There was a moment of silence, then an uproar, just as Mhara had expected there to be. Inwardly, he sighed. His father had held all the prerogatives of Celestial Emperor, and one of these was the Command of Belief: the power assumed on coronation which meant that if the Emperor believed something to be right, then every other denizen of Heaven believed it also, with the exception of the Emperor's own immediate bloodline.
It was a power that Mhara had declined to assume. He did not think that Heaven had quite accepted this as yet.
One would think they'd be grateful to have been released from this epistemic shackle. But Mhara knew, only too well, that people don't necessarily want freedom of thought. What they wanted was certainty, and maybe this had been one of the delights of Heaven: you knew what to think, you did not have to worry or fret, you could bask in the unreflective surety that the Emperor conveyed upon you. But now, freed by an unprecedented degree of humility on the part of the new ruler, you were prey to all the worries and difficulties of an independent mind.
One could almost feel sorry for them. Almost. But it wasn't a luxury Mhara was prepared to grant. Thinking about this that morning, as he stood gazing out over the Celestial City, Mhara gave a small, ironic smile. By imposing an intellectual democracy on Heaven, it might very well be that his views were as dictatorial as any that had been held by his father.
Then, still wearing that irony draped about him like a cloak, Mhara had gone into the Great Hall of the Imperial Palace and informed his subjects that they could now think as they pleased. He'd been right: they didn't like it. The outcry had lasted for several minutes, while Mhara waited. When he did not respond, the courtiers fell silent, one by one.
"This is not the way things were done," Mhara said, speaking mildly. "My father ruled Heaven as his ancestors did before him; he followed a tradition which has held sway here for millennia, since even the very early days when we were nothing more than a small collection of tribal gods. But things change. Things move on."
"Emperor, may I speak?" That was one of the most senior courtiers, a man named Po Shu. In an ordinary environment, Mhara would have termed him close to the previous Emperor: with the thought-control issue, that relationship was in reality impossible to assess.
"Of course. And please say what you think." He did not hold out any great hopes of directness. With the thought-ban gone, other controls might simply emerge to take its place: self-censorship, on the basis of currying favor and an eagerness to please.
Po Shu said, "With the utmost respect for your august views—" This kind of remark went on for a little time and Mhara waited patiently. It would not be possible to rush them. Finally, Po Shu got to the point. "You are indeed correct when you say, with such perceptiveness, that things are subject to change. But this is Heaven, where matters remain eternal."
"I bow to your wisdom," Mhara said. "But I might remind you that things have in fact changed, over the decades. Slowly, perhaps, and in a manner that is pleasing to all—the designing of a new pagoda, maybe, or an ornamental garden. And I have already mentioned our origins as tribal gods and lordlings: we ourselves—our nature and our relationship to humankind—have changed a great deal since then. You will also be aware that my father, who may have seemed so conservative in comparison to myself, was on the point of introducing a huge change to Heaven: sealing it away from Earth. Moreover, he took you to war and that can hardly be regarded as maintaining the status quo. I'm afraid that the changes to which I am referring will be as radical, but hopefully less destructive."
"Radical, Emperor?" Poor Po Shu looked like a man who had accidentally swallowed a beetle.
"Radical," Mhara repeated, and let the distasteful concept sink in for a moment before continuing: "You will doubtless all be wondering what form such proposed changes will take."
They looked quite terrified. Mhara went on, "What is the essence of our relationship to the human world?"
"Compassion?" someone ventured after a moment.
"Sanctuary, after the spirit's travails upon Earth?"
"Love?"
Just as he'd thought, they had forgotten.
"More than all those things," Mhara said, "it is service. And it is the role of service that I plan to reintroduce."
Still raw terror, but some of them were also looking intrigued and Mhara felt a small surge of hope. They had been left in the comfort of unreflectiveness for too long, these benign spirits, these small gods. His father had done them no favors, but now, with good fortune, they might remember who they were and what they were for. "Some of you," Mhara explained, "will be going to Earth, to assist in environmental programs and disaster relief. Our jurisdiction is not beyond China, but you may yet accomplish a great deal. And you will meet with opposition. Hell will always interfere: they bear us no small degree of justifiable resentment over our part in my father's war. You will encounter resistance from humans, too. People have agendas and vested interests and they will prove reluctant to give those up, even if it is pointed out to them that a reward will be waiting in the afterlife. It will not be easy."
He studied them, noting who looked shocked, who appeared angry, and who might be resentful. It was not only humans who had vested interests. Only a few—but still a disappointing number, in fact, given what Heaven was supposed to be. But there were also those who looked excited, rising to an unanticipated challenge. There was even one, a local water spirit from the look of her, who said, "We should have been doing this before, shouldn't we?"
"Yes, you should. But you were not encouraged and my father's rule was dictatorial."
"I should like to go to Earth," the water spirit said. "My river has gone; it disappeared when they dammed the Yangtze. I should like to see what I could do about flooding, rather than sitting up here watching carp frolic in ponds."
"Very good," Mhara said. He did not think she had said this simply to please him. "All of you, please begin to think about what you might achieve, how you might help." He rose from the throne. "I look forward to your responses. We will reconvene tomorrow at the same hour."
He waved away offers to escort him to the upper rooms and left by a side door. As he stepped through the door, however, there was a sudden rustle of movement. But when he entered the passage, there was no one there. Frowning, Mhara walked quickly and quietly to the end of the passage and listened. Someone was walking away, almost at a run; he could hear the hissing of fabric against the floor. Someone wearing a robe—or skirts? He inhaled cautiously. Peach blossom, the ubiquitous scent of Heaven, but stronger and more pungent than the usual faint odor, with subtle undernotes of bergamot and jasmine. He recognized the perfume; it had been made specially. It belonged to the Dowager Empress.