A fire born of exile, p.30
A Fire Born of Exile, page 30
What would you do if I said yes?
Quỳnh had looked so gaunt, so out of breath. So desperate and unhappy. What kind of life was that, to have to deny your own daughter in order to rise through the ranks of society?
The same kind of life, wasn’t it, that caused one to manipulate one’s own daughter to advance. That spoke of family honour and suitable connections.
Mother treated people as pawns to be manipulated to make the Empire safer. And Quỳnh… Minh didn’t really know what drove Quỳnh. It was more than just Moon – but what kind of life was that? Forever separated from a child who could only call her big auntie; having to perpetually swallow her own secrets.
Quỳnh was worse: she treated herself as a pawn in her own designs.
And Minh…
Minh didn’t want to be either of them.
Minh didn’t want to be a scholar at all.
She thought of Vân; of the weight of Moon, of the laughter that lit up the whole room. That was what she wanted. A child. She wanted to be a mother. A mother to a mindship.
It would be more complicated than that. That dream was going to involve sleepless nights, and fights. But she wanted to be what Mother couldn’t be, what Quỳnh had given up on: she wanted to have a child, and to be as good a parent as she could.
And there was absolutely no way in the Numbered Planets the family would let her do it.
* * *
Mother received Minh in her office. Which meant she was particularly unhappy, or particularly busy, or both.
When Minh came in, there were four other people in the room, and an overlay tracking the arcing trajectory of a large, glittering mindship, The Goby in the Well. Mother was speaking to Magistrate Toàn.
‘…make sure everything is ready for the Orca Censor’s arrival.’ She glanced, briefly, at the overlay. ‘She’s landing in two bi-hours. Is her section of the compound ready?’
Bảo Toàn swallowed. ‘The overlays are still being put together—’
‘Put them together faster,’ Mother said sharply. ‘And show me the rooms when they’re done. I’m sure they’ll need retouching.’
The other people were the commander of the militia and two clerks. The commander was clearly having some kind of private conversation with Mother, eyes glazed and looking deeply harried. The clerks held a list that they kept trying to wave in front of her, who was so far ignoring them in favour of glaring at Bảo Toàn.
One of them finally said, ‘Prefect?’
‘Yes?’
‘The list of guests for the reception. I understand there were several additions. Also, concerning those arrests you wanted in the dining room…’
Mother wasn’t listening. She looked up, and saw Minh. Minh froze: the full force of that gaze felt as though she was being skewered alive.
‘Ah, child. Leave us.’
‘The guests—’
‘Now,’ Mother said.
Another flurry of activity as the room emptied, the commander flashing a wry, sympathetic smile at Minh as she left.
‘Sit,’ Mother said.
Minh didn’t move. This was Mother. This was the person who’d raised her, the one who’d always done what needed to be done. This was the magistrate and the prefect of the scholars’ files, the one committing numerous injustices.
‘I said sit. I should think you’ve caused trouble enough as it is, wouldn’t you agree?’
Minh dragged her voice from where it had fled. ‘Tell me.’
‘Tell you what?’
‘If I’ve caused trouble, then tell me what kind of trouble.’
‘Why, inconveniencing me.’ Mother gestured again to the chair in front of her desk. The overlay of the Orca Censor’s ship didn’t vanish, but almost everything did else, save Mother’s figure. Her bots gleamed in the dim light. Minh found herself struggling to breathe. ‘Worrying me. What if someone tried to kidnap you again?’
Minh sat down. The chair wasn’t particularly large, but Mother had done something to it, and it felt hard and absurdly large. As though she was a child.
‘No one tried to kidnap me.’
‘That’s beside the point.’ Mother sighed. ‘I’m told you’ve visited unsuitable scholars, too.’
Vĩnh Trinh. Mạt Lỵ. The printing house. A lifetime ago.
‘They’re not…’ Minh opened her mouth, closed it. ‘How are they unsuitable?’
‘Oh, child. You never pay attention. They’re not good enough for you.’
‘I…’ Minh swallowed. ‘Maybe I get to decide what’s good enough for me.’ It cost her everything she had.
‘Do you?’ Mother laughed. It wasn’t even malicious. ‘You’re young, and you have no idea what you’re getting into. Just like at the Tiger Games.’
Minh’s face flushed. She tried to control the slight movement of her bots, but Mother had likely seen it.
‘I can take care of myself.’
Mother’s gaze was pitying. ‘I don’t think so. You’ll understand, when you’re my age.’
It was the same things – the same condescension, the same continuous stream of words that left Minh utterly wrung out and nauseated. She put up the only defence she could think of.
‘Will I understand what you’ve done then, too?’
A pause. Mother cocked her head, looking for all the world as though she was deciding whether to throw Minh in jail.
‘What I’ve done?’
‘Bạch Loan. Mỹ Thuần.’ Minh added a few more names from the list. ‘You gave them harsher sentences than they deserved. And the ship. Second Great-Aunt. You’ve been trying to sabotage her.’
Mother stared at her. Then she laughed.
‘Flowers at the Gates of the Lords? She won’t wake up, child. Your little project of fixing her… Heart’s Sorrow’s delusions – that’s never going to materialise. You’re children.’
Not any more. Minh clenched her fists.
‘She will wake up,’ she said. ‘She will. You’ve got no right to take what’s hers!’
A silence. Something was tightening in the room: the weight of Mother’s anger, a feeling that Minh had truly overstepped the mark this time – the giải trãi and kỳ lân coming out of the darkness, light glinting on their horns and spines and fangs, their maws wide open under pitiless starlight.
‘I see. Is that how it is, then? You question me. You ignore filial piety.’
‘I am allowed to ask for an accounting.’ Minh wanted it to sound firm, but it just came out as a strangled squeak. ‘Master Khổng said—’
‘Master Khổng has no say in this house!’ Mother’s voice was the blow of a lacerator. And then, more kindly, ‘You don’t understand, do you? You’re not old enough.’
‘I’m old enough for explanations!’
A silence. The darkness receded, until it was just the familiar office.
‘Oh, child…’ Mother rose, came to sit on her desk, closer to the chair Minh was facing, the beasts behind her receding into nothingness. Her avatar changed, too, away from the stern magistrate, the make-up fading until it was just a faint touch on her face, the robes becoming simpler and rougher. ‘You really don’t remember, do you? You were so young, and so little. Child against parent, sworn sibling against sworn sibling. Entire planets laid waste. The Azure Serpent and so many mining rigs fragmented into ten thousand pieces.’ There was grief in her voice. ‘We’re just one step away from that happening again. It’s been ten years since the death of The General who Pacified the Dragon’s Tail, but the rebels are still here. They haven’t forgotten. They’re still hoping to depose the Empress.’
Minh said, ‘I’m really not sure—’
‘We’re one step away from chaos overwhelming us all. I have to be firm. I have to be merciless.’
‘You always said you were fair!’ Minh started
Mother gave her a look. It was the same look she’d given her when she’d caught Minh trying to sneak out of the compound at seven years old – a look of pity given to a naive child.
‘Fairness is in the defence of what holds us together. The three fundamental bonds, the five constant virtues. Harmony. Peace.’ Mother sighed.
‘But surely—’
‘If I was lenient, people would believe their offences would be forgiven. They would think me lax. They would take liberties.’
‘I thought you were cruel,’ Minh said.
Mother made a small, huffing sound. ‘You think I derive pleasure from it? I don’t. I do what’s necessary. Do you understand?’
No, Minh wanted to say. She didn’t. Not in the way Mother wanted her to. But this had never happened before. Grief. Emotion. Something that was more than constant judgement.
She said finally, ‘What if I don’t want to become a scholar?’
A sharp look from Mother. ‘Why?’
Minh spread her hands. Did she trust Mother? No – and the knowledge was a stone in her stomach – but what other solution did she have?
‘I’m not made to be one. If I withdrew from the examinations—’
‘Surely you can’t be thinking about this.’ Mother frowned. ‘What else would you do?’
Minh’s survival instincts kicked in: she closed her mouth on what she actually wanted to do.
Mother sighed, bending over the desk so that her face was almost level with Minh’s – lined and weathered by time, her eyes two pits of darkness.
‘I love you. You know this, don’t you? I only want the best for you.’
Minh wanted to say she knew, but the words felt like ash in her mouth. Did Mother love? Did she understand what it meant?
‘I want to choose. I want to raise a child…’
Scholar-officials – the greater partners in marriages – were never the ones who bore or raised children.
‘You?’ The sheer, simple disbelief in Mother’s voice cut Minh to the core.
‘Why not?’
‘You’d be such a terrible mother,’ Mother said. ‘You’re intelligent, but you don’t know how to be practical.’
As she spoke, Minh saw herself as Mother saw her. Small. Inadequate. Unable to cope. She’d be lucky to get a posting after the examinations.
‘I…’
Mother shook her head. ‘It’s a good thing I’m here for you. But I can understand that you don’t want to be posted far from the Belt. It’s scary, having to fend for yourself, especially in your situation.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve given so much for you. But I guess I can give a little more. Because you’re asking. A post not too far away from here, where I could guide you. What do you think?’
Minh tasted bile in her throat. She was meant to say yes, like she’d said yes to the dress, to Mother dragging her to scholar after scholar – to all of it.
‘That’s…’ She breathed in, bracing herself against what was going to happen, knowing that Mother was going to snap. ‘That’s not what I want.’
A silence.
‘You’d disobey me? No one will ever love you for that, child. You know that, don’t you? There’s no love for those children who don’t do as they’re told.’
The darkness was back, and Minh cowered in the chair as the full force of Mother’s anger filled the room.
No one would love her. Minh didn’t deserve anything. She was unfilial, a failure and a shame to the family. And yet…
She thought of Quỳnh, and Quỳnh’s weary sadness – and how she really wasn’t going to sacrifice her happiness for someone else’s sake.
She sat very straight, and said nothing.
Disobedience.
A different path.
One of the kỳ lân had padded closer, its breath becoming warmer and warmer on Minh’s face, the perception filter making it seem as though she was about to be burned to cinders. Like the murderers and the rioters, and the people threatening the harmony of the worlds.
‘I sacrificed so much to ensure your place in society. Made so many efforts to ensure your pitiful talent found a space.’ Mother snapped her fingers, and the commander of the militia was back in the room. ‘Go back to your room. The commander will escort you. You can reflect on the importance of family until the Orca Censor arrives.’
Chapter 19
Resolve
Quỳnh sat in her empty room, staring at the wall.
She’d slept badly. She’d woken up gasping, lungs crushed by a constriction attack, the room suddenly filled with echoes of the past – the plunge into deep spaces, the death of Dã Lan – and all her ghosts lined up watching her: Mother, Thanh Khuê, Đình Sơn. She’d screamed at herself to breathe, again and again, while her bots injected her with the medication – and finally she’d fallen back into sleep as uneasily as if she’d fallen into deep spaces.
‘I thought I’d find you there,’ Guts of Sea said.
Quỳnh raised a hand. Her bots clustered at the end of the bed.
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘You’re going to ask how I could be so stupid. You’re going to tell me that this was going to happen all along and you knew it.’
Guts of Sea moved closer, her bots scuttling on the floor. She sighed, and hovered over the bed, becoming smaller.
‘I’m not here to make you unhappy.’
‘No. I do that myself, don’t I?’ Quỳnh laughed, bitterly. ‘Never mind.’
‘You broke up, didn’t you?’
‘Don’t you dare say it’s a good thing.’
She’d told herself that, over and over again. And maybe she’d believe it. Maybe she’d feel less miserable in the time she had left.
‘For Hoà? Or for you?’
For Hoà. Always for Hoà.
‘Tell me about the reception,’ Quỳnh said.
Guts of Sea looked as though she was going to say something.
‘Gia Kiệt’s testimony has been going through the network of the scholars, passing from trusted person to trusted person. I expect the biggest vid channel to pick it up and make it public shortly before the general arrives at the reception.’
By which time it would be too late for her to turn around.
‘And the prefect?’
‘Gia Kiệt talked to her earlier.’
‘And the rest? The children? The mindship?’
Guts of Sea hesitated. ‘Flowers at the Gates is fixing herself. She’s also pulling from the network. My guess is when she comes back online, she’ll be fully informed, and furious.’
But furious enough to take down the prefect? Quỳnh had hoped for more time. For the rest of the plan to unfold, for the prefect to be made vulnerable through Minh’s public denunciation.
‘I don’t think it’s going to be enough,’ Quỳnh said. ‘The Orca Censor will not transfer the head of lineage, but it’s not going to materially affect the prefect.
Another hesitation.
‘You’re not going to like this.’
Quỳnh thinned her lips. ‘Out with it.’
‘This,’ Guts of Sea said.
It was a message sent to both of them, lost in the morass of messages Quỳnh hadn’t had the heart to touch yet. It was from Quỳnh’s allies at court, Minister Giai Khanh and Academy Chancellor Hàn Lâm Bình.
Or rather, former allies.
‘They’re pulling out,’ Quỳnh said.
‘Yes,’ Guts of Sea said.
‘Why?’
Her heart sank as she read it. It was because of Hoà – in a roundabout way. Because Đức had gone with a minimal escort into the Technologists’ Ring and made a show of ruthlessness. Because the minister and the academy chancellor were both convinced that Đức would weather any unrest in the Belt.
‘They’re scared.’
‘Cautious,’ Guts of Sea said.
Too cautious. Which meant she didn’t have court support, nothing to remove Đức.
‘Do you think the scholars…?’
Guts of Sea spun in a ‘no’ pattern. ‘They hate her. They’d be glad to move against her. But they won’t move against an imperial censor. Too much risk.’
She should have known. She really should have known that, in the end, she was going to lose everything – happiness, and her chance at revenge. She should have known that Đức was going to take from her again and again, and survive whatever could be thrown her way. It didn’t leave many options. It didn’t leave any options.
‘Then I’ll do it,’ Quỳnh said.
‘Do what?’
‘Can you remove the prefect’s protections?’
‘Her bots? Her network access? Yes, only for a few blinks. But…’
‘Oh, spit it out.’
‘But you’re going to get caught.’
‘Yes,’ Quỳnh said. ‘That’s the plan. I’m going to get caught after I kill her.’
It would be more satisfying if Đức fell the same way Tuyết was going to – undone by her own sins and greed. But Đức was too careful, and too influential. She’d courted the powerful, corrupted the greedy, chosen her sides carefully in factional wars. She wasn’t going to be taken down so easily.
‘We have the evidence we gave Minh,’ Guts of Sea said, ‘and the scholars are spreading it. If we gave that to the censor—’
‘You know that won’t work,’ Quỳnh said. ‘She’s been cruel, but is the Empire going to care? She stopped the rebellions. She put an end to the Ten Thousand Flags Uprising. All the people she mistreated had already committed treason. Besides, the censor will be like all the rest of them. Like Giai Khanh and Hàn Lâm Bình. There’s no justice in the Empire. There’s no forgiveness for treason.’
‘Not all the people she arrested were guilty,’ Guts of Sea said gently. ‘You forget Dã Lan.’
The thought she’d have to argue her own case – to review the evidence, to call up the ghosts already haunting her nights, investigate the same cause that had already led her to be summarily tortured and thrown out of an airlock like so much trash – opened a pit of fear in her stomach.
‘No,’ Quỳnh said. ‘Dã Lan didn’t matter then. She won’t matter now.’
Guts of Sea said, ‘Are you sure?’
What point is there to living anyway?
‘Absolutely sure,’ Quỳnh said.
Her friend hesitated. Then she said, ‘I don’t want you to die.’
No anger, no resentment: but the fear of losing someone she cared for. The same thing that had led her to disapprove of Hoà; the insecurity that Quỳnh wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to fill.
