Free The Grace of Kings by Ken Liu Page A

he hated his job—now he really felt he was drifting. He complained to Jia daily.
    â€œDo not fret, my husband,” said Jia. “They also serve who only stand and wait. There is a time for flight, and a time for descent; a time for movement, and a time for rest; a time to do, and a time to prepare.”
    â€œThis is why you’re the poet,” said Kuni. “You even make paperwork sound exciting.”
    â€œHere’s what I think: Opportunity comes in many forms. What is luck but being ready with the snare when the rabbit bolts from his hole? You’ve made many friends in Zudi over the years as a ne’er-do-well—”
    â€œHey, I resent that—”
    â€œ I married you, didn’t I?” Jia gave him a light peck on the cheek to placate him. “But the point is, now that you’re a member of Zudi’s officialdom, you have a chance to make different kinds of friends. Trust yourself that this is only temporary. Take advantage of it to spread your circles. I know you like people.”
    Kuni took Jia’s advice and made an extra effort to go out with fellow clerks to teahouses after work and to pay visits at the homes of senior officials from time to time. He was humble, respectful, and listened more than he spoke. When he found people he liked, he and Jia would invite them and their families to their little home for deeper conversation.
    Soon, Kuni got to know the departments and bureaus of Zudi’s city government as well as he knew its back alleys and busy markets.
    â€œI had thought of them as the dull sort,” said Kuni. “But they’re not so bad once you get to know them. They’re just . . . different from my old friends.”
    â€œA bird needs both long and short feathers to fly,” said Jia. “You need to learn to work with different kinds of people.”
    Kuni nodded, glad of Jia’s wisdom.

    It was now late summer, and the air was filled with drifting dandelion seeds. Every day as he came home, Kuni gazed with longing at the tiny feathered seeds carelessly riding the wind, snowy puffs that danced about his nose and eyes.
    He imagined their flight. They were so light that a gust of wind could carry one for miles. There was no reason that a seed couldn’t fly all the way from one end of the Big Island to the other. No reason that it couldn’t fly all the way over the sea, to Crescent Island, to Ogé, to Écofi. No reason that it couldn’t tour the peaks of Mount Rapa and Mount Kiji. No reason that it couldn’t taste the mist at the Rufizo Falls. All it needed was a little kindness from nature, and it would travel the world.
    He felt, in a way that he could not explain, that he was meant to live more than the life he was living, destined to one day soar high into the air like these dandelion seeds, like the kite rider he had seen long ago.
    He was like a seed still tethered to the withered flower, just waiting for the dead air of the late summer evening to break, for the storm to begin.

CHAPTER FIVE
    THE DEATH OF THE EMPEROR
    Ã‰COFI ISLAND: THE TENTH MONTH IN THE TWENTY-THIRD YEAR OF THE REIGN OF ONE BRIGHT HEAVEN.
    Emperor Mapidéré had not looked into a mirror for weeks now.
    The last time he had dared to look, a pallid, leathery mask had stared back at him. Gone was the handsome, arrogant, fearless man who had made ten thousand wives into widows and forged the crowns of the Seven States into one.
    His body had been usurped by an old man, consumed by fear of death.
    He was on Écofi Island, where the land was flat and the sea of grass stretched as far as the eye could see. Perched atop the Throne Pagoda, the emperor gazed at the distant herd of elephants strolling majestically across his field of view. Écofi was one of his favorite spots to pass through on his tours of the Islands. Miles and miles away from the busy cities and the intrigue of the palace in Pan, the emperor imagined