Which meant another two hours passed before Sunan himself was led into a pavilion just outside the gates and made to strip. He was even obliged to remove his undergarments. Too many past scholars had been caught with illegal notes and intricately written texts painted on the insides of their linens.
The Gruung Exams were that significant. And that hard.
Upon completing this most undignified search, the guards gave Sunan a loose garment of outrageously itchy wool. The itch would help him to focus, or so Sunan’s uncle had told him in advance. Somehow, as he grimaced his way into the garment, Sunan didn’t believe his uncle and silently cursed him with fire boils.
Walking stiffly to avoid letting his body touch any more of the wool robe than absolutely necessary, Sunan was marched through the doors of the Center of Learning. For an all-too-brief moment, his heart thrilled. At last! Here he was. A Tribute Scholar about to take his Gruung, standing upon the very threshold of his future. A future none would have believed possible for the son of a buffalo-dung warlord. A future none would have dreamed—
“There,” grunted a guard, pointing to a large pile of ill-wrapped sacks just within the door. “Take one.”
Sunan bowed and did as he was told. He heard a clink inside the sack, and knew it for the sound of a pitcher and a chamber pot knocking against each other. Also in the sack would be simple bedding, a little food, an ink stone, ink, and brushes: all that he would be permitted to have for the next seventy-two hours.
Sunan, flanked by guards, was led now into the outer court of the Center. He tried to drink in what he could of the moment, the long-dreamed-of moment. He tried to admire the gilded walls, the tapestries, the swirling pattern on the floor beneath his feet.
But it was too much, too terrible, and the wretched wool seam was digging into the back of his neck.
The outer court displayed hundreds of tiny windowless chambers, each lit by a single lantern. Sunan was ushered into one of these, and a slave boy scurried in with a water skin and looked at Sunan expectantly. Realizing what was required, Sunan unwrapped the sack he’d been issued and pulled out the water pitcher. The slave boy filled it and backed from the room.
The guard outside shut the door. Sunan heard the sound of a bolt falling into place.
“Light of the Lordly Sun!” Sunan prayed, then kicked himself for this superstitious display. He sounded like a Chhayan urchin, not the Tribute Scholar he was. His hands shaking, he hastily unpacked the rest of his sack, arranging the bedroll in one corner, the chamber pot in another, and the scholarly tools in a third.
And now . . .
Now he must write.
The time passed quickly. Sunan had mentally rehearsed his essays a thousand times, and he fell to them now with a will. He had only seventy-two hours to write eight distinct essays with eight distinct parts to each. He must prove the breadth of his knowledge in arithmetic, music, writing, rituals, public and private ceremonies, and poetry, not to mention the militaristic arts of strategy and subterfuge. To prove his knowledge, he must quote extensively from the classics. A single misquote—even one character out of place or one word substituted for another—and he would be disqualified.
His brain churned out words at a fevered pace, but he must control his hand, he must control his brush and ink. Haste was the sign of a weak mind. Everything must be deliberate, every movement, every thought. As he finished each essay, he dropped it into a certain slot in the door, there to be retrieved, read, and judged by the Masters. This accomplished, he immediately turned to the next one.
At last, after five hours of work, he realized he must stop and eat at least a bite, and probably drink some water. He set aside his brush and, with no little irritation, took time to nurture his feeble mortal body. Why must scholars be limited by such needs? It was somehow unjust.
But it was still necessary. He remembered Uncle Kasemsan telling him about his own Gruung Exam, many years ago:
“Four students died during those three days. Their bodies were wrapped in their own straw mats and tossed over the Center walls. Their families never came to retrieve them.”
Sunan could not afford so dishonorable a death. He had worked too hard.
So he ate, drank, and even permitted carefully timed sleeps. He had been practicing controlled sleep for the last few years in preparation for his Gruung. Too much sleep, and he would not have time to finish; too little, and he’d end up wrapped in a straw mat.
His whole life came down to the balance of drive and restraint.
But one thing he could not restrain. Ten hours into his exam, he removed the wool garment and worked naked. He was cold, to be sure, but the relief from the itch was worth any risk of a chill.
So the seventy-two hours passed. When the room went suddenly dark, Sunan knew that the time was up, for the oil of the single lantern was carefully measured. He set aside his brush, relieved that he had finished his final sentence and reasonably confident the sentence had finished his final thought. Stubble lined his cheek, ink stained his fingers, and his whole body shivered with exhaustion and cold. But he’d not died! There was a grace.
And he knew with a deep inner confidence that he had done well. Well enough to merit top marks.
So he dropped his final scroll through the slot and slithered back into the horrible wool garment. He knelt to wait in the center of the room. In due time, guards came and he was escorted to the outer court, where hundreds of other students, hollow-eyed, trembling, but triumphant, waited. Sunan’s gaze ran over them dully, and he wondered if anyone had died.
They shuffled around, ringing the wide stone steps that led up to the Middle Court. Drifts of snow lined the wall, carefully swept aside by slaves. The stone beneath the scholars’ bare feet was like ice. But no one cared, no one complained.
Those who had passed would be called up those stairs and into their new life within the Center of Learning. Those who had not passed would crawl, disgraced, back out the gate through which they had come, doomed to face the disappointed stares of their families and friends.
Sunan shifted in the wool garment, trying to move the itchy seams to less-sensitive portions of his body. Unable and unwilling to meet the gazes of his fellow students, he instead studied the two stone statues at the base of the staircase. These were interesting enough, worthy of a second or third glance. They were recognizably Anwar and Hulan, the Lordly Sun and his Lady Moon, carved in jade, with faces more real than life. Each held a scepter, the one topped with a many-rayed sun, the other with a crescent moon. Snow dusted their heads and shoulders.
Sunan frowned suddenly as his eye lit upon an anomaly: Perched upon the right shoulder of each of these familiar figures was a tall songbird, its wings outspread. No snow shrouded its form, which shone bright and clear.
This was not the classical depiction. While Anwar and Hulan were common enough figures throughout the known eastern world, he had never before seen them portrayed thus. Not once in all the pored-over scrolls and documents had Sunan encountered a single reference to a songbird in the legends of the Sun and the Moon.
So what in Anwar’s name was it doing on the shoulders of those statues?
“Tribute Scholar Number One.”
The voice boomed from the top of the stairs, shattering all murky musing in Sunan’s head. He and all the gathered scholars stood upright and gazed toward the top of the stair where stood Overseer Rangsun, the great leader of the Center of Learning. The mere sight of him raised the spirits and hopes of all those gathered.
The overseer read out each Tribute Scholar’s number and, following that, one of two words: pass or fail. Scholars scrambled in their sleeves to find their numbers then listened breathlessly as the results were read. No one spoke a word of jubilation or defeat. Those who passed proceeded without further ceremony—for what further ceremony was needed?—up the staircase to the Middle Court. They were now Presented Scholars.
And those who failed vanished without a word.
Sunan found his n
umber sewn into the hem of his sleeve. One hundred two. So he must wait and wait and wait. His whole life, his whole being, his whole future rested on the words of Overseer Rangsun. But he must wait.
Finally, Tribute Scholar Ninety-nine. A pass.
Tribute Scholar One Hundred. A fail.
Tribute Scholar One Hundred One. A fail.
Now. Now, now, now! Sunan felt his heart plummet and soar and plummet again. Now! Read it now!
“Tribute Scholar One Hundred Three,” read the overseer.
Four more numbers were read before Sunan found his breath again. Blood rushed to his ears, and for a terrible moment he thought he would faint. Where was his number? The overseer had skipped his number! Could Sunan have let his mind drift, even for a moment, and missed it? Could the overseer have made a mistake?
“Tribute Scholar One Hundred Ten,” read the overseer, and on down the list.
Sunan stood alone in the crowd, his heart hammering, his head spinning. Scholars passed up the stairs; scholars retreated through the gate. What must he do? Where must he go?
Where was his number?
Another hour passed, and the Lordly Sun rose high above and beat down upon the yard, unable to melt the snow or ease the cold. But Sunan sweated inside his woolen robe.
At last the courtyard was empty. He stood alone at the base of the stairs, gazing up into the face of the overseer.
Overseer Rangsun rolled up his long scroll, passed it to a near attendant, and then dismissed him with a flick of his wrist. Lifting the edge of his embroidered robes, he began to descend the stair. Sunan trembled. Should he flee? Should he assume that his name had not been called because he had failed and hasten away through the gate? But Overseer Rangsun was now at the bottom step. He stood with his hands folded inside his deep sleeves and lifted heavy-lidded eyes to study Sunan.
“Sunan, son of Juong-Khla,” the overseer said.
“Honored Overseer!” Sunan gasped and bowed low. His ears burned at the sound of his father’s name spoken here in the Center of Learning. It was as evil as a curse.
“You will be pleased to know,” Overseer Rangsun said, his voice mild as a spring breeze, “that you far exceeded all expectations and achieved the top score of this year’s Gruung.”
For a moment the world went black, and Sunan suspected that he fainted. Somehow he managed to stay on his feet until his eyes were able to refocus and blood flowed back to his brain. With sparks exploding on the edge of his vision, he bowed again, deeper than before. He opened his mouth to speak, but words would not come.
It didn’t matter. Overseer Rangsun continued: “Unfortunately, due to the circumstances of your birth and less-than-desirable parentage, the Center of Learning does not feel that it can accept you into the Middle Court.”
Once more the world went black. Once more Sunan managed to stay on his feet. When he opened his mouth again, only one word emerged.
“Spitfire.”
It was a vile curse. Not something he should have dared even think in the presence of Overseer Rangsun. He deserved to be flogged. For one wild instant, he hoped he would be flogged. Anything to distract his mind from the roaring flames that even now consumed him.
But the overseer merely nodded in mild understanding. “Indeed. Spitfire,” he said. “It does seem unfair that the sins of your father should cast such a pall upon your own life. This is the world in which we live, Juong-Khla Sunan. You will never be a Presented Scholar.”
Please kill me now, Sunan wanted to say. Instead, he clamped his teeth down upon his tongue.
“However,” Overseer Rangsun continued, “you will remain a Tribute Scholar, which is perhaps honor enough for a half-Chhayan. You will find work, respectable work. You will never achieve your potential, but you will not die in a ditch.”
“Yes, Honored Overseer,” Sunan whispered.
The overseer smiled then. It wasn’t a smile that reached his eyes, merely a twist of his thin lips and white mustache. “All is not lost,” he said. “You see, while I know the unfortunate facts surrounding your parentage, I know the fortunate facts as well. Your mother was a daughter of the Fan Clan, sister to Lord Dok-Kasemsan. I knew your uncle Kasemsan rather well. He was a Presented Scholar here himself, back in his day.”
Sunan nodded.
“Your uncle was many things in his life.”
At first Sunan said nothing. Then he blinked as some of the overseer’s words found their way through the roar of fire in his brain to a place of comprehension. “Was? Honored Overseer, my uncle is—Are you saying he’s—”
“Dead?” The overseer’s cold smile grew. “Oh, yes. Or as good as. My sources can tell me only so much on such short notice. But we will assume death. Word will not reach his household for many weeks, and you must take care that you say nothing of the matter to his wife or family.”
“But—But how? How can he—” Sunan put a hand to his throbbing temple, shaking his head. This must all be part of some horrible dream. He must have allowed himself to oversleep. Time to wake up! Time to wake up now and finish his test, or he’d never be a Presented Scholar!
Mastering himself with an effort, he managed to say, “My uncle left only three months ago to meet a friend in Lunthea Maly. He cannot be dead.”
“Should not be dead, perhaps,” the overseer agreed. “But you, as a student of the classics, must know that anything can happen. The death of your uncle was both more unlikely and more likely than you yet realize.”
With those strange words, the overseer reached further up his sleeve and withdrew a tiny scroll sealed in melted gold. He handed this to Sunan.
“You have gifts, son of Juong-Khla. Gifts that will be of keen interest to others. You will never be a Presented Scholar. But you may realize your true value if you wish.” He tucked his hands away again, and his eyes disappeared almost entirely beneath his heavy lids. “You must choose whether or not to read the document I have just given you. If you choose not to read it, you will remain a Tribute Scholar and achieve what sort of life you may. Should you choose to read it, you will face another choice: a choice of life or instant death.” He shrugged. “It’s up to you. May Anwar shine upon your decision.”
With that, the overseer turned and ascended the stair to the Middle Court, leaving Sunan barefoot on the stones below.
Despite anything Overseer Rangsun’s sources might say, Lord Dok-Kasemsan wasn’t dead. Not yet. And if he did die, it would not be of gold-leaf poisoning.
“Indeed, Honored Mother, while he will know some discomfort for months to come, the dosage I gave him is not lethal.”
Princess Safiya smiled at Jen-ling, the oldest of the Golden Daughters and the winner of today’s test. The girls stood in a line across from their mistress, each maid painted to look exactly like her sister, all individuality imperceptible save to the trained eye. Even the number of flowers in their hair was the same.
But Jen-ling stood a step forward from the others and gave her report. The unconscious body of Lord Dok-Kasemsan lay on the floor between her and Princess Safiya.
“And tell me, Jen-ling,” said the princess, “how did you discern both assassin and target in the crowded Butterfly Hall?” She already knew how Jen-ling had done it. But she asked the question for the benefit of Ambassador Ratnavira, who stood behind a painted screen nearby, listening eagerly. Princess Safiya could almost hear him twisting his too-tight rings.
“Lord Dok-Kasemsan asked for a second pot of tea,” Jen-ling said, “though I knew he had drunk but a single cup from the pot he was served upon his arrival.”
The girls were trained to watch for any such small incongruities. Their perception for detail seemed as natural to them as basic sight or smell. Furthermore, they not only picked up on variances, but also kept any number of them listed in their heads. Jen-ling could easily have had her eye on twelve or twenty suspects at a time.
And the Golden Daughters knew to treat everyone as a suspect. There needn’t be an apparent crime for them to spot
an apparent criminal.
Jen-ling went on to explain how Lord Dok-Kasemsan had slipped poison into his teapot under the pretense of stirring the brewing leaves inside. The gold flakes had been up his sleeve in a pouch, and he had shaken them out delicately as he stirred. Only someone who knew what to look for could possibly have seen it.
Jen-ling had. She also saw him exchange the pot for another on its way to Ambassador Ratnavira’s table. He had calculated brilliantly, Jen-ling admitted, waiting to send it until exactly when the Ambassador’s cup was near-empty. Indeed, the girl’s voice was full of admiration for the foe lying unconscious at her feet.
It had been but the work of a moment to switch teapots and send a measured portion of Lord Dok-Kasemsan’s own poison his way.
Princess Safiya felt the excitement emanating from behind the screen. Ambassador Ratnavira stood to gain many great rewards from his prince for bringing home so worthy a bride.
“As you have already surmised,” Princess Safiya said, “this was a test of your skills. You, Jen-ling, have passed. Your reward is a contracted marriage to Prince Amithnal of Aja. Your training is complete, my child. Your life’s work as a protector of your master will now commence.”
Jen-ling bowed, and not even Princess Safiya could read the expression behind her painted mask. This was, after all, the whole purpose of the Golden Daughters: Marriage that was no true marriage; a life of service; secret honor, the more valuable for its secrecy.
“You may go and prepare yourself for your upcoming journey to Aja,” Princess Safiya said. She rose from her seat and stepped around the prone body of Kasemsan to kiss Jen-ling solemnly upon the brow. “You have satisfied my every wish for you, child. And you have brought still greater honor to the name of your mighty father. May Anwar and Hulan shine bright upon your path.”
So Jen-ling retreated, and eight of the other girls followed. Only Sairu remained, her hands folded within her sleeves, her head bowed. And that same smile upon her face. As though she laughed at some joke no one else could see.