Shadow Pavilion by Liz Williams Page A

terrace above. He turned his head a fraction, just to see. Above him on the terrace, wearing a black linen shirt and trousers, his wrists bound in front of him and shackles on his bare ankles, stood Zhu Irzh.

21
    T here was a moment of silence, then an uproar, just as Mhara had expected there to be. Inwardly, he sighed. His father had held all the prerogatives of Celestial Emperor, and one of these was the Command of Belief: the power assumed on coronation which meant that if the Emperor believed something to be right, then every other denizen of Heaven believed it also, with the exception of the Emperor’s own immediate bloodline.
    It was a power that Mhara had declined to assume. He did not think that Heaven had quite accepted this as yet.
    One would think they’d be grateful to have been released from this epistemic shackle. But Mhara knew, only too well, that people don’t necessarily want freedom of thought. What they wanted was certainty, and maybe this had been one of the delights of Heaven: you knew what to think, you did not have to worry or fret, you could bask in the unreflective surety that the Emperor conveyed upon you. But now, freed by an unprecedented degree of humility on the part of the new ruler, you were prey to all the worries and difficulties of an independent mind.
    One could almost feel sorry for them. Almost. But it wasn’t a luxury Mhara was prepared to grant. Thinking about this that morning, as he stood gazing out over the Celestial City, Mhara gave a small, ironic smile. By imposing an intellectual democracy on Heaven, it might very well be that his views were as dictatorial as any that had been held by his father.
    Then, still wearing that irony draped about him like a cloak, Mhara had gone into the great hall of the Imperial Palace and informed his subjects that they could now think as they pleased. He’d been right: they didn’t like it. The outcry had lasted for several minutes, while Mhara waited. When he did not respond, the courtiers fell silent, one by one.
    â€œThis is not the way things were done,” Mhara said, speaking mildly. “My father ruled Heaven as his ancestors did before him; he followed a tradition which has held sway here for millennia, since even the very early days when we were nothing more than a small collection of tribal gods. But things change. Things move on.”
    â€œEmperor, may I speak?” That was one of the most senior courtiers, a man named Po Shu. In an ordinary environment, Mhara would have termed him close to the previous Emperor: with the thought-control issue, that relationship was in reality impossible to assess.
    â€œOf course. And please say what you think.” He did not hold out any great hopes of directness. With the thought-ban gone, other controls might simply emerge to take its place: self-censorship­, on the basis of currying favor and an eagerness to please.
    Po Shu said, “With the utmost respect for your august views—” This kind of remark went on for a little time and Mhara waited patiently. It would not be possible to rush them. Finally, Po Shu got to the point. “You are indeed correct when you say, with such perceptiveness, that things are subject to change. But this is Heaven, where matters remain eternal.”
    â€œI bow to your wisdom,” Mhara said. “But I might remind you that things have in fact changed, over the decades. Slowly, perhaps, and in a manner that is pleasing to all—the designing of a new pagoda, maybe, or an ornamental garden. And I have already mentioned our origins as tribal gods and lordlings: we ourselves—our nature and our relationship to humankind—have changed a great deal since then. You will also be aware that my father, who may have seemed so conservative in comparison to myself, was on the point of introducing a huge change to Heaven: sealing it away from Earth. Moreover, he took you to war and that can hardly be regarded as