But this wasn’t so with the dragon mural just behind the throne. The deep, dark ebony of a polished slab of solid obsidian dominated an entire wall. The Kurita dragon lay at its heart, precisely centered: a perfect disc of deep, bloodred carnelian spanned four meters and was edged by a narrow rim of rich rose-gold that tricked the eyes and made the disc seem to leap out from the ebony background. The scales of the dragon were etched with gold; the eye was a lump of amethyst; the dragon’s teeth were the purest ivory. Yet, beautiful as this was, her eyes drifted over not the Dragon, or the enamel of Terra with its blue oceans and green continents, but to the representation of the Combine itself.
Though they, the Combine and the Dragon, are one and the same. Her keen eyes picked out what they always had, ever since she was a little girl. Some of the jewels were missing. There was no mistake; she’d double-checked with the old records, and an entire swath of territory, the Dieron District as well as disputed territories and holdings of the Federated Suns that had taken a bite from the Combine’s flank, was missing.
A voice sounded at her right hand. “Yes, they are beautiful. We like looking at them ourselves.”
Smiling, Emi cocked her head to look up at the coordinator. “I would think you’d find them easy to overlook, Tono. You see them nearly every day.”
“Ah, you must mean that the more often an object of value and great beauty is seen, the more quickly do those same qualities recede until they are not seen at all.” A mischievous grin made it all the way from the coordinator’s lips to his remarkably clear hazel eyes. “In other words, familiarity breeds contempt.”
Emi had to bite on the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing out loud, though the coordinator clearly guessed she was having trouble because his grin turned into a broad smile, and his eyes twinkled. Despite his years and the deepening lines marring his features, Emi had yet to find the smallest trace of age there–no telltale milky rim encircling the iris. As it should be, for the Dragon must possess clear sight. Yet this was more difficult to believe as every day passed and The Republic fell apart—and the coordinator said nothing and did nothing but dress in his fine clothes. An uncharitable thought, perhaps, but true nonetheless. Emi’s eyes clicked over the coordinator’s outfit: his sumptuous brocaded jacket of lotus flowers woven in vibrant red and gold; a dragon clasp of obsidian enameled with a sparkling ruby red inlay; an equally princely hakama of the finest black silk. Even his black tabi socks were shot through with goldthread dragons.
Her thoughts must have shown on her face because the coordinator’s expression became grave. “Well?”
Remember, he is first and foremost the Dragon incarnate. Emi chose her words with care. “How clearly the Coordinator sees, registers, understands all. And yet, does not the Coordinator fulfill the very axiom the Coordinator disparages?”
“We cannot fathom your meaning, Lady.”
“Your attire, Tono. The Dragon doesn’t need to advertise his power, only use it.”
“Ah, that. Wise words. We expect no less from the Keeper of the House Honor.” He paused. “Perhaps we merely wish to remain valuable in our people’s eyes.”
“Then as Keeper… is not the Dragon’s first duty to be that which is not? I do not recall ever seeing so grandly appointed a hub.”
The coordinator’s expression remained mild. “From you, we will forgive a great deal, Lady, and we thank you for your concern. On the other hand, we wonder if you’ve spent as much time studying that which lies below as that which resides in the clouds of theory, philosophy and imagination.”
And take that. Emi’s cheeks flared with embarrassment. Of course, she knew her history, and knew that chariots and wheels and hubs could be very decorative and yet functional. “My apologies, Tono ; I have been too familiar.”
“No, you haven’t. We know what the people call us: the Peacock. All style and no substance, not a fang in the Coordinator’s head.” The coordinator made a dismissive gesture. “What of it? House Kurita still stands.”
Ah, and had the coordinator put a subtle emphasis upon that word, still? She thought so, and a pang of sadness bit into Emi’s heart.
The coordinator must have read her emotions because he said, “All right, Lady, all this talk about the Dragon this, the Dragon that. Why don’t you… cut to the chase?”
She smiled as he’d meant her to, though it made what she had to say next all the more difficult. “Tono, the Combine hasn’t moved to reclaim any of its lost worlds. There is talk that the Dragon is more concerned with his looks than his honor.”
“Old news. Tell us something new. Tell us,” the coordinator continued, as if the thought had just occurred, “what you think of Katana Tormark.”
Emi was caught off guard. She’d been prepared to talk about the warlords, and Sakamoto, in particular. The coordinator’s son had told her all about it; she and Theodore Kurita shared a special, private bond no wife or father could replicate. After a pause to gather her wits, Emi said, “Katana Tormark is brave and aggressive. She’s acted with honor, even before she began to claim worlds in the Dragon’s name.”
The coordinator gave a dry laugh. “Yes, well, better late than never. And her troops?”
“Her troops are reported to be quite humane. That can only come if their leader is, as well.”
“I agree. What do you think of the woman herself?”
The coordinator’s sudden shift from third person to first didn’t escape Emi’s notice, and her eyes narrowed. The move was a signal: Drop the formalities and go for it. Emi said, “My honest opinion is that Katana Tormark is a psychological refugee and very much like a recent convert. Her mother’s dead; she hasn’t seen her father in almost twenty years. She was one of the best and brightest stars in The Republic’s heaven, but she’s turned her face—and her loyalties—to the Dragon.”
The coordinator was nodding, a finger resting on his chin as he thought over what she’d said. “But you said that she’s like a convert.”
“That’s right. Has the Coordinator ever noticed that the zealots are not the ones born to the religion, but those who convert? That’s Katana to a tee. She’s more Combine than many in the Combine; from what our intelligence tells us, she eats, drinks, thinks and lives in the manner of the samurai. Honestly, I think Katana’s trying, very hard, to find her place within the universe.”
“And only the universe?”
“No. I think she’s looking for a family, a place to belong. She’s an orphan in many, many ways, so it’s not surprising that she might idealize a way of life or a person”—she paused to give that last word added weight then continued—“that or who will be the parent she hungers for. And like all parents, when the pedestal crumbles…”
“It’s a long way down.” Then the coordinator said something quite extraordinary, something that caught Emi completely by surprise. “Then, does it not behoove us to care for such a lost child as much as I cherish you? There have been many jewels, many black pearls lost to the ages, like the mural above the throne—beautiful, but lacking. I am determined that this should stop, and very soon. After all, a crown—and a home, large or small—is only as valuable as its jewels, new and old.” The coordinator held Emi’s gaze. “Don’t you agree, daughter of mine own heart?”
A lump of emotion balled in Emi’s throat, and she couldn’t speak for a moment. “Yes, Father,” she whispered, finally. The coordinator’s face blurred as her eyes pooled with sudden tears. “I do.”