Footsteps creaked on the floorboards at some point around the fourth watch, but it was just Lady Ding sneaking out. By dawn, I might have thought it all a dream, had I not searched the wall and found the seam in the panel that doubled as a spy-hole.

  Just as I was inspecting it, something slipped underneath my door. I looked at it from across the room. A message perhaps? No, it was a ragged scrap of paper that I recognized as belonging to the prankster. Before even picking it up, I ran to the door and threw it wide, peering down the hallways. Whoever had followed me from the yellow plains, to my tent outside Imperial lands, and now into the Imperial palace itself, with the intent of making light of my life's accomplishments was nowhere to be seen.

  I slammed the door and picked up the scrap of paper.

  ***WHAT AN ACHIEVEMENT!***

  TITLE: PARAGON OF VIRTUE

  DESCRIPTION: You've spent the night alone with a woman and DIDN'T have intimate relations. How stalwart and virtuous you are! Or maybe you like goats...

  I growled, and balled up the paper to throw it into the corner of the room. I was just committing to ignoring the jab and going about my day, when a thought struck me. Had Lady Ding been the one to write this? When she had made the jab about the goats, she had been the only one in the room; the watcher in the walls had already left. But if it were someone else, then that someone knew that Lady Ding hadn't performed her duty. Which means she could be in danger... or at least in trouble with the Minister of Pleasures.

  Intent on determining if the calligraphy was masculine or feminine, I picked the scrap of paper back up and un-balled it. It was empty. I turned it over. Nothing. I held it up to the candle to see if there was some remnant of dissolving ink on it and as far as I could tell it was nothing more than a bare scrap of paper. I sighed. Either my mind was playing tricks on me, or whomever was doing this had a very subtle Mandate, and a very subtle knowledge of the palace's inner workings. In any case, I would have to be more careful with what I said and did when I thought no one was watching.

  Still, some small part of me agreed with the note's sentiment, if not its writer's method of delivery. I did see it as a virtue that I hadn't slept with a woman just because some rich and powerful person had order her to. And after seeing the real woman beneath the concubine's mask, I did wish it could have played out differently between us. If the Minister of Pleasures sent a different person to tempt me tonight, that might have been the last time I would ever see Lady Ding. When I examined that thought, I realized that if any woman were to visit me in the evening, I would prefer it be the one who would kick me in the chest and steal my book, rather than seduce me on someone else's orders.

  As it turned out, the next knock to come at my door, about halfway through the morning watch, was another attendant with more essentials and luxuries.

  This time they asked how I would like to spend my day, to which I responded around a mouthful of rice, “Reading.”

  They came again at noon, though I hadn’t noticed the time pass, and asked the same question, this time with several suggestions. I responded with the same answer, and asked if they could locate several specific texts for me, which they did. After sunset, they came a third time. Again, they fed and bathed and clothed me like a babe, as they had the night before, but this time, rather than mysteriously departing, so someone like Lady Ding could mysteriously appear, I looked up from my current scroll to find that the door was open, a servant wordlessly beckoning toward the hallway beyond.

  “Um. Has something happened?” I asked, noticing for the first time that they had dressed me in more formal robes than last time.

  The servant smiled and bowed and beckoned.

  “What?”

  Smiles. Bows. Beckons.

  “Ok, then.”

  He pried the scroll from my hands as I left the room, but he never stopped smiling and bowing as he did so.

  I found myself back in the maze of hallways, and would have been lost without my silent guide. After enough turns to confuse me again, the silent servant led me to my father’s quarters, where Uncle joined us at almost the exact same time, wiping dumpling sauce from his beard.

  My father’s gaze was iron-hard, but for once it was not focused on me alone.

  “You two look like you’ve enjoyed yourselves."

  Did I? It's not like I had some dumb smile on my face as I approached.

  Uncle responded before I could. “What? Not going to let good food go to waste!”

  The servants beckoned for us to follow and we fell in.

  “I wouldn’t think to see a falcon so happily caged,” said my father. “And you, Sparrow. Did you even consider how vulnerable we all were, isolated and at the mercy of our hosts.”

  “Yes, father.” I hadn't thought about it for long, to be fair, but it wasn't a lie to say that I had at least acknowledge the fact before falling into my studies.

  “Tell me you let nothing slip.”

  “No, father.”

  “And how did you spend your time?”

  I hesitated. “Reading.”

  Uncle cocked an eye at me, as if to say, “Really?”

  “No doubt you were as distracted as was my sworn brother, then. If an assassin were to slip into one of our rooms and throw our entire clan into chaos, would you have even noticed with your nose so deeply in your books?”

  That was hardly fair. Anything I read might prove useful in the days to come. If my nose was buried in books, at least it had been buried in palace histories, plots and obscure protocols. Even though my chest burned, I nodded, accepting the criticism.

  “Know this, Sparrow. Every movement within the palace is watched. Every indulgence, recorded. There will always be someone interested in the weaknesses of the warlords and those nearest them. There is always someone seeking to sow discord and divide.”

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  That, I did know. But books weren’t a weakness. They were one of my greatest strengths! Even as I opened my mouth I realized that I wore my sword in a sash of silver, and didn’t remember putting it on. If one of the servants could pick up my sword without me noticing, how easy would it have been for them to lop my head off… so long as they were capable of cutting through a copy of royal lineages in the process. My father and Uncle wore their weapons as well, and my Uncle was inspecting a length of his blade, as if to make sure it hadn’t been tampered with.

  “What do you make of these?” he asked.

  My father’s eyes flicked to the servants leading us through the maze, as if measuring what his words might gain some other lord or lady. “I think this meeting of the clans will be unlike any other we have seen.”

  After a few more twists and turns through interminable pillars of spiced and lacquered wood, my father went on. “Remember to choose your words wisely. If you speak poorly, it might be a long time before the council of our clan is heeded again. And if you speak well…” He grimaced. “Someone might just do as you suggest.”

  As we entered the meeting hall – the Hall of Benign Virtue, a text had called it – I was dazzled by the incredible display of wealth and logistics that the palace had offered. Though I would have recognized many of these men and women in their armor, I would have been hopelessly lost, dressed in silks as they were, had there not been a simple and elegant system to it all.

  Every single one of them, dozens though there were, had been given new clothes of the finest silk in the span of a single day, all in the colors and motifs of their clans.

  The Tiger of Jiangdong already lounged in one of the many cushions around the grand table, looking as bored as a cat in a sunbeam. The effect was only increased by the fact that his attire, in the blazing red and orange of his clan, bore the stripes of a tiger. His attendants I did not recognize, but the moment I realized that the cut of the Tiger’s clothes was the same cut as my father’s I was able to figure out that the two men beside the Tiger must be his generals or sworn brothers, as they wore the same garments as my uncle, though of course in the colors of the Crimson Tiger clan rather than our Silver Falcon.

  I looked down at my own clothes, then up again to find my counterpart among the Tiger’s retinue. Based on this system, I could only assume that the two young, regal looking men behind the Tiger were his sons. Their eyes were keen and interested, while their father appeared to already be dozing off on his plush cushion.

  Grand Marshal Oxblood sat at the head of the table with his attendants, in a shaggy ox-horned helmet. I had read he was not a subtle man. Though most texts seemed to focus on his origin as a common butcher, he had risen far since then, and had directed a very tidy campaign against a very untidy foe these last five years. Humble origins or not, he had my respect.

  It was also not lost on me that he alone wore full armor, appearing large and invulnerable, while the rest of the warlords were vulnerable in their elegance.

  The hall was even now filling with brown and yellow, purple and black, blue, green, gold, white, and, of course, our silver, as befit our respective houses.

  There were a dozen other variations, too, representing lesser factions I wouldn’t have recognized had I not been bored so often over the last few months, studying every minor missive and skirmish account. Even so, my head spun trying to unpack it all, even as my father and uncle stood before me, gazes sweeping the room as if surveying a battlefield.

  It was a battlefield, just a different sort, as my father and Uncle had so clearly instructed me – this one a war of manners, customs, and subtle movements.

  As I watched, one clan leader in pale green – a man I recognized as Liu Baio, courtesy name Orchid Mantis – finished his perusal of the room. He started in one direction and halted, then took another step in the opposite direction.

  He appeared lost, and in that moment – in those two faltering, uncertain steps – I realized along with the rest of the room, that despite his vast holdings Orchid Mantis would never be a threat to lead the Land Under Heaven. Too uncertain, too unfocused, and worst of all, he moved before he knew where he was going. How many potential allies had he just lost, in the years to come, based on two steps? How many enemies would be emboldened to strike at his flanks because of so minor a movement?

  It could turn out to mean nothing; or it could mean the death of his family and entire clan.

  When my father, back on the yellow plains, had said that we could not afford a false move, I did not think he had meant it literally!

  As more warlords filed into the Hall of Benign Virtue, it was getting awkward just how many of them were milling around the edge of the room, waiting for someone to make the first move and take their seat.

  In a hall with so many warlords of great, but equal power where would my father position himself. Next to the Marshal? Opposite him? There was no precedent for this that I had read about, and the attendants who had led us here had melted away at the door. We were on our own and every step was as important as the first deployment of troops to the field of battle.

  The Marshal of course, had already taken his seat and watched the warlords with a weighing gaze, as did the Tiger, though with markedly less interest.

  That was when I figured out the game. The Marshal had orchestrated a grand puzzle in colored pieces. The Hall of Benign Virtue was the board, and all the players had arrived at nearly the exact same moment. This was a test of the warlords’ wit and decisiveness. And as my father lifted his chin and took in a breath, I knew he was about to make his move. He angled toward me... The wrong direction.

  The Tiger opened one slitted eye.

  I darted in front of my father, bowing low to give him the respect due both my father and my lord, and held out an arm like an attendant, “Allow me to escort you to your seat, Commandant, Lord of the Silver Falcon clan!”

  My father nodded magnanimously, as if he had only been waiting for the proper heralding, as if his half-turn had been a command for me to perform the duties of his herald. Then he followed my gesture to the three cushions with a very subtle silver trim, barely noticeable among the other patterns.

  I felt eyes boring into my back, but lost in the performance of both a dutiful son and loyal retainer, I dared not glance around to see who watched me. A moment later, I heard other retainers throughout the room make similar proclamations to their leaders as they figured out the puzzle the Marshal had orchestrated. I had been both their first hint – perhaps their second or third if Orchid Mantis’s faltering, or the Tiger’s already seated retinue could be counted – and I had also set a new palace precedent for ministers or retainers to be the one to announce their lord if proper heralds hadn’t been provided.

  Pulse pounding as I carefully arranged my robes around me, I had no idea that simply walking into a room could be such a difficult task. And one with such steep ramifications for failure.

  One particular minister managed to recognize the role he should play but hadn’t figured out the more subtle game of cushions and colors. He led his master to the wrong seat… and almost cast the land into chaos then and there.

  “You’re in my seat, Lynx,” said Gongsun Zan, courtesy name White Stallion. She was a tall woman, dressed like the other warlords in the room, though her attire was pure white, and her ivory scabbard was long and curved.

  When Gao Gan, the Lynx, simply ignored the challenge, as if it wasn’t worthy of acknowledging, White Stallion reached for her sword. There was no way one warlord would cut down another from behind in the heart of the palace, right? All it took was a span of steel bearing bared to convince me anything could happen.

  Quickly, the Lynx’s minister in speckled brown realized his mistake and threw himself to the floor, prostrating himself beside his master and shouting, “I have led you astray, my lord! Allow me to correct this injustice immediately!”

  The Lynx thought about it a moment and then nodded.

  Their ministers rearranged the cushions and the Stallion was able to seat herself on the proper color without killing for it, while the Lynx was spared the embarrassment of having to give ground or die.

  I let out an involuntary breath, and almost laughed, until I saw that about half the lords in the room were reluctantly dropping their hands from their own swords. If White Stallion had drawn her blade, how many of these lords would have done the same? Which of them had formal or implied alliances, and which were just looking for an excuse to slaughter a neighbor? Who was sworn brothers with whom, who was fostering whose son, and who had married whose daughter? Finally I understood what my father had said about the cascade effect. One brick out of place was all it took, and the wall would come crumbling down.

  The only silver lining was that someone had finally made more of a spectacle of themselves than I had. But if I thought it safe to glance casually around the room, I was wrong.

  One man had not taken his eyes from me throughout the entire White Cushion Affair. When I looked over, Grand Marshal Oxblood himself beheld me from beneath his horned helm, visage weathered and scarred and boring into me.