the empress’s small audience hall, a part of her private suite. The straw sitting mats were smooth under them, and the fire in the wood-burning stove kept the room comfortable against the early spring chill. A flask of warm plum wine rested on the table between them, along with two cups.
“I hear often of your petitions to the emperor. He is very impressed with your work.”
With some effort, Zomi suppressed her surprise. Since her appointment to the College of Advocates three years ago, she had worked on dozens of detailed petitions critiquing policy proposals put forward by the various ministers, including some by Prime Minister Yelu and even some that originated from the emperor himself. She had always received the same comment back from the emperor: I have read it. None of her bolder ideas had ever been implemented.
She had despaired of ever making a difference.
“Please, try the wine,” said the empress.
She poured from the flask and filled both cups. The fragrance of winter plums filled the air. Zomi took a sip to be polite. The wine was strong, and she felt her face grow warm.
“I understand that your mother has not agreed to come to Pan.”
Zomi tensed. She never spoke of her private affairs at court.
“Thank you for your solicitousness, Your Imperial Majesty. My mother is used to her way of life, and she thinks she will be unhappy in the bustle of the capital.”
The empress nodded. “My parents are the same. They do not want to come and live in the palace, no matter how often I’ve invited them. They far prefer their home in Faça, where they get to do as they like, instead of having to watch everything they say and do here at court.”