It was afternoon, and the sun looked to Chen Qin like one shiny bronze coin falling slowly out of the sky. It cast the training field in red, gave the sweaty tunics and sweaty hair-buns and sweaty trousers a bloodied look. But none of these folk had faced true battle—unless you counted whatever street scrapping they’d done before joining the Guard, and Chen didn’t.

He smiled as he addressed them, though they stank of salted fish, a stink which only got worse the sweatier they got. He wondered if it was in the diet or the blood. But it made no matter; he would smile for them like he smelled nothing at all. That was what a good chief would do.

“Congratulations are in order,” he said, walking back and forth before their lines, hands clasped behind his back. “Today you rise above your stations. No longer are you the drudges and wastrels of society. Whatever life you’ve led, of robbery or drug use or gang warring, it makes no difference. Today you are reborn. You are men of the Imperial Guard.”

He waited. After a breath they gathered they were meant to applaud; out streamed some tepid claps. He sighed. Jin might’ve drilled spearmanship into these men but manners would be a long ways coming. They were still Lower City folk. You could only do so much in a month’s time.

Then Jin stepped up. “From this day forth, you are the 84th platoon!” he called. “I know it hasn’t been easy getting up before the sun’s risen for hundred-li mountain runs. Or drilling forms until your knees cave in. Some of you have gritted your way through training even though you’ve got businesses to run, families to feed. But the fact that each and every one of you is still standing here, today, is a testament to your character. Today you are receiving a badge of the Imperial Guard because you’ve met the bar for skill—that is true enough. But what matters to me is what you’ve shown within. I am proud to call you my brothers of the Imperial Guard. Congratulations.”

Jin saluted, and they cheered him like he was Houyi reincarnated. Though Chen kept up his smile it sickened him to his stomach. Jin said basically the same thing, but they fell over themselves for him; they reminded Chen of dogs with their owner. You’d almost think Jin was the Guard Chief. He supposed the boy was the Hero. He got certain privileges.

As they dispersed, he strolled up to Jin. “Well done, pretty boy. Very eloquent.” He’d taken to calling Jin that because everyone seemed to take a shine to him. Jin had this smile that made people want to like him, and his face was very pleasing to the eye in a friendly way. It made him seem approachable. When Jin turned his smile on Chen’s troops it was like a queer hypnosis; suddenly they were his.

“Thank you, Chief Qin,” said Jin.

Chen frowned. Something about his smile… it put Chen off. There was nothing so wrong with it by itself—maybe it was a little tight? And maybe his handshake was a little too firm? He’d always sensed Jin was hiding something. He’d never wanted Jin here—he’d complained bitterly to his royal Father-In-Law, but the Emperor was insistent. The Guard needed a better image, a popular public face, apparently. Another insult—as though Chen were not enough.

Another very confusing thing for Chen—looking at Jin’s face reminded him of Jin’s sister Ruyi. They looked so much alike. She was exactly Chen’s type. The image stuck in his brain was of her lying on the Emperor’s balcony, looking up at him with such disgust in her eyes… it excited him. He would’ve liked to play with her; he liked when his women had some fight in them. More’s the pity.

“That should be the last of them,” Jin was saying, nodding at the retreating platoon. “We’re out of time. The army’s in full retreat—they ought to be here by tomorrow. If we’re lucky, we have two days before the demons get here. We should have just enough time to meet up with forces from the Temple and the Villa. Someone needs to marshall the platoons. Will you lead, or should I?”

“I’ll lead, of course,” said Chen. He barely managed to keep the annoyance from his voice. How was that even a question? He was Guard Chief, wasn’t he?

“Very well. Then I’ll talk with the army and the rest to see how we’ll coordinate. Good luck.”

Chen watched Jin go, frowning at the boy’s back. He’d once heard his Father tell him a proverb. One time a Qin Ancestor was visiting the Imperial Court, and the Emperor disguised himself as a servant as a test. The Ancestor was able to pick him out instantly—when asked why, he said, “It is not the title of ‘Emperor’ which makes a man an Emperor. It is if everyone else in the room treats him like an Emperor.”

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So what did that make him?

Chen’s mood was black when he marched his way to his carriage.

***

He swore he heard his name.

As he crept up the staircase he caught a pair of maids whispering. They almost physically bumped into him; they gave quite a start.

“You were speaking about me,” he snapped. “Gossiping.”

“No!” said the first. Sort of pretty, in a comely way. “My lord, we would never—”

“Don’t lie to me. Speak the truth and you’ll come to no harm; I am a reasonable man. Lie, on the other hand…”

“She isn’t, my lord,” said the second girl. Much prettier, taller. Chen liked her. He liked how guilty she looked. “Lying, that is. But… we may have, err, been speaking of the Lady—only things we’d heard the chef’s boys say—”

“What?”

“They said… they said they saw the Princess with kiss-marks on her neck.”

“Ah,” said Chen, face burning. “Well. Yes, we were rather rough today, this is personal business. Certainly nothing you ought to concern yourselves with.”

As though they didn’t know today was the day Tingting went out to the Yang Family Manor, while Chen had been out training troops all day.

“Yes, lord Qin!” said both maids.

“Oh—and will you kindly fetch the princess to my bedroom, dear?” said Chen to the prettier maid. “Tell her we really must talk. And you—”

He turned to the uglier one. “Bring me a bottle of Shen wine, and make it fast.”

They scampered off.

Not long after, he found himself sitting on his huge velvet chair, legs crossed, taking swigs straight from the bottle, wiping the purple off his lips with his sleeve. He shouldn’t have been so cross with those maids. It wasn’t gentlemanly behavior, and he would be Emperor one day. He had to set an example.

Then he felt a spike of anger. No. How could he be expected to be civil when he was made to endure such humiliations? It was one thing with Jin—but this, inside his own household?

When Tingting finally came in, he was halfway through the bottle.

“Why did you ask me here?” said Tingting. “I’m between brews, I really should get back…”

He stared half-lidded at her. “Excuse me,” he drawled. “What was that?”

Tingting flushed. “Um. Why did you ask me here, dear,” she amended, clutching at her arm, shrinking a little.

“Better.” Was a little intimacy from his soon-to-be wife so much to ask? Tingting seemed to think so. “I’ve heard a rumor. From the servants.”

“You… did?”

“They say…” He rose and made for her and she backed up against the door, breaths quickening. He loomed over her, one hand planted against the wall, until she was swallowed in his shadow. “They say they’ve spotted you with kiss-marks on your neck.”

“Oh…” said Tingting. “Um. You, um. You know how servants are, they just, they say things—”

“Let me see.” His hand crept to her scarf.

“Please don’t,” squeaked Tingting, clutching tight to it.

He grabbed her wrist and bent it toward him so that she gasped. Then he ripped off the scarf with his other hand.

Sure enough.

“I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you,” he said slowly. Tingting had always been pretty to look at, but there was nothing in her head. Where had she gotten the guts? He laughed, a short choked sound. “A lesser man would beat you for this. I should. Truly I should.”

He let it hang above her. Her eyes were squeezed shut; she was trembling.

He flung her arm aside with such force she went spiraling to the ground.

“All I ask,” he said, advancing on her, “Is for some fucking respect. From my own fiancé!”

She was curled up in a ball on the floor, shivering, eyes squeezed shut, like she was bracing for a kick. It infuriated him. She was acting like he was some monster, like he was in the wrong. He knew how it looked—pretty girl lying on the ground, drunk angry man looming above. He knew he was right, and even he felt a little bad.

“Stop that,” he snapped.

She wouldn’t.

“I’m not going to beat you,” he said, with difficulty. “Because I am civil. And unlike you, I possess self-control.”

“I’m sorry,” whispered Tingting.

“You are not to see that woman again. Do you understand? Your role as liaison is done.”

She’d built herself up to her elbows. She swallowed, trembling so hard he her voice shook with every word. “I-I’m the Crown Princess. Um. You c-can’t tell me w-what to do.”

Chen couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“I’ll, um, be more discreet,” she said, eyes still fixed on the carpet.

“You are trying my patience,” he said, teeth grinding together.

“I-if you hit me, it’ll leave a b-b-bruise, the servants will know.” Where had she gotten such determination? She still shivered, but her hands were balled to fists. “I want Ruyi, and you can’t—”

“I’ll tell your Father. And he’ll have her executed.”

Tingting’s gasp broke off.

“You won’t.”

“I’d take no pleasure in it, believe me,” he said. “But I’ll do it.”

She could see in his eyes, in his expression, just how serious he was. And that was enough to undo her.

Later, back in his chair, massaging his brow, he wondered how it’d ended up like this. His army wouldn’t listen to him. Neither would his fiancé. It was pathetic having to threaten her via her own Father.

His problem, he suspected, was that he was too kind. Perhaps he should treat his troops and his family the way he treated those Lower City hoodlums. Perhaps they could do with a firmer hand.

He sighed, sloshing his wine around his glass. All he wanted was a little respect—was that too much to ask?