The Winds of Tepr

Chapter 70

Sima of the Western Bureau stands at the top of the broad marble steps leading to the Blue Sapphire Palace, the sky's color not yet matching its name. His ornate cane taps the first step impatiently. A crisp, late-afternoon breeze stirs his robes, and a scattering of lesser officials keep a respectful distance.

Yile of the Eastern Bureau, hands tucked into his sleeves, approaches from the opposite end of the landing. He carries himself with a languid confidence, his footsteps soundless on the polished stone. Servants trail behind him warily, as though expecting a spat at any second.

They lock eyes, each refusing to blink first.

"You look rather flushed, Sima," Yile murmurs, voice smooth. He tilts his head in mock concern. "Could it be the climate or the news?"

Sima's cane raps the stone. "At least I know where I'm going—unlike someone who tries too hard and mostly fails." He arches a brow. "The Khan is too shrewd to dance to your strings."

Yile's mouth curves into a thin smile. "My dear friend, need I remind you that the Khan is powerless?" He shrugs. "You shouldn't lose so much time with a Northern Barbarian."

Sima's cheeks redden. "You will be mad once she puts you in a corner!"

Yile clears his throat, adjusting an invisible speck on his sleeve. "I never said my directions were perfect. But unlike you, I don't do compromising things in my own office."

Sima snorts. "Oh, no. You prefer the emperor's bedchamber. How charming."

Their tempers spark, but both hold their composure, sliding into aloof politeness. They descend the steps together, side by side, each determined not to yield an inch.

At the base of the stairs, Old Ji of the Northern Bureau—his white beard trailing half to his waist—stands with Bimen of the Southern Bureau, a plump man wearing too many rings on his fingers. Their conversation, hushed yet intense, hovers like a low buzz against the palace's marble façade.

Old Ji gestures with a trembling hand. "You're certain the Treasure Fleet didn't bring any more saltpetre from the west?"

Bimen dabs his forehead with a silk kerchief, cheeks shining with perspiration. "I—uh, yes, well, the last trip was... complicated. The captain said the cargo hold was all spices and dyes. No saltpetre on the manifest. Could be hidden, though, if they needed coin in secret..."

Ji's bushy eyebrows climb. "Hmm, you're telling me it's possible they smuggled some in?"

Bimen's eyes flick around nervously. "I—I'm not certain. But if they did, it wasn't recorded. Maybe a hush-hush arrangement to avoid taxes." He drops his voice. "You know how the Emperor hates hidden trade deals."

Ji squints, deep in thought. "Hmph. This is bigger than it seems, Bimen. If there's no official record of new saltpetre, then who's controlling it behind the scenes?"

Bimen clutches his kerchief, sweat trickling down his neck. "I—ah—"

Before he can finish, a sudden flash of blinding light arcs across the sky, followed by an ear-splitting CRACK. Thunder roars so close it sends vibrations through the marble floor. Sima and Yile freeze mid-step, eyes wide as a bolt of lightning slams squarely into the tall imperial banner post at the palace courtyard's edge.

Sparks fly, and a hiss of searing fabric erupts. The proud banner, emblazoned with Moukopl's imperial emblem, darkens in an instant, curling into blackened ribbons that crumble to ash.

For a heartbeat, every breath in the courtyard seems stolen by shock. Then panic ripples through the assembled servants, maids, and eunuchs. They shriek and dart in all directions, sandals pattering frantically on stone. A pair of junior scribes shrieks, toppling their writing brushes. One maid stumbles over a potted fern, sending it clattering.