Confrontation

The room they were in was not well-hidden. In fact, it stood behind a broken wooden door, next to the echo of the now-filled audience hall. A make-shift bowl sat at the corner of this room. A stick of incense was stuck in it, burnt halfway, smelling of native plants meant to imitate Japanese sandalwood.

On the floor were puffed, silk pillows. Horhe Antisen and Mo Xixi sat at a low table in front of it. The former, sprawled, the latter, kneeling. There were no lanterns here, and as such, they were illuminated by a ray of yellow, focused through a square window.

“Was my delegate not to your satisfaction?”

Mo Xixi smiled. “When you cut a tree, where do you start? The branches, or the stump?

There was a silence in which neither said anything, and the slow repeat of inhales and exhales became quite loud.

Horhe slumped into his pillow. The Prince of Commercial Affairs laughed, jewels ringing like an instrument to greed. He seemed ready to negotiate.

“What amuses you?” asked Mo Xixi, hand gripping a cup of tea.

“The King.” He said, shaking his head in contemplation. “I thought of him. We used to sit together in this very room.”

“You have a strange sense of humour, if matters of financial import give you laughter.”

“Oh, we discussed those. Funds for the common folk. Funds for the tournaments. The gradual debt of all our efforts in the war up north. But those weren’t quite as amusing as what he had said to me the first time.”

“And what was that?”

“He asked me how he should approach the matter of love, if you can believe it.” Horhe Antisen downed half a cup of hippocras, wiped his chin, and stained his white sleeve red. “The King asked what flowers he should give. How he might confess his feelings, and what time of day he would do it.”

Amusement stretched across Mo Xixi’s face. He looked like a child who had just gotten their birthday present. “A man of great love, both in war and personal affections. How quaint.”

“You know how boys are,” Horhe said. “I remember how I was at that age. Full of great feelings, in my chest and phallus. He was the same. Always going ahead, never looking back. Never stopping to think about the effects of his self-driven cause. I could never be a king at that age.”

“Is this dissatisfaction I hear?”

The bald man answered fast. “Never.” He stopped, pursing his lips in the pursuit of words. “I’m a man of compliance, you see. I accept things as they are and help to keep them that way. Would you ask a worm to grow wings and take flight? Certainly not. You simply watch them wiggle around in the mud and dirt, and ask for nothing more.”

“And yet, you would have me clip a worm’s wings. Is that what you call acceptance, then? The delegation of your would-be effort to someone else?”

Mo Xixi sipped at his tea. His eyes did not move from the man before him.

Horhe eased before his gaze, and finished his golden goblet. “As I said, Mo Xixi, I am a man of compliance. I enjoy the present peace. The food, the drink! The songs and smiles of the common folk. And I know… I know that if a little worm were to grow wings and take flight, that that might very well change. Human-kind is bred for conflict. They hate to be content. And when a glimmer of opportunity comes their way—no matter how slim, no matter how stupid, they’d throw it all away for the chance at something better.”

“How cruel. You speak of keeping the king as he is.”

“I do. At the very least, until a new revolutionary comes along.”

“After which, they can take the King’s place. Is that how it works?”

Horhe said nothing for a while. “What do you mean?”

“I have a vague inkling. The King has a great deal devoted to him. Paintings. Statues. Poems and the like. There was this one painting—the Succession of the Boy-King. Yes. It had him cut the previous King from shoulder to groin. Very poignant, very pretty. Only, I find it strange that less than a year later, the palace had commissioned a painting of the King in his bed. All pale and sickly.”

Mo Xixi stood and paced about the meeting room.

On the wall were a series of paintings. They varied in size and method, but they all depicted a royal figure of sorts—crown, and accessories included. He went to one hanged on the wall, and stood in quiet contemplation. It was two hundred years old at this point, depicting a woman wearing a tunic of woven, green wool. The wuxia warrior smiled, dragging his finger to the corner of the painting.

“Do you see this, Prince Horhe?” His index finger fell on a lantern at the painting’s corner. “The lights in this painting are yellow.” Then he went to the next. A tall, bearded man with a red rose on his chest. “And the ones here are green.” Then he moved along until he reached the current King—Gijyou Sōun himself. “And the lights here are the same shade of red as the previous King. Curious, is it not? It’s almost as if these lanterns have a consciousness of their own. As though they echo the memory of rulers, long dead.”

Mo Xixi’s smile had an indignant touch.

Horhe raised his eyebrows. “Lanterns with an opinion of their own. Quite a novelty, if it’s true.”

“Indeed. In which case, you ought to have hung them for traitors. Oh—and the medical lines, filled with swirling liquid. And, just about every technology in this Kingdom which uses some manner of power. Perhaps you should do away with it all. Burn them to ashes, and start something new.”

“A fascinating conjecture. Truly.” Horhe set down his goblet. “Though I can’t help but think others won’t receive it as well as I. The nobility are a temperamental kind, you see. And they don’t take well to changes in their environment.”

Mo Xixi laughed. “You’re an animal, Prince Horhe. You and everyone else who made him that way.”

“Pardon?”

“You live on decadence, and yet, remain blind to what sustains it. You know not the matter of discipline.” His voice turned low. “But to me, the path to true beauty is filled with suffering. The poverty of failure. The anguish of defeat! Warriors like us—like the King. We live to endure, so that we may strive for beauty tomorrow. We water the flower, so that it may yet bloom thereafter!”

Mo Xixi stood in front of the door. His head looked over his shoulder, lavender braid swaying. “Mark my words, Prince Horhe. I will win this tournament. And when I do—I will cut free the King with my own steel, and see what flower blooms from his heart. The next time you try to seduce me, Jenn, Numarei, or Filly with the sweet promises of gold, whores, and power, will be the last time you do anything at all.”

The door was half-open. Outside, a dozen White Hat guards lay unconscious. Sprawled like sacks of rice. Their guns loaded, and their sabres not yet drawn. Heaven’s Great Butcher had taken care of them. And now, he was on his way to take care of someone else.