Adviser Fang’s outburst infuriated Dorgon.

  There was little in this world that could truly enrage him, but anything touching on family was sacred. They could quarrel, shout at one another, trip each other up, but no outsider was allowed even a sideways glance at his brothers, and certainly not at the Emperor.

  Dorgon shook his head and gave a short, humorless smile.

  The previous night he had deliberately provoked the elder prince, and in the fervor with which Yun defended his younger brother he had seen a reflection of his own feelings. Perhaps that was what tipped the scales in Yun’s favor.

  Or perhaps it was a cold political calculation?

  Dorgon had been observing both princes for more than a week now. Xian was affable and courteous as always, but no more so than he was with Dorgon himself or with the tutors and companions Prince Rui had assigned him in Beijing. Yun, by contrast, alternated between demonstrative coldness and sudden, fierce defense of his younger brother. It was obvious that the emotions he felt were strong and deep.

  Moreover, the position of Crown Prince, and later king, was always dangerous. If Xian became ruler and something happened to him, the country would inherit a despot driven mad by grief. If Yun became ruler and perished, Xian would almost certainly keep both himself and his people in check. Yes, sometimes one had to think more than a single step ahead to ensure the prosperity of the empire.

  The soldiers finished herding the arrested into a cluster. Their commander approached and reported with a bow that the task was complete. Though he was only a niru commander, he and Dorgon had been through more than one campaign together, and the regent could rely on his loyalty. Unfortunately, zeal did not always equal attentiveness.

  A figure previously unnoticed suddenly darted from the terrified crowd toward the exit. Guards at the doors tried to stop him, but he sprang away from the leveled spears and, glancing around once, vaulted in a single leap onto the tiled roof of the wall. The two princes exchanged a look and chased after him. Sleeves flashed, steel whistled through the air. The opponents managed to exchange several blows before it became clear that neither held the advantage.

  Dorgon rolled his shoulders and gave an order.

  “Stand back. Where are the archers?”

  People retreated farther toward the walls, the guards dragged the bound prisoners aside, and an empty space opened before the tall staircase leading to the main hall of the magistracy. Six disguised soldiers ran out onto the steps and drew their bows.

  “Hey!” Dorgon called to the fugitive in Mongolian. “Fight me, or you will be shot like a dog!”

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  The man dodged a direct thrust with surprising agility, took a running start, and leapt back down into the courtyard.

  “How do you know our language, palace rag?” he snarled, staring Dorgon straight in the face.

  “I have many allies among the Mongols,” Dorgon said calmly, unfastening his heavy cloak and letting it slide to the ground. “But if you bear such hatred for me, you must be from the Chahar tribes.”

  “Your soldiers killed my mother,” the Mongol bared his teeth, his coarse face stiffening like a wooden mask. “I do not care how many archers you set against me, Envoy Zhao. I will cut out your liver!”

  “Very well, let us make a bargain,” Dorgon snorted and switched to Chinese so the others could understand. “If this man defeats me, let him go!”

  He had barely drawn his sword when the Mongol attacked. Dorgon took the blow with the middle of the blade. It vibrated, the tremor ringing up into his wrist. Like the regent himself, the Mongol fought with a curved dao, and a dagger flashed in his other hand.

  The strike was powerful.

  Dorgon retreated several steps and bent, pulling his hunting knife from his boot. The young Mongol could not be denied speed or skill. He nearly managed to knock the regent off his feet, seizing on a fortunate opening. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, and Dorgon smirked with genuine pleasure. Worthy opponents did not come his way often, and this moment he wanted to savor.

  They spun in a whirlwind of slashing blows, making the air around them sing its deadly melody.

  Blade meeting blade, a step off the line of attack, a knife blocking a dagger, a turn over the shoulder to keep the motion flowing, then another strike. This dance was as natural as speech or breath. One should not surrender to the rhythm, or an attentive opponent would break it first.

  Gravel scattered across the magistracy courtyard crunched beneath the Mongol’s boot. He pushed off and sprang into the air, preparing a crushing overhead strike. Two paces away began the steps. Dorgon darted aside, leapt, pushed off from the railing with his foot, and slammed into his opponent from the side, knocking him to the ground. With an angry roar the Mongol rolled and sprang back to his feet, reversing his grip on the dagger. The modest sun of recent days slipped out from behind the eaves and flooded the magistracy’s courtyard with light.

  This time the regent attacked first. Excitement heated his blood, the first spring wind intoxicated him, his strikes landed close and true. The Mongol barely managed to evade the blade flashing in the morning light. Dorgon pressed forward step by step, forcing his opponent to retreat and twist, leaving him no time to breathe or wind up.

  The swords met again, but this time the Mongol did not give way. Instead he slid forward, deflecting the opposing blade aside. The tip of the curved dao pointed straight at the regent’s face. There was no time to step back.

  Dorgon leaned away, avoiding the thrust, yet still felt the thin edge graze across his face at the end of its arc. The Mongol laughed, stepped in, and raised his arm for the next blow. He clearly expected Dorgon to try to rise and, blinded by blood, take the strike.

  Instead the regent planted his palm on the ground and kicked his opponent square in the chest with both feet. The Mongol windmilled his arms, losing balance. Dorgon gathered himself again and, without wasting precious moments on standing, spun in a wide sweep close to the ground. The blunt back edge of the dao hooked the Mongol’s ankle, and he crashed onto his back with a shout.

  Dorgon straightened out of the spin, quickly stamped on his opponent’s fingers with his boot, forcing him to release the sword, and brought his own blade to the Mongol’s throat.

  “Arrest the criminal!” he said, and wiped the blood streaming into his eyes with his elbow. The morning was pleasantly invigorating.