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n the hour following the small afternoon meal, Zhou finished his meditation and rose slowly from the floor ready to face the day’s most odious task. He was frankly surprised that the Ministry of Earth had agreed to see him so soon. It normally took weeks for them to respond to similar requests.
Zhou’s training taught him to be suspicious of incongruence and it did not help matters that friends inside the Celestial Ministry had hinted that certain branches had become increasingly wary in the wake of Shiro’s menace and the ravages of the plague. Now that the threat was withdrawn, blame had to be placed and blame always led to power brokering. Canthan history was rife with examples of what happened to those who were determined to be on the wrong side when the dust of change had settled.
He had tried to keep his guild beneath notice, but the collapse of Red Lotus Clan and Crystal Palm’s part in it was difficult to obscure. Kiku had also garnered friends in the Imperial Court and within the Celestial Ministry. Those allies were now ascendant. His sources told him that the attempt to kill Pendaran had been somehow fomented by those same allies as a means of striking indirectly at Zhou. This left Zhou in an awkward position. He had to keep Pendaran safe and the only way to ensure that was to keep him close and visible. It also meant that he had to drive his apprentice hard. To protect himself, Pendaran had to have the knowledge and resources to deal with the danger.
Zhou’s friends in Elona spoke of a coming darkness and his own encounters with demonic forces were on the increase, validating their news. Now someone was tampering with his messages in addition to making attempts on his life. Whoever it was knew the nature of his work and were seeking to terrorize him by demonstrating that knowledge. They knew he was capable of dealing with much greater threats than mere collectors and exploding runes, and yet they rubbed his face in the fact that they were subverting his messages and had the advantage of knowing more about him than he did about them. A true assassin would not leave anything to chance. It reeked of the willful spitefulness of demonic influences.
How many demons had he destroyed over the years, and of those, what percentage had he merely returned to the Realm of Torment to await their next opportunity to rise again? Was it possible that one of them had returned to seek revenge?
Had their spying extended to his home?
He thought of his master, Dojin Matabe, slain by Kiku’s assassins due to an infiltrator granting them access to the compound. Magical wards and human sentries were not proof against basic betrayal of trust. He had never discovered who among his staff had committed the awful deed and he was not ruthless enough to punish all of them merely to find one errant soul. He had his suspicions, of course, but those he suspected had conveniently left his employ before he had taken the steps necessary to determine their guilt or innocence, or even their level of compliance. It was quite possible their aid had been unwitting.
Someone wanted his guild destroyed. He could no longer refute the evidence. The Celestial Ministry was his primary suspect now. They alone had access to the messages that passed through the port. They alone kept the rosters of guilds and informed the Emperor who should and should not have guild charters within the city.
He donned his long black robes, concealing the thickened leather plates that would turn dagger blows to his vital organs. They would not stop a determined assassin, but they would delay them and the difference between life and death often turned on the decisions made in those final seconds of life. Today he was attuned to Melandru and wore a purge signet on his right hand to preserve him from poison. By wearing it in the open he would show the bureaucrats that he knew of their game and was prepared for them.
He sat on the edge of the bed and donned his sturdy suede boots, then glanced quietly where Shikai slept beside him in fairer times. Zhou missed her terribly and he never slept well during the long winter nights of her absence. She was his lover and protector. Without her, he felt vulnerable. He prayed that his enemies did not know of their strange relationship. If there was ever a time to strike him down, it would be now while she was away.
Rising, he went in search of his apprentice. His warrior retinue would already be assembling in the entry hall, but Pendaran would no doubt be working. Zhou smiled to himself at the earnestness of his friend. No sooner had he emerged into the corridor outside his rooms than did he hear the distant sound of the great harp in the music room. Its sweet tones teased a smile to his lips and he strode the short distance toward it, knowing he would find Pendaran there.
Standing in the doorway, he watched as Pendaran sat beside his adopted son, Mabane, the two of them working the strings together. The boy played in almost perfect time, his will bent toward shaping his hands correctly. His dark brows were turned down in concentration and his striking blue eyes were focused upon Pendaran’s hands, seeking to imitate their motion precisely. When the boy had succeeded in playing the stanza, Pendaran withdrew and gently urged Mabane to do it alone. Emotion caught in Zhou’s throat as he watched Pendaran’s left hand rest lovingly upon the boy’s shoulder.
He would never have a child of his own. Zhou had known that was the price he would pay when he married Shikai. In his youth it had not troubled him. Now when he saw the bond between Pendaran and Mabane, he felt a longing growing within him that had not existed before. Shikai had encouraged him to become more involved in the lives of the orphans, even going so far as to take a few of them in and treat them as their own children. But he could not. Shikai’s long absence made such a proposition difficult and unnecessarily dangerous to the children. It was better for all concerned if he had few attachments that could be used against him now. Instead he focused upon the change he had fomented in Pendaran. That Zhou had enabled him to rise from the wreckage of his past and become a loving father and caring friend would have to be reward enough. It was as close to fatherhood as Zhou could hope to achieve.
Pendaran sensed him and raised his face, meeting Zhou’s gaze and nodding.
“I have to go, my son,” he said to Mabane, squeezing his shoulder fondly before rising. To Zhou’s relief, he was clad in the elaborate gray gown of an Adept, the double rows of black buttons neatly fasted all the way up to his stiff collar. He picked up the black kid leather gloves resting beside him on the bench and pulled them on as he moved toward Zhou. Mabane watched him dolefully, his longing for more of Pendaran’s time palpable to Zhou. Their moments together were stolen from Pendaran’s busy days and it was Zhou’s only regret that he worked his friend so hard.
“I was not holding you up, I hope?” Pendaran asked.
“Of course not, my friend. How was sparring practice this morning?”
Pendaran’s pale complexion darkened with embarrassment.
“I assume Taskmaster Ho is keeping you apprised of my progress? Or lack of it.”
“He asked me for permission to melt down your sword,” Zhou replied, grinning. So far he had done nothing to interfere with that part of Pendaran’s training. The consequences of standing up to people much better at fighting hand to hand would eventually drive him to change his tactics. His apprentice was stubborn but not incurably stupid. They walked together in silence for a time.
“I like my sword,” Pendaran replied hesitantly, sensing Zhou’s amusement.
“I hire warriors to wield weapons,” Zhou replied, “Would you hire a warrior to turn your foe’s fears and nightmares against them?”
“Point taken,” Pendaran murmured.
“Our kind is designed to be swift and subtle. If you bring that sword with you again to the arena, I will grant Taskmaster Ho his wish. There is a time and place for everything, my friend. Your resourcefulness saved you on that island, but a mesmer’s true power does not lie in a single illusion.”
“I don’t really enjoy fighting.”
“Good. Fighting should be your last resort, but it should also be something you can do as easily as breathing.”
Zhou felt Pendaran’s resignation as a tug of heavy coldness. The Tyrian doubted himself and feared rejection, his flaws as obvious and precious to Zhou as if they were his own. There was no question that he would do as Zhou asked. He had learned not to complain excessively even if he privately harbored resentments.
Zhou greeted his retinue of warriors in the entry hall, nodding politely to them as they fell into place behind he and Pendaran. Uriel was also there in a sedate gown of deep burgundy edged with black brocade. She was draped in a fur-lined cloak of ebon silk with a deep hood to shield her from the frigid wind that cut down the narrow streets and alleys of Kaineng. Pendaran shrugged into his winter cloak while Zhou pinned his fur-lined cape in place.
“Lemony is coming. She is going to translate for me,” Uriel said as they moved toward the door.
Zhou had to conceal a laugh. The foolish monk had made some improvements since accepting his offer to share Pendaran’s tutor, but she had no mind for nuance. She arrived a few moments later in a flutter of pale robes and an overlarge winter cloak. She resembled a fledgling bird with her bald head protruding from layers of quilted clothing.
“Sorry!” she mumbled, nearly falling over when her foot caught the edge of her cloak and spun her around. Zhou said nothing, only nodded. She might prove a valuable distraction.
“Let us be going,” he said. It would take them an hour to walk to the palace, provided the streets were not icy enough to slow their passage.
“Thank you for the diamond, Pen,” Uriel said after they were clear of the round gate, “It is very unique. Such fire. It’s a pity you had to break the necklace apart, though.”
He shrugged.
“I was never going to wear the necklace.”
“Nor would you allow Teleri to wear it,” Zhou said into his friend's mind, “Why is that?”
Pendaran gazed at him thoughtfully.
“I don’t know. I never wanted them.”
“Part of you never trusted Threnody,” Zhou replied.
“I made the best choice out of the bad choices I was given.”
“One day I hope you tell me what happened.”
Pendaran shuddered and looked away. A darkness clung to him and left a bitter chill in Zhou’s psyche. Why would he not share what had befallen him in the time they were separated?
“Perhaps we should perform the Rite of Grief.”
Pendaran raised his head sharply, his green eyes flicking sideways with alarm.
“No.”
In severing his link to Pendaran he had harmed their bond of trust. Even though Zhou had long since destroyed the working and restored their connection as a Lyssan pair, the damage had been done. He was not certain how to repair it beyond allowing time and experience to mend it over time. It concerned him that Pendaran was so harshly opposed to releasing his grief and horror. Bad enough that he had nearly died at the hands of the assassins, a cause in itself for doing a rite to heal the mind and spirit, but something awful had befallen him on the island and clung to him like a shadow.
He let the matter drop. Tomorrow, after he had seen Brigit and Armand off on their journey into the Southern Shiverpeaks, he would confront Pendaran again.
“It is important that you say very little during this meeting. If at all possible, remain silent.”
He felt Pendaran’s confusion and discomfort. The man nodded and looked away.
“I want you to observe everything that happens at this meeting carefully. I will be focusing on those with whom I must speak. Since you will have no means of understanding the conversation, I want you to memorize who is there and what they are doing. I will expect a full accounting of your impressions once we return home.”
“As you wish.”
“And do not attempt to speak to me mentally. Any such projections may well be detected by spies in the court.”
Pendaran nodded obediently, a thrill of fear shuddering through his psyche at the thought.
Zhou smiled to himself. Pendaran was a natural when it came to observation, no doubt a skill that had served him well during his days of thievery. It was an ability that had needed very little prompting or polish to stand out among Pendaran’s battered repertoire. Zhou would make good use of it in the days to come. For now, he underplayed its value. It would not do to make Pendaran aware of his talent before it was honed to devastating brilliance.
Morning had delivered a fresh layer of powdery snow. In the wealthier districts it was pristine and lovely against the ubiquitous red and gold of Canthan buildings. As they cut down the narrow alleys that skirted the city’s pockets of slums, however, it had already been transformed to a trampled rancid brown by the passage of animals driven from the docks to the many stockyards and abattoirs at the city’s eastern edges. The filthier industries lurked here, spreading their grime and odor like a miasma over the frigid streets. He was relieved to see no more signs of the afflicted but he did see the insignia of rival gangs of street thugs carved into the walls and posts of the run down houses and workshops they passed.
Except for a few slips and near tumbles upon the icy streets by Lemony, their retinue arrived promptly at three o’clock at the entry to the palace. The emperor’s hand greeted them stiffly and sent for a representative of the Ministry of Earth to guide them toward the complex of buildings that comprised the headquarters of the Celestial Ministry. They passed shrines and garden alcoves tucked within its rambling walls. Zhou sensed Pendaran mentally counting his steps and making note of the way in and thus the way out of the winding maze.
As with all buildings that dwelt within the vast complex of the Imperial City, they were richly ornamented with screens depicting dragons, often of the three-toed variety with a treasure representing wisdom clutched in their claws. Elaborately ornamented pillars painted deep red and trimmed with gilt-work stood out against the pristine layer of snow. Zhou had little doubt they were being guided past these graceful structures in an effort to impress upon them how small and insignificant they were in the eyes of the empire.
He did not fear they would be harmed, however. The Celestial Ministry did things by the book. The three warriors gave up their weapons without protest while the rest of them were given a cursory examination for concealed weapons and allowed to continue into the hall.
Master Cho of the Ministry of Earth awaited them in the long chamber, his elaborate robes embroidered with images of the celestial ki’rin. He sat the center of eight advisors and lackeys upon ornate floor pillows before a gleaming black table. The gentle sounds of music drifted from the corner nearest the door where a pretty young courtesan strummed a zither. She was clad in a gown embroidered with virginal white orchids and her glossy black hair, no doubt a wig, was combed over a blade of amber and adorned with sprays of gold. A second woman sat beside her in a pink plum blossom gown. A bamboo flute rested upon her lap.
Zhou watched as his warriors were lead away to await them outside the hall. Winter cloaks were taken away and the four of them were guided to the opposite side of the table facing Master Cho and his retinue. They bowed and were seated on the thick floor pillows once Zhou signaled that it was time to do so.
“Welcome, Master Bei, I do not think I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance,” said Master Cho, his voice warm and obsequious. He was gray and balding, his hair drawn into a long braid that flowed down his back. Cho’s flowing robes did not hide his spreading middle-aged frame. His clean shaven face was pocked with the ravages of a long ago disease. Zhou had never met the man, but already he sensed duplicity and took an instant dislike to him.
“I am honored to meet you, Master Cho,” Zhou replied. He sensed general disapproval. The empire had an uneasy relationship with guilds, either considering them beneath notice at best or a direct threat at worst. He also noticed the disapproving glances directed at Pendaran and Uriel.
“Master Tan of the Ministry of Air asked to be included in this discussion,” Cho continued, gesturing to a sharply dressed man in a long red and gold robe to his right. His short-cropped hair ebon hair was silver at the temples, giving his regal features a dignified air. He nodded shallowly toward Zhou, subtly indicating his low regard.
“Master Shi is also here from the Ministry of Water,” Cho continued, gesturing to a man in lush blue and purple robes ornamented with celestial turtles to his left. Zhou once more exchanged nods. This man had humorless narrow features scored with the vestiges of old wounds, perhaps ritual scars from dabbling in necromancy. His black hair was carefully oiled and clipped in a severe knot atop his crown. His thin hands had overly long fingers, putting Zhou in mind of bird talons as they lay folded upon the low black lacquered table before him.
The remainder of the attendees were not introduced. With their sheaves of paper, brushes, ink tablets and seals, they were scribes and minor bureaucrats. One was already recording the proceedings, his clean script legible to Zhou even while inverted. There was no representative from the Ministry of Fire. Sadly, that was the only branch of the Celestial Ministry that harbored allies. Zhou knew none of these men nor anyone working in their departments.
“I am frankly surprised a man of your stature would become involved in this issue,” Master Cho began, his nasal voice an unpleasant whine, “We have tried to be patient with your barbarian friend. What brings you here on her behalf.”
“I was awarded land by Emperor Kisu for the creation of facilities beneficial to the care and education of the children in my orphanage,” Zhou began, emphasizing the name of their ultimate authority. The Celestial Ministry might be rife with incompetence and sloth, but ultimately they answered to Kisu, “I ceded the land to Madame Ninnocha in exchange for additional funding for my orphanage and with the stipulation that she would offer admittance to appropriately talented orphans when they were of age to enter a magical academy.”
One of the scribes dropped a large heavy pile of papers on the table beside Cho. Zhou could clearly read the title of the document and knew that it was the complete record of Uriel’s numerous petitions to the Ministry of Earth. For her part, Uriel’s dusky skin grew pale in recognition of the towering paperwork. It was the stuff of bureaucratic nightmares.
Master Cho parted the stack where a black ribbon protruded like a lizard’s tongue about two-thirds of the way down. His permanently ink-stained finger traced the long rows of characters upon that page as he smiled pleasantly.
“Here, Section 145, Code 32,” Master Cho said, his voice oily with agreeableness, “Madame Ninnocha must prove her intentions by receiving the blessings of a nature spirit. Since she has come to us from across the ocean, we deemed it necessary that she should procure a token symbolic of that grace. Regulation 888 clearly states that a magical academy must be founded upon such a quest.”
Zhou nodded at Uriel and she obediently lifted a small black velvet purse onto the table, pushing it carefully toward Master Cho. The man opened the drawstrings and tapped the largest of Threnody’s radiant tears out into his palm where it burned with a cold inner fire. There could be no doubt that the diamond possessed magical qualities.
“I will ensure that this is the genuine article by placing it before my diviner,” Master Cho said, mildly taken aback. Zhou resisted the temptation to smile. They had deliberately assigned a nearly impossible quest to Uriel in the hope that she would fail. Cho returned the gem to its pouch and handed it to the scribe on his left side. Without a word, the man rose and departed with it.
“Are you enjoying your new status, Master Zhou?” asked Master Cho genially, filling the time during their wait with idle conversation.
“It is an honor to lead the Order of Crystal Palm, but the means by which I attained that honor does not please me.”
“Your apprentice is unnecessarily ugly,” Master Shi said coldly, “Why did you choose a barbarian out of the scores that presented themselves to you? My own daughter is quite talented, yet you chose a hideous fox man over her.”
“He has not even drawn the attention of the gods,” Master Tan said grimly, “I have heard many unflattering things about this foreigner. It reflects badly upon your judgment, Master Bei.”
Zhou had not been expecting this. He sensed Tan and Shi were trying to determine if Pendaran understood them for they were watching his face carefully. Pendaran clenched his fists and lowered his gaze, appearing to fume. Zhou silently thanked him for being so astute.
“He is early in his training,” Zhou replied.
“If you needed an intelligent pet you could have obtained a parrot or monkey,” Master Shi said cruelly, “At least you could leave it caged when it annoyed you. This student of yours sounds troublesome.”
Zhou gazed appraisingly upon the bureaucrat from the Ministry of Water. What had he learned of Pendaran to cause him to say such a thing? Could this man be consorting with demons? After all, Ashekoroth had been a water demon.
“What troubles do you mean?” Zhou asked, smiling pleasantly.
“It is said he fell afoul of assassins in his homeland and drew the eye of a powerful demon. Perhaps you should abandon him if he is an ill-luck man. These are dark times.”
“There appears to be a veritable epidemic of assassins in these treacherous times,” Zhou replied coldly, “I have heard rumors that the Ministry is not beneath hiring them to handle difficult circumstances.”
Master Tan snorted dismissively.
“Ignore Master Shi. He is a provocateur and a gossip. As for the rumor of assassins working for the Celestial Ministry, I assure you, Master Bei, regulations and paperwork are far more effective than an assassin’s blade. You would do well to remember that before you make such spurious accusations,” Tan said pointedly.
Zhou frowned, wondering how many weeks of delay his ill-timed comment had cost him.
“I apologize, Master Tan. I believe you, of course. I thought perhaps you would be grateful to know that such a vicious rumor was afoot.”
“In your guild, you may be regarded highly, but remember your place, Mercenary. You could be crushed at a word from the Emperor or those who serve him,” Master Shi said coldly, his scarred visage harsh with righteous indignation.
“I serve Cantha and the Emperor, may he reign ten thousand years,” Zhou said quietly, mouthing the oath he had made hundreds of times before. The weak delighted in breaking the strong and he would give Master Shi no excuses to pursue him. The bureaucrats predictably parroted his oath. Zhou was eternally grateful when a pair of servants arrived with tea. It was a soothing distraction.
“Watch your back, Master Bei,” Tan said quietly into his mind, “The winds of change blow foul. You are more correct in your assessment than you realize.”
Zhou glanced cautiously at the bureaucrat from the Ministry of Air. He dared not respond in kind. Mentally projecting was not wise in an environment where he was most likely being probed and watched. Whether or not the Celestial Ministry employed assassins, they most certainly used spies and mentalists. Master Tan looked away, casually gazing upon his perfectly manicured hands. He had taken a risk to tell Zhou that. Why?
Small polite chatter circulated among the bureaucrats as the tea cooled and was eventually taken away. Zhou remained respectfully silent and attentive, occasionally glancing at his retinue to see how they fared. Master Tan was chuckling over something Lemony had said. At last the scribe reappeared bearing a sheaf of papers. He laid them before Master Cho and bowed deeply before taking his seat.
“Good news, Master Bei. You may convey to your foreign elementalist that the item in question is indeed the genuine article. These papers confirm its authenticity. If she would sign these five documents, we can proceed with granting the proper permit to begin work upon the academy.
Zhou sensed a faint note of disappointment in Cho’s voice which was strangely gratifying. The last hurdle was behind them.
“You have been granted permission to begin work on the academy,” Zhou said in Tyrian for Uriel’s benefit. She smiled broadly and thanked the bureaucrats in stilted Canthan, an action that clearly amused them.
Zhou disguised his relief, rising to bow in a show of gratitude, before taking his place once more beside Pendaran. He watched as Uriel used the chop he had helped her obtain to sign her name as a scribe completed the details of the building permit. Her months of perseverance had paid off and Zhou’s plans were now in motion. These were dark times and it was always best to be prepared.
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