The dance was beautiful, as was always the case with the Akaima dancers. The girls scurried about the stage in their kimonos, crisscrossing as they flapped their arms and spread their fans. One jumped over the others in a summersault. The move piqued his interest. He hadn’t seen that one before.

Something new.

The Emperor found an unbidden smile on his face. But then he remembered why they were here in the theater. He had given Noriko’s hand in marriage to Prince Shinju of Arekaiwa. Hiroto Kurosawa had always known he would send her away to make an alliance for Mikuma, but he never imaged it would be this hard.

He found that he was perspiring and avoided allowing anyone to see his gaze wander from the performance. Thankfully the dancers were quite distracting. But for how long?

The Emperor wanted to glance to his left, to see if his Noriko was enjoying herself. That would tell him much.

I have avoided speaking with her since giving her hand to Prince Shusuke, he told himself forcefully. He didn’t want to see her face. Not really. Because if he found there what he knew he did not want to see, that would make this all the harder.

Mikuma needed this alliance. Like his father before him, Hiroto wanted a rich and prosperous Mikuma. An empire that served as a trading hub for international commerce and a neutral place for hostile dignitaries to come on equal grounds to negotiate terms for peaceful resolutions.

Was it a dream?

In some ways—no in many ways, Mikuma had become just that. The wealth of the country blossomed a hundred fold. Rich merchants and lords came and went to and from Yukai City, bringing with them their families and household staffs dressed in fine garments. The Sparrow Concordat had been signed here in this vary palace, a thousand-year-old hostility spanning seven dynasties coming to term in a momentous negotiation for peace! That was the dream of Hiroto Kurosawa and his father before him. In many ways the dreams of the old emperor and himself had been realized. But many things did not come to pass as his forebear or himself had foreseen.

Rife corruption, the utter greed and the festering suspicions and hatreds between the races as they comingled, all placating various powers to get an edge upon the others, to become the dominant faction, weather in regards to faction, family, religion or race.

Mikuma had grown weak and now it was time to gain allies, something unheard of for the empire for fifty years. So far Mikuma had held to a strict pact of neutrality in all matters in regards to the interests of other sovereignties. But now, Hiroto Kurosawa felt his enemies closing in. From within as well as from without.

The time for neutrality has come and gone, he thought. And with that thought he hoped that did not also preclude peace.

He found that he was leaning against his closed fist, his elbow propped upon the arm of his chair, and recomposed himself.

The dance had just come to a dramatic close, the three girls in their kimonos all leaning in different directions, their fans spread. The woman in the front with the white kimono and blue-and-gold embroidery was quite stunning.

The women recomposed themselves, bowed in gratitude. Hiroto clapped mechanically as the audience followed, which was an accident. It was customary for the emperor to clasp his hands a single time, but never clap, as it wasn’t dignified for the supreme ruler of the land.

The dancers filed off stage amidst the chorus of voices and general cheer for the performance.

“An excellent performance,” Hiroto said. He was speaking to the man on his right, an aging, grey-bearded man—the emperor of the Shinju dynasty, Katashi Shinju.

He nodded. “Indeed.”

“There is more planned for tonight.”

“Wonderful.”

Hiroto needed to relieve himself. “Shall we take an intermission? Perhaps to allow the newly engaged couple to spend some time in conversation among themselves?”

“Of course,” Shinju said, nodding in respect.

Hiroto signaled his personal attendant. The small man, dressed in fine court robes clanged a tiny hand gong in the air and his army of underlings quickly created a path for the royal procession, their bodies positioned like statues in a garden.

Each of the men was trained in the highest courts of fashion and ceremonial etiquette. And there was even a few women, too. Behind them, his personal guard positioned themselves, three in front of the procession, a row of them on each side, and three more on the train.

Hiroto, with Emperor Katashi at his side, his son and the royal princess behind them, began to make his way to the lounge.

The performance of the Akaima Dancing Fans had been wonderful when his thoughts hadn’t been distracting him. For a time the Emperor had forgotten his worries.

There was a high-pitched scream.

“Who is that?” Hiroto asked.

Heads turned.

The next thing the Emperor knew, he was face first on the royal rugs, all the breath knocked from his lungs in a sudden crush of weight—a cacophony of grunts and cries all around him.