Note: The Peacock is a novella I wrote after reading The Anarchy by Dalrymple, when scenes exploded through my mind. This is the prologue and first chapter, and an early draft. The story is about 50,000 words. It is the story of a dying empire, and the ruler who oversaw the decline. This is a dark story and violent story.
In the Sixtieth Year of the Reign of the Peacock
There were sounds in the darkness. Not music. That had long since left him. Quiet fingers joined the silent poets. Courtesans no longer danced before him. Where had all the voices gone?
They screamed in the darkness, singing to the music of the cursed weapons of the Company: the musket and the cannon. How the millions had vanished before the smoke of those weapons.
No. Their greatest weapon was the coin. Not invented by them, but mastered in a way his people had never managed. They were clever, the Hair-Men from far shores. He hated them, the last of the jackals come to pick his carcass. He hated them for everything they had ever done to him, for everything they would do when he was dead. Once, he had needed those men. His father had needed them. He simply hadn’t seen it coming.
The Peacock raised his head, straining his ears against the dark. He thought he saw color in the dark, but it was just a fleeting memory. A warm one. He could see green.
He shivered.
Once, that would have cause fires to be stoked, a slave would have brought him a cloak, and the steward of the palace would have been whipped for allowing him to become cold.
All gone. Joining the silent musicians. Were they around him, watching him pathetically wait for the end of a dynasty three centuries old, that once ruled over vast conquered lands? Were all the kings of his people, his ancestors, watching him? What would they think of him? The Almighty was cruel to leave this time for him.
The Peacock would have wept if he could.
Far away, something crashed and the entire palace shook. There were more screams, but none around him. Everyone had left him.
He ran his hands over his throne. The Lion Throne. Set by his ancestors with jewels in gold. The Hair-Men had blushed when they had first seen it in the time of his grandfather. He felt the holes where the missing jewels had once awed viewers. The Lion’s Eye was gone. That wound hurt the most, for it had been the first great jewel his ancestors had taken in this land.
A memory flashed before him once again and he followed it into a warmer place, an age long past.
In the Third Year of the Reign of the Second Tiger
Selimjji Bar Shahishah looked up at the great Lion Throne. Glittering diamonds studded the gold and the largest ruby in the world was set as the eye. The eye flashed ominously in the dim half-light, threatening to swallow him whole. A great canopy of silk rested on carved pillars of ivory and covered the Shah’s seat, where the master of the world and all its peoples ruled.
It was empty. His father was not here, then. Selimjji looked around but found nobody around apart from some slaves cleaning the great hall.
His father had summoned him, but the throne room was not ready for a reception between the Shah and his heir. Hezzier was nowhere to be found either. With nothing to do, Selimjji climbed the short stairs of the throne and sat down cross legged.
One day he would sit there. All the world would come before him and give him gifts. He would rule them wisely. His father, the Second Tiger, was a large man and took up nearly all the throne as he dispensed the laws and raised armies. His father was a great warrior.
Selimjji had doubts that he would grow to fit the throne. He had the slender frame of a woman, his father liked to say. Worse, Selimjji had to admit, was that he hated the sight of blood. It frightened him. He had once been forced to order his favorite slave to be whipped. Hezzier had made sure he watched every lash.
But then, being emperor of the world didn’t always require being a strong warrior. He would have generals serving him, after all. His grandfather the Crane, who died before Selimjji was born, had been a great scholar and knew all the things there was to know. One day Selimjji would be remembered as that wise. He hoped, at least.
Hezzier was good and wise, mostly, but he was a eunuch. There were things Selimjji couldn’t learn from an un-man.
“Ah, there you are, Light of the World.”
Selimjji turned to see Hezzier making the customary trot towards the throne. It was good that the slave remembered his place. The Second Tiger killed anyone who forgot their place. Father said it made people respect the Lion Throne. Hezzier said there were other schools of thought, but only when they were out of earshot of the Shah.
Hezzier reached the throne and made two triple obeisances, first to the throne and then to Selimjji.
“Where is father?” Selimjji asked.
Hezzier rose and smiled. He did have a wise smile. It always reached his eyes. Perfect for a vizier. “Your father is holding court in the Banyan Garden. He has important duties for you today.”
“I know. Jialla brought me here.”
Taking great care not to touch the throne in any way, Hezzier offered his hand. Selimji took it. The eunuch was one of the few people allowed to touch Selimjji. Together, they walked across the throne room. “Jialla will have to be whipped. The girl should know better.”
“I don’t want her to be,” Selimjji said. “People make mistakes. You taught me that.”
“Ah yes,” Hezzier said, “but people must never make mistakes with the emperor, or his heir. What if there had been assassins waiting for you?”
Selimjji laughed, the echo bouncing off the high walls. “You are funny today, Hezzier. I am the son of the Second Tiger. Who would want me dead?”
Hezzier shook his head solemnly. “Your uncle, the Ox, was assassinated. As was a son of his, before the age of four.”
Selimjji gasped. He had recently learned what assassins were, as governors died across the empire to their knives. At least one a year. But the emperor? “Who would want to assassinate him?”
“The man with the most to gain,” Hezzier said, his voice no more than a whisper.
Selimjji tried to puzzle this out, but Hezzier would answer no more of his questions. Selimjji tried invoking his royal privilege, but Hezzier laughed a warm laugh. It sounded the way a father’s laugh should.
“You are but a boy of six, though you are the heir to the empire,” the eunuch said. “I am to be your vizier and serve at your pleasure. I must do as is best for the realm, not just as you desire.”
“Oh,” Selimjji said. Hezzier was strange among his father’s slaves. He was the only one who could say no.
There wasn’t an opportunity to continue the conversation, as they reached the gate to the Banyon Garden. A herald, another kind of slave his father kept, rose, did obeisance three times, and then stepped out into the garden.
“His Royal Highness, Selimjji Bar Shahishah, Heir to the Lion Throne, Lord of Creation and all its Fruits, Vanquisher of the Majari Scourge, Friend and Benefactor of the Poor, Dreamer of the Dream of the Prophets, Beloved by the Maker of the World.”
Selimjji loved his titles, which were his as presumed heir. Though he did little in the course of his day but learn and play, Selimjji’s titles gave to him a special destiny. One day he was going to rule over a hundred million lives. Father said they lived to love and fear him. Hezzier had laughed when Selimjji had told him that.
He stepped out into a wide garden within the castle walls. Large shady trees covered ponds that dotted the landscape. Tall grasses grew alongside gentle flowers. The garden smelled of the perfume his father’s women wore. To his left he saw girls his age running over the garden. They stopped and bowed as he passed by them. He would have said hello, but he didn’t see Sheralli among them.
Hezzier led him through the garden past many kneeling slaves, saluting soldiers, bowing diplomats and governors. Poets approached him to offer their latest words. Musicians offered songs to him. Hezzier waved them away, despite Selimjji’s love for arts. A chained tiger watched him pass lazily from under the shade of a tree. Monkeys watched him curiously from trees. He liked monkeys. They seemed to know something.
His two younger brothers sat near a pool with their mother, one of his father’s favorite concubines. She waved brightly at him as he crossed the grounds. He gave a thin smile. Selimjji didn’t understand his family.
Hezzier brought him to a halt at the end of a long line of audience-seekers. That was strange. He looked to his vizier, but Hezzier shook his head, giving a familiar shushing gesture. Answers would come. Selimjji hated waiting for answers.
The man in front of them turned and saw the pair. A Hair-Man. The man’s eyes went wide, then he looked behind him at the long line of audience-seekers. He turned back to look at Hezzier and Selimjji. He bowed low.
The Hair-Man was pink and sweaty, though young and muscular. Like all his people, he grew his hair long. Long bright red locks were contained in a bun on his head. This Hair-Man was wearing a heavy cotton jacket and pants, where everyone else wore silk or light cotton. He held a small box in his hand, ornately carved.
He was a young man. The Second Tiger hated these merchants; he said they didn’t wash their bottoms. Hezzier was wary too. The merchants had better muskets than anyone, and lived on an island far beyond the reach of the emperor. Selimjji didn’t understand how his father could be the ruler of all the world if all he ruled were the lands between the mountains and the plains.
Hezzier said that the Hair-Men fought against one another in great battles in a distant land, and that he could tell which country they came from by the color of their hair, which they dyed. Red, blue, green, pink, and more. It seemed like so much work. Selimjji preferred his simple black hair.
“Master Hezzier,” the man said in perfect Parji. “My Prince.” He bowed well for a barbarian. “Why are you waiting in line?”
Hezzier raised a calming hand. “Please, friend. Do not call attention to us here. We are as my master has commanded us to be.”
“Ah.” He considered them for a moment. “I insist that you take my place in line, at the very least.”
He had confusing speech. Formal, but without a sense of rhythm in his words. Hezzier’s face was impassive, but his breathing was strained, as if he was holding back a laugh. “Peace, Master Clove. We thank you for your kindness.”
Hezzier guided Selimjji around the Hair-Man, who stepped back graciously. The strange man looked strained under the sun.
“Do you need some wine?” Selimjji asked. “Or a cooling orange compote?”
Master Clove – Selimjji thought it was a strange name – smiled and bowed. “You honor me, your majesty, with your kindness on my behalf. If I had my choice I would have the compote.”
Hezzier gave a lazy wave to a server. An instant later, the Hair-Man had a cup in his hand. “Thank you, your majesty, for thinking of me. You are a most generous and wise person.”
Selimjji beamed. He was.
“So, what need does the Company have that the emperor might treat with us?” Hezzier asked. Company was not a Parji word, coming rather from the land of the Hair-Men. Selimjji didn’t like how it sounded, though he knew it was a harmless word. A collection of merchants, Hezzier had said.
Clove looked at Hezzier, and a moment later, smiled. His teeth were stained, and one looked to be ivory. “We have come once again, to give the emperor a gift, and to ask him to remember that we have only ever served his interests.”
Hezzier nodded solemnly. “You are having trouble with the governor of Bulwiar.”
Clove laughed a hard laugh. “Shrewd as ever, Master Hezzier.”
“I hope that I remain so for many years.”
Clove drank his compote. “In your health lies stability.” He took another drink. “Yes, the governor has been pushing on us, and I worry that our sepoys do not yet have the discipline in arms to keep from starting fights.”
“I warned the Second Tiger about the danger of a pious thief in Bulwiar. You are worried for your factories?” Factory, another strange word that was unpleasing to the ear.
“Of course. We come to your country because your artists are in high demand in our home. Your skills in all things have made our merchants wealthy. We pay the tax the emperor has levied on our activities, but we pay these direct to him. Not to a perfidious governor.”
Hezzier smiled softly. “Perhaps it is best that the emperor reminds the governor of his place, then. I won’t lie to you, Master Clove, the governors are unruly hens without a cock. Less tax comes in each year.”
Clove nodded. Selimjji wondered why their little group stood apart from the rest of the line.
“Your Company has served us before. At the emperor’s assent, perhaps you might serve us again. Bulwiar is too important to lose.”
“I think we might reach an understanding,” Clove said. “I will have to speak with my masters, of course.”
“Of course,” Hezzier said.
Clove smiled. “We both have masters, don’t we.”
“Yours did not castrate you,” Hezzier said. Selimjji wondered at those words. Hezzier had never before sounded bitter.
Clove grew somber. “No, but they did send a military man on a diplomatic trip. I was not cut out for courts. They are fools that use a hammer as a pen.”
“You have the mark of a stateman, Master Clove. Your trouble is your youth. You will learn the dance in time.”
Hezzier had never spoken highly of the Hair-Men, but here he was encouraging the sweaty man. Hezzier was wise. Selimjji would simply have to learn the lesson being taught.
Clove bowed his head. It was then the Selimjji realized they were near the front of the line. He could see his father, the corpulent figure writhing in a mass of flesh that was his women.
The Second Tiger liked women more than any other earthly pleasure. Wise men didn’t bring their daughters to court. Foolish men presented them. The women were arranged around him sitting, kneeling, or standing as they gave him food and suffered his fingers. Some laughed. Most looked sullen. Selimjji thought that they must dislike being around the Second Tiger as much as him. That was a difficult thing for him to think of the emperor, but it was true.
Auntie Parjjetti, who had been married to the Ox but now belonged to the Second Tiger, looked disgusted.
His father gave a great booming laugh at the sight of Hezzier and Selimjji and waved off the man standing before him. He kissed one of his women.
“My son is here,” the large man said, in a booming voice. Everyone stopped and looked at Selimjji.
He had had eyes on him all his life, and when the world looked to him, he didn’t shy away as his younger brothers did. Their eyes were on him, as they should have been.
“Today I am proclaiming my son Selimjji Bar… Shashishan…” He struggled through the words as he ate quail. He wiped his hands off on the sari of one of his women. Seven bracelets of great jewels shone on his right hand, his turban was loose, jewels were lost in the rolls of his fat. “My heir. And I give to him the name Peacock, under which he will rule all his days.”
There was more to the ceremony- Hezzier had taught the Peacock that- but the exhausted Second Tiger simply waved, dismissing them before groping and kissing the women around him. Hezzier took the Peacock to the side and found shade beneath a Banyon tree. Drinks were brought to them. Others in the garden came up and gave the Peacock obeisance.
The Peacock held court beneath the boughs, his first, as people sought to ingratiate themselves with him. Hezzier warned him this would happen, and that an emperor had to remain disinterested. The crowd returned to his father after some time.
Master Clove came last to bow. He was still holding his little box.
“Did the emperor find no use for your gift?” the Peacock asked.
He laughed. “No. I presented them to him. Without a word he waved me on. So I thought it best to give them to you.” He bowed.
“May I see?” the Peacock asked, having always been fond of gifts.
Master Clove smiled and opened the box. Hezzier gave an approving nod. Inside were two small clubs. Part was wood, part was steel, and part was decorated with pearl. Little hunting scenes were carved into the pearl. The people looked like emperors.
“What is it?” the Peacock asked.
“They’re pistols, your Grace,” Hezzier answered. “A type of musket but small,” he continued when he saw the confusion on the Peacock’s face.
They didn’t seem small, being nearly as long as his forearm. “I see,” he managed.
“These are the finest make of my country,” Clove said. “Mother of Pearl and accurate over fifty yards.”
The Peacock looked to Hezzier. “Fifty paces,” his vizier explained.
“Oh.” The Peacock looked the pistols over. He didn’t see why he needed them. The best armies in the world belonged to him. Young laughter broke out in the gardens. He looked over the shoulder of Clove and saw that some boys of the palace had come and begun to play with the girls. Sheralli was with them.
Hezzier cleared his throat. “I think, our young prince is ready to end his audience, and rejoin with the minds of his day in a perambulation about the pools and flowers in order to elucidate the meaning of the day’s events.”
The Peacock laughed at the confused expression that came over the face of the Hair-Man. He didn’t understand the big words Hezzier used, but neither did the foreigner. The Peacock did understand, however, that he was being let go. He squeezed Hezzier’s hand and ran off towards the children, looking to tell Sheralli everything that he had heard.
As he left to run, he heard Hezzier say to the Hair-Man, “The prince is young and desires to spend the day playing. Let us talk.”
He didn’t pay attention to anything else as he ran past bowing and scrapping servants. They were invisible to him. The other children started bowing when they saw him. Not at the waist as was usual for them, but on their hands and knees. The Peacock stepped around them where he could, and over them where he could not. He reached her.
With a tug, he pulled her onto her feet and after him. She would know where they were going, but she laughed and protested as he led her.
Against the wall of the great fortress which was the seat of his father’s power, there were trees, flowers, and bushes. In one of these places there was a bush that sat on the edge of a waterfall, which let the water of the enclosed garden drain away through a culvert, so that the pools didn’t become stagnant. The water fell down a short distance, enough that he and Sheralli could climb down to a little sodden ledge. Their place was unseen in the rest of the garden, hidden by that good bush. If they wanted, they could escape the fortress into the wide city of Mugdalabad, the greatest city in the world.
They never had run away, but together he and Sheralli sat there and talked. Once they had kissed. That had felt as though he had become the sunset, brilliant colors against the sky. The sun shone on the river, and he could see temples scatter throughout the city. He wished it was time for prayer. He needed the God to lift the burden off him. Or maybe just her.
The Peacock sat down and pulled Sheralli down with him. He felt fit to burst. “Do you know what has happened?”
“Your father made you his heir, everyone says it.” Her eyes were like a moonless night, and focused on him alone. “What did he name you?”
“I am the Peacock,” he said. “I think it is because he sees a great wealth in me.”
Sheralli squeezed his hand. “I think he called you that because he thinks little of you. He is the Tiger, you are the Peacock.”
His stomach sank. Everyone knew the Second Tiger cared little for him.
“But the peacock scares off the tiger with its feathers and protects its family. He made a mistake in naming you that.” She smiled at him.
“Why?”
“Because the empire struggles after the Ox and the Tiger. Maybe it needs the Peacock.”
He looked out over the city once more. A million people lived there. That’s what Hezzier said. He would never see that many people in his life. He would never speak to that many, and he would have to guide and protect a hundred million of them.
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I don’t know how to rule or guide. All I can do is trust the people put around me, but I didn’t choose them. I don’t know anything.”
He looked to Sheralli. She was watching him closely. He had always liked when she paid attention to him. He puffed out his chest.
They held hands, on their step, with all of Mugdalabad stretched out before them.
No moment can last forever, and when their absence had been noticed, the Peacock returned to the garden so the guards wouldn’t worry. She followed after him.
The Peacock went about playing with the other children as his father held court. When he ran past his father he would pause, trying to learn what it was that made a king, or any law of governance. But his father merely heard a plea and then waved his hand, returning to his women. They had brought out his pipe, and he governed through the haze of the opium.
Hezzier had been clear on that evil. Revulsion settled in the Peacock.
As the children ran through the large gardens, testing their bravery by standing near the chained tiger, or their speed by trying to catch a monkey’s tail, he watched. One day everything would be his. His friends would not be his friends anymore. They would be his subjects. There would be no one at his side unafraid of him except Sheralli.
In the same place he had left them, Hezzier and Clove were talking. Clove rested an arm on his little box of pistols. When the Peacock was near, he overheard boring conversation about grain prices and the like. Strange, but there was a reason emperors had viziers.
He watched all he could in between playing, trying to learn the lesson. The Peacock would be a good emperor. The best there ever was. He would be that for her.
As the day wore on the heat became oppressive, and many in the garden went to the pools and stood in them. Father kept fish in them, and occasionally one would swim by his leg. The only people not in the pools were his father and concubines, the slaves and guards who attended them, the remaining audience seekers, and Masters Hezzier and Clove.
His pool had only children in it. They ranged from ages twelve to three. The Peacock knew many of them. They were the palace children; his playmates. Sheralli stood at his side, and they prodded each other with their feet beneath the water where no one could see.
Yes. This was the world he would inherit. A good one, where everyone had their place. His was simply on top of it all.
He had no need for pistols, because every one of his subjects would give their life for him. He had a hundred million subjects. No one had a hundred million swords or muskets.
“What will you do about the Majari horsemen, great one?” one of the older boys, Bijra, asked him. Bijra wrongly worshiped many gods, but not the Almighty. Hezzier said it was best to leave the native people their gods because if they didn’t, there would be fighting. He thought the empire should never be afraid of a fight.
The Peacock thought about it for a moment. “I am the Scourge of the Majari. They will not leave their home against me.”
The other children nodded, impressed. Bijra didn’t. He simply tilted his head. Annoyance flashed through the Peacock. He did not answer to a boy like Bijra. He was the Peacock.
A roar rent the peaceful day. All heads turned curiously to the sound. The Peacock did so just in time to see a dagger removed from the folds of the Second Tiger’s fat. The dagger came again, this time to his chest. Then a third time. A fourth. The Second Tiger waved off his attacker lazily, his arms sluggish.
Around him his women fled. The dagger was dropped onto his corpulence. The Peacock hadn’t seen who had wielded it, but it came from behind him, from the harem. He stood in the pool. A hand grabbed his. Sheralli. She was with him.
The Second Tiger fell off his divan and rolled around on the ground, clutching at his throat. Four wounds. Two to the side, one to the throat, one to the chest. Blood stained his beautiful clothes. His gems and finery were muted by seeping crimson. Rolling and thrashing, the Second Tiger remembered his strength through the haze of opium, but all it did was keep his slaves and guards from reaching his side.
Some women were grabbed by guards, while others pointed behind them. The Peacock looked to Hezzier, who stood in shock. His companion Clove was fiddling with one of the pistols.
“This is too soon,” was all the Peacock managed to say. A great destiny was meant for him. He knew it. But he was only six. He wasn’t ready.
Auntie came out of the bushes, sari torn, her eyes wild and fixed on him. Her hand was bloody. “Come here prince, I must speak with you.”
The Peacock took a step towards her but Sheralli held him back. “No,” she whispered in his ear. Desperate.
A sudden terror came over him as he looked at her and he froze mid step. There were no guards near him.
Auntie Parjjetti saw the hesitation and pulled a knife from her sari. She lunged toward him. Sheralli cried out. The Peacock didn’t move. Terror ruled his limbs. He was going to die.
A shot rang out. Auntie fell down.
Blood bloomed in her side. She was so near him he could hear her ragged breathing. The garden was silent. Blood coated her lips and she coughed more out. Behind her, the chained tiger stood on its feet, licking its lips at the smell of blood in the air. Clove emerged from behind a plume of smoke, one of the Peacock’s pistols in his hand. The barrel smoked.
The Peacock stood still. He felt ill. The events didn’t make sense to him then, but he felt a distant high ceiling come crashing down onto his shoulders. He didn’t understand, but he would have to. Not today though. An order to Hezzier and he would be brought back to his staterooms. There he could remain for days, years even. He could have Sheralli brought to him. Without her he was lost.
Auntie lunged at him from the ground, but flopped uselessly. Half her face was bloody, her eyes were still wild.
“Kedeem would be a better emperor than you.” She spat. “You weakling. Disgrace to the House of the Lion. Weak.”
The Peacock stepped backward into deeper water. Her eyes. Dying people weren’t supposed to have eyes like that. Hezzier came and guided him away from the water, leading him around the pool and the tiger to stand in the circle around his dying father.
“Hezzier, who is Kedeem?” he asked.
Oddly, Hezzier looked shocked. He couldn’t take his eyes off the Second Tiger, who was growing weak from the loss of blood. “He is your cousin. The last living son of the Ox. Your father keeps him in the dungeon, where he was tortured whenever your Aunt refused to share his bed.”
The Peacock shivered.
A mask of calm descended over Hezzier. He pointed to the many slaves gathered in the garden. “Grab his majesty and carry him to his bed. Give him some dignity at least.” His orders were relayed and slaves ran up. The Second Tiger struggled weakly, but it still took thirteen slaves to lift him. “Send word to the governors and the generals. They will come here to do obeisance to the Peacock. Assassinate those that do not come.” More people ran. By the waters, Clove stood over the woman he had killed and spoke to her. “Command the master of the guard to dispose of the other princes. They will not be needed.”
A swirl of motion and suddenly the Peacock was alone with Hezzier in a nearly empty garden. There were guards by the entrances, though not the culvert which led out. Palace slaves busied themselves over the garden, cleaning up blood. But no one here would speak unless spoken to. They knew not to remember the words their betters spoke.
Clove had left after placing the pistol back in the box, which remained on the table, and skirting the tiger. He had said “Perhaps we might talk of the taxes later,” as he passed. Hezzier had nodded.
“The princes. My brothers?” he asked Hezzier.
Hezzier knelt down before the Peacock. His face was solemn as a death mask. “Yes. You must remember I have a duty to the realm. Your grandfather abolished the practice of his ancestors, and his chosen heir died for it. I must prevent that. They will be killed gently.”
The Peacock could not look away as guards moved toward the young princes. A pang of fear touched the Peacock. True, he had never liked his two younger brothers, born to his father’s concubines. Still, why the only path forward was marked with blood?
Their mother was holding them, screaming, begging the guards to stop. The boys were crying. The guards reached them, ripped the boys from their mother, and pulled daggers. The Peacock closed his eyes, and would later wish he could close his ears. His brother’s cries were silenced, cut mid-cry. Their mother’s cry ripped the world. Hezzier guided the Peacock toward the palace.
“We were fortunate today,” Hezzier nodding in satisfaction at the deed. “If you father had not named you his heir and given you a name, we might have faced greater challenges.”
“Auntie wanted Kedeem on the throne,” the Peacock said, his voice small. The lesson of the day was revealed to him. He now knew what assassins were for.
“Yes. Your Aunt vanished quickly into the plants of the garden. Clove suspected she would come for you and was ready. Come, we have some works to do this day still.”
The Peacock obeyed meekly. “It is a good thing I have subjects like Clove.”
“That remains to be seen,” Hezzier taught gently. “He desires only one thing – wealth. Thus, he is easy to control. Greedy men are always easy to control. You will need to decide if you wish to keep your father’s women. Otherwise, they will go on the pyre with him.”
In later years the Peacock heard the many legends born that day. How the Second Tiger died upon the great Lion Throne, roaring as he fought off assassins. Or else it was said that he was killed by a woman jealousy for attention he paid other concubines. The great pyre of women entered folklore as the hundred concubines the emperor kept were burned with him, his murderer included. The Peacock didn’t want them, so they left world with their husband. The wise wondered if the practice of widow burning should end.
The truth lay largely forgotten. The Second Tiger died weakly in the arms of thirteen slaves as he was carried through a dim corridor. Those slaves were killed on the order of Hezzier for not being swift enough. Little was said of the attempted murder of the Peacock, or the timely intervention of Clove. At least, little was said in the empire. Across two oceans, legends sprang up among the Hair-Men.
Though little was said of those actions, much was done because of them. Plans were laid that were long in bearing fruit.
That night, the Peacock sat in his rooms, exhausted and frightened. Fifty guards stood outside his room. He didn’t know how he was going to sleep. As he watched the great city of Mugdalabad, he wondered how many of them knew a boy was their emperor. The sun was setting. From the tops of every temple, the prayer lights floated up. Paper lanterns of the holy colors blue, green, and white lifted into the air, tethered to their temples that they did not fly away. The lights floated over the city, calling all those who saw them to pray.
The Peacock prayed desperate prayers, calling on the Almighty and the many prophets to guide him, to lift the burden he felt off his shoulders.
There was no answer.
Michael Frutig 