The Grace of Kings

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR. THE BANQUET

PAN: THE THIRD MONTH IN THE FIRST YEAR OF THE PRINCIPATE.

Now that Mata Zyndu had put an end to the empire, it was time to hand out the proper rewards for all the rebel leaders. Marshal Zyndu announced that he would hold a banquet.

“This is your opportunity to confront the Duke of Zudi,” Torulu Pering said.

Kuni’s advisers studied Mata Zyndu’s invitation carefully.

“You can’t seriously be thinking of going to this,” Than Carucono said. “Marshal Zyndu has refused to see you all this time, so he’s clearly still angry about you taking Pan before him. This banquet is a trap. If you go, you won’t come back.”

“Lord Garu has no choice,” Cogo Yelu said. “If he doesn’t go, his refusal will be seen by everyone as an insult to Marshal Zyndu and an admission that he has done the marshal injury. If Zyndu then declares Lord Garu a traitor, all the Tiro states will support him.”

“I just don’t see why we’re wringing our hands here. Lord Garu was the one who got into Pan first and captured Emperor Erishi. Why shouldn’t the terms of King Thufi’s promise be carried out?” Rin Coda said.

“Do you think you can best Mata Zyndu on the battlefield?” Luan Zya asked.

“No.”

“Then King Thufi’s promise means nothing. In this world, the only currency is force of arms. Lord Garu has to go because he’s in a weak position, and Mata Zyndu gets to declare the terms.

“But, if we can come up with a way to present our case at the banquet to the assembled nobles, Lord Garu will appear to be so good and loyal in the eyes of the world that Zyndu will have to forgive him. Otherwise, we’re finished.”

Kuni listened to the debate without speaking. Eventually, the advisers quieted.

“Mata and I are brothers,” said Kuni, his voice low and somber. “I have done nothing wrong. Why are you speaking as though I must make up a story to justify what has been done? Surely I can simply speak the truth.”

“What is this truth you speak of?” asked Cogo Yelu. “Actions may be interpreted multiple ways, and it is how they’re seen that matters, not what was intended.”

“And can you truly say that you have never thought of being King of Géfica yourself?” asked Luan Zya. “You have never been tempted, even once?”

Kuni thought back to his actions in the palace and sighed.

“Luan Zya is right,” Kuni said. “I have no choice. I’ll go humbly and apologize to Mata Zyndu, and let’s pray for the best.”

To show that he was seriously contrite and posed no threat whatsoever to Mata, Kuni took only Luan Zya and Mün Çakri with him.

“You picked the brains and the brawn,” Mün said, laughing. “You don’t need anyone else.”

Kuni left Cogo Yelu in charge of the camp by Lake Tututika with instructions to take all his followers and head for Zudi if Kuni didn’t return by that evening.

Mata’s camp was right outside Pan, on a hill by the stream that fed into the city. The great fire in Pan continued to billow smoke over the camp, which dampened the celebratory mood.

Soldiers in brand-new uniforms lined the entrance of the camp, their bright spears and rigid new bows fresh from the captured Imperial Armory. They stared at Kuni and his two followers with contempt. Kuni felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and his instinct was to run back to Lake Tututika and tell everyone to get on their horses and take off immediately.

But Luan Zya put a hand on his shoulder. Kuni took a deep breath and continued the long walk into the camp of Mata Zyndu.

The largest tent in camp had been transformed into a banquet hall. Low tables were placed in rows, with seats for all the nobles and commanders of the Six States. At one end of the tent, on a raised dais, was the special table for Marshal Zyndu and his most honored guests. King Thufi had sent an ambassador to attend the banquet on his behalf, but this ambassador was pointedly not seated at the table on the dais.

Kuni saw that he and Luan had been assigned seats near the entrance to the tent, as far away from the honored guests as possible. Mün, on the other hand, didn’t even get a seat. He was supposed to sit outside, with bodyguards and other low-ranking followers of the various nobles and officers.

“Mata Zyndu doesn’t speak subtly, does he?” Luan observed.

Kuni gave a helpless smile and sat down on the ground in thakrido. He was worried, but he was not a man who ever let anxiety get in the way of enjoying good food and wine. Soon, he was toasting the other nobles and enjoying the juicy meats, just as he would have at a party hosted by himself in Zudi.

“Most Honored Lords of Dara.” Mata raised a goblet for the first toast. “For a year and a half we’ve lived in our saddles and slept under the stars. But we have brought down the evil that was the Xana Empire, a task once deemed impossible!”

“Hear! Hear!”

Mata drained his goblet in one gulp and threw it to the ground. “Yet not all of us fought with one heart. While my brothers and I bore the brunt of the empire’s most mighty strike, others among us behaved as mice who steal from the banquet while guests are engaged in conversation. What shall we do with men such as these?”

The assembled lords fell silent. No one dared to look at Kuni Garu.

Kuni stood up. “Brother, let me congratulate you on your great victory. Wolf’s Paw will live on in men’s memories as a byword for valor, a day when a god walked the earth. Your glory will never be matched. My heart overflows with joy to remember that once you and I stood on the walls of Zudi together.”

A servant brought a new goblet of wine to Mata, but Mata did not take it. A few of the guests had begun to raise their goblets at Kuni’s words, but put them down when they saw which way the wind was blowing. Kuni stood and waited awkwardly, and then he drank by himself.

“Kuni Garu,” Mata Zyndu said. “Do you understand your error?”

“If I have given offense, brother, let me humbly apologize to you before all the assembled lords. Your strength at Wolf’s Paw gave me an opportunity to stab the heart of the empire in a surprise strike, and I did what I did in aid of the rebellion, of you.”

“Do not call me ‘brother’! Tempted by fame and treasure, you took advantage of the empire’s preoccupation with my army and stole into Pan by a dirty trick. You claimed the riches of the palace as your own and manipulated the hearts of the people of Pan and Géfica to support your dream of ascending to the throne. You wished to keep the fruits of the rebellion for yourself, depriving others, far braver and worthier men, of their just deserts. And then you had the temerity to station troops in Thoco Pass to keep out the forces of other rebel leaders, as though you were first among equals of the lords of our rebellion. Do you deny any of these charges?”

Torulu Pering had made this list. Mata’s original plan was to arrest Kuni as soon as he arrived and to ask him in a one-on-one conversation for the cause of his betrayal. But Pering explained that it was best to make the case against Kuni Garu in front of the assembled leaders of the rebellion and persuade the world of Marshal Zyndu’s righteousness and Kuni Garu’s guilt. After all, he did capture Emperor Erishi, and everyone still remembered King Thufi’s promise. Kuni’s claim had to be made to appear illegitimate.

Kuni looked over at Luan Zya, who pointed to his eyes. It is how actions are seen that matters, not what was intended.

Kuni understood then that he had no choice but to perform, though the performance might cost his friendship with Mata forever. He wouldn’t exactly lie, but the dream of sharing Mata’s glory was dead. His heart ached as though a knife twisted in it.

“Marshal Zyndu, I’m afraid that you have been ill-counseled.” Kuni’s voice was calm and his demeanor remained humble and sorrowful.

Torulu Pering had told Mata to not bother listening to anything Kuni had to say, but Mata couldn’t help but be curious. “How so?”

“To punish me for what I did would chill the hearts of all men of daring. The truth is that I knew what was in your heart, and I listened to your dreams. My actions were aimed at procuring the greatest glory for you. I am but a dandelion, softening the hard and bare soil in preparation for the dream of the chrysanthemum.”

Mata’s heart softened at this. “Explain yourself.”

“I came into Pan with five hundred men not to take advantage of your sacrifice at Wolf’s Paw, but to give it greatest effect.

“Consider, Pan and Géfica were garrisoned with the cream of the Imperial army, the best of the best. Valiant as you are, Marshal Zyndu, do you not think it would have taken you much time and cost the lives of many of your men to pacify the region?”

Mata thought about this and nodded almost imperceptibly.

“My gambit was designed to cut off the empire’s head in one swift stroke and lessen the number of good men who might have to die. Though I knew well that you could have vanquished the Imperial army on your own, yet was it not a good thing to try to preserve the lives of your loyal followers from Tunoa? If I could, by my actions, prevent one mother from losing a son, one wife from losing a husband, one sister from losing a brother, would it not have been my duty to act?”

Mata remembered the mourning song from Mira, and anger drained out of his face.

“Once we were in Pan, we guarded the treasures of the palace — after some inevitable small-scale looting that could not be denied to men in the throes of victory — as temporary custodians anticipating your arrival.

“My retainer, Cogo Yelu, took care to protect the Imperial Archives so that when you came to Pan, you’d be able to administer effectively. We took nothing from the Imperial Treasury, nothing from the Imperial Armory, nothing at all from the people of Pan, in order to prepare the place to welcome you in a proper triumph. We pulled out of Pan as soon as we heard that you were coming.

“We did everything in your name and paved the path for your glory. If you think I am ambitious, then you have sorely misunderstood me.”

Kuni Garu’s voice cracked, and he made an effort to swallow and to wipe his eyes discreetly.

Torulu Pering rolled his eyes. This Kuni Garu was a consummate actor and liar. To claim that he did what he did in Pan for the benefit of Mata Zyndu was preposterous. Kuni was buying up the hearts of the people, laying the groundwork for comparison with Mata Zyndu’s high-handed and brutal occupation later. Garu was banking on the fact that Zyndu wasn’t as good as he at these political games.

Pering knew that Kuni Garu had a reputation as a talker. He was almost like a paid litigator in his ability to turn black to white, to make specious arguments about wrong and right. Mata Zyndu would be no match for Kuni Garu’s verbal tricks. Pering berated himself for not foreseeing how this public spectacle could be turned to Kuni’s advantage.

Kuni continued. “The troops stationed at Goa in Thoco Pass had orders to prevent scattered Imperial detachments from coming back to Pan. In their zeal to defend the fruits of the rebellion — fruits that we all know you deserve more than anyone else — they misunderstood and failed to welcome you properly. For this error I have already punished those responsible.”

Marshal Zyndu was unconvinced. “But your man, Ro Minosé, came to me and said that you were preparing to declare yourself king, perhaps even emperor. Your men were spreading malicious rumors, poisoning the hearts of the people against me.”

Torulu Pering wished he had some way of telling Mata Zyndu to be quiet. To bring up the name of Ro Minosé was like painting a target on Ro’s back, inviting retaliation from those loyal to Kuni. And after that, who in the future would want to defect from Kuni’s camp and join Mata, knowing that Mata didn’t even care enough about them to protect their names?

“If Ro Minosé would betray me, why would he not betray you?” Kuni spread his hands and pleaded. “One should never give heed to the words of traitors, for they would lie to gain themselves any advantage.”

Torulu scoffed at this, but Mata Zyndu seemed to reconsider.

“You swear all that you’ve said is true?”

“I swear it on all the books of Kon Fiji.”

“Then I apologize, Lord Garu, for doubting your heart. Now will you drink with me?”

A servant handed a goblet filled to the brim to Mata, and Mata lifted it in Kuni’s direction.

Kuni gulped the drink down. He still won’t call me brother. Though the wine was of the highest quality, he felt his throat burn as he swallowed. He understood that he would never again be able to truly bare his heart to Mata. It is how actions are seen that matters, not what was intended.

The other guests were relieved that tension seemed to be dissipating and eagerly joined in. Soon wine flowed freely, and merriment again filled the tent.

Kuni sat down and wiped his brow. “That was close,” he said to Luan Zya.

Luan nodded. He wasn’t sure that the danger was past yet. He kept his eye on Torulu Pering. Among Mata Zyndu’s retinue, Pering seemed the only one who had his eyes on the bigger picture.

Pering kept on trying to catch Mata Zyndu’s eye. When Mata finally looked at him, Pering grabbed the centerpiece from his table, a great three-legged jade ritual vessel called a kunikin in Classical Ano, and made as if to smash the vessel against the ground.

Mata shook his head and looked away. Pering waited until Mata was looking his way again, and again raised the kunikin over his head and pretended to smash it. Mata again looked away. This went on a few more times, and Mata Zyndu always shook his head.

Pering sighed. He could not make himself any clearer. Having seen the man in action, he could tell that Kuni Garu was the most dangerous challenger to Mata’s authority. He had to be killed right now, or else he would become an unmanageable threat. Pering would have preferred it if Zyndu could make Garu appear to be a traitor before the eyes of the others, but since Garu’s slippery tongue had saved him from that fate, Pering was willing for Zyndu to resort to outright murder.

Pering had examined carefully the tactics that Kuni Garu employed in Pan, and there was no question that the man was ambitious and would not be satisfied until Mata Zyndu was ruined. But since Mata was unable to put aside his compassion, Pering had to make the hard decision for him.

Pering got up and made his way gradually to Ro Minosé, toasting the other guests along the way. He pulled Ro aside and whispered to him, “Marshal Zyndu has a special mission for you. Because you betrayed him, Kuni Garu now hates you more than any man alive. Marshal Zyndu desires you to prove the truth of your accusations with a demonstration of loyalty.”

Ro, who had been pondering his fate morosely, shuddered at this.

“Marshal Zyndu wants Kuni Garu to die?”

Pering nodded. “Kuni Garu has deceived the guests here with his clever words, so openly killing him is not an option. Can you make it look like an accident?”

Ro hesitated. He did not like the position he was in. Marshal Zyndu had exposed him to reprisal from Kuni Garu’s men. But Kuni’s words seemed to make the marshal distrust Ro as well. He was caught between two sides and had to do something to secure his own future.

“If I do this, won’t the marshal preserve his own honor by leaving me to shoulder all the blame? I need some reassurance.”

“Don’t you dare to bargain!” Pering whispered harshly. “A servant cannot have two masters. You must make a choice and stick to it. You have to trust the marshal to take care of you, or you’ll be on your own to face Garu’s wrath.”

Ro gritted his teeth and nodded glumly.

As Pering made his way back to his seat, Ro got up and pretended to stumble. “Honored Lords, it’s boring to eat and drink without something more to delight us. The men of Cocru have often enjoyed the art of sword dancing at a banquet. If you would excuse my lack of refinement, I’d like to entertain all of you with a sword dance today.”

The assembled guests clapped and whistled, and Pering called for music. As the coconut lute and whale-skin drums created a syncopated and rousing beat, Ro unsheathed his sword and began to dance. He leapt, parried, swung his blade overhead in bright circles of flashing light like blossoming chrysanthemums, and slowly made his way toward Kuni Garu’s table.

The guests cheered while Pering whispered in Mata Zyndu’s ear. Mata’s face was filled with uncertainty, but he said nothing as the chill wind from Ro’s sword moved closer and closer to Kuni.

Ratho watched Ro’s dance and furrowed his brows.

He was familiar with sword dancing, but Ro was dancing so close to Lord Garu that the blade of the sword often passed within inches of the man. Lord Garu’s smile was forced, and he was already up, out of his seat, dodging left and right and awkwardly jumping out of the way of Ro’s swings.

Something was not right about this. Ratho had served under Lord Garu at Zudi and liked the man. Daf and he often spoke about how Lord Garu seemed someone who genuinely understood what the common soldier wanted, and he was glad that Lord Garu’s speech had convinced Marshal Zyndu. He never believed that Lord Garu would betray the marshal.

But now Ro Minosé, a known traitor, seemed to be trying to kill Lord Garu. If he succeeded, some foolish people might even whisper that Marshal Zyndu authorized it out of petty jealousy for his good friend’s bravery — imagine, capturing Pan with only five hundred men!

Ratho had to protect Mata Zyndu’s reputation.

He got up and unsheathed his own sword. “I’m also from Cocru,” he said. “One man dancing is not fun at all. Why don’t I help by joining in?”

He swung and twirled his blade to the music, and within seconds he moved next to Ro. Their swords clashed, swung apart, and clashed again, and Ratho did his best to keep Ro’s sword from coming near Lord Garu.

But Ratho was only a common soldier, and Ro was a far better swordsman.

Luan Zya got up and excused himself. He quickly left the big tent and found Mün Çakri outside.

“You’ve got to do something. Lord Garu is going to die in an ‘accident’ unless we intervene.”

Mün nodded, wiped the grease from his mouth with his sleeve, and picked up his shield with one hand and his short sword with the other. Mün’s shield was unique, designed by himself. The outside of the shield was studded with a set of butcher’s meat hooks, the better to catch his opponents’ swords and twist them out of their hands.

With Luan Zya running behind to catch up, Mün rushed to the great tent. The guards at the door tried to stop him, but Mün stared at them, his eyes full of fury. The guards hesitated for a moment, and Mün was past them.

Mün entered the tent and stood right next to Kuni Garu’s table. Planting his feet in a wide-open stance, he roared at the top of his lungs — the way he used to make himself heard above the squealing of pigs—“Stop!”

The assembled guests thought they had gone deaf temporarily. Both Ro and Ratho stumbled and leapt away from each other. The music stopped. The tent was completely silent.

“Who goes there?” Mata Zyndu, the first to recover, asked.

“Mün Çakri, a lowly follower of Lord Garu.”

Mata recalled their days at Zudi. “I remember you. You’re a brave man and a good fighter.” He turned to an attendant. “Come, bring this man some meat and drink.”

Mün did not sit but took the platter of food from the servant and stood where he was. He grabbed the steak from the plate and hooked it onto the outside of his shield, and began to carve pieces from it with his sword. He ate heartily and washed it down with gulps of wine from another guest’s goblet. The assembled guests were amazed by the vitality of the man. He was like a barbarian from another age, and he made all of them feel effete, weak, and small.

“Marshal Zyndu, I’m surprised that you still remember me. I thought you forgot all about your friends from Zudi.”

Mata Zyndu flushed and said nothing.

“Lord Garu may have come into Pan before you, but we were all on the same side, fighting against the empire. He’s done everything he can to honor you and to explain his actions, and yet you keep on pressing him, even permitting others to do him harm. If I didn’t know better, I might have thought you were jealous of Lord Garu’s favor among the people.”

Mata Zyndu forced himself to laugh. “You are a good man, and I always appreciate a loyal retainer who speaks from the heart in defense of his lord. Lord Garu and I have come to an understanding, and you need not be concerned.”

He gestured for both Ro and Ratho to sit, and the banquet resumed. The air of merriment felt very forced, however.

Luan Zya whispered to Kuni, and Kuni nodded.

After a few minutes, Kuni got up, held his stomach, and asked an attendant for directions to the toilet. Mün Çakri followed him out.

“Lord Garu feels unsafe even going to the toilet alone?” Pering sneered, and those sitting near him tittered.

“Lord Garu ate and drank too quickly,” Luan Zya said evenly. “Mün just finds it hard to sit in a tent. He prefers to be outside with other fighting men.”

Pering whispered directions to Ro and a few other guards. They left to make preparations.

Mata Zyndu was too softhearted to believe that his old friend posed a danger, but Pering wasn’t going to let Kuni Garu slip away. This was the best chance to get rid of him, away from his loyal followers and soldiers. Once Kuni Garu’s head was on a stake, his men would have no choice but to surrender.

Half an hour later, Pering became agitated. Kuni Garu and Mün Çakri had not come back. And Ro, who had left to check up on the two, was also nowhere to be seen.

“Luan Zya, where is Lord Garu?” Mata Zyndu asked.

Luan stood up and bowed deeply. “I must apologize for Lord Garu’s rude departure. But he’s feeling unwell and has already returned to his camp. He left gifts for Marshal Zyndu, and I will present them now.”

Luan Zya brought up trays of jewels and antiques, and Mata smiled and thanked Luan Zya. Inwardly, he was quite annoyed. Kuni’s departure smacked of fear, as though he didn’t trust Mata to not harm him. After Mün’s speech, Mata was afraid that others might really think he was jealous of Kuni.

Torulu Pering could no longer contain his frustration. He jumped up and grabbed the kunikin in front of him and smashed it into pieces at his feet. “It’s too late!” he said, to no one in particular. “This is a mistake that will haunt us all.”

Luan Zya bid the assembled lords farewell and left.

Two days later, soldiers clearing the latrines found the body of Ro Minosé. He had evidently been too drunk when he went to the toilet and fell into the dirty water and drowned himself.

As soon as Kuni Garu and Mün Çakri returned, Kuni’s men moved their camp along the shoreline of Lake Tututika until they were on a hill so that they could see the approach of any pursuit from far away. The horses were readied, and everyone prepared to evacuate at the first clear sign that Mata Zyndu would attack.

But the attack never came. Marshal Zyndu was apparently satisfied with Kuni’s apology, and Torulu Pering’s outburst was treated as merely an embarrassing lapse in decorum from an old, drunk man.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE. A NEW WORLD

PAN: THE FIFTH MONTH IN THE FIRST YEAR OF THE PRINCIPATE.

Mata Zyndu sat in his tent, contemplating the new seals that he was supposed to hand out.

He picked one up and caressed it, running his fingers over the cool jade surfaces and the intricate patterns that could be pressed into wax to make the logogram of power, the symbol of a new Tiro state’s authority. He held on to it as though it were a part of himself.

He sighed and put it down, and picked up another seal.

King Thufi gave his view of the matter in a letter to the marshal: In spite of the relatively puny contributions made by Kuni Garu to the success of the rebellion, given that he did fulfill the terms of King Thufi’s promise, the king hoped that Marshal Zyndu would honor the original promise and create a new Tiro state in Géfica to be awarded to Kuni.

Mata threw Thufi’s scroll onto the ground in disgust and ground his foot against it until all the wax logograms had fallen off and were illegibly mixed into the mud. He was finished with listening to that shepherd boy. Henceforth he was done with the old title of Marshal of Cocru. He had defeated the empire, and that made him the hegemon. So he would reward people as he saw fit.

Indeed, if one new Tiro state was going to be created, why not two? Why not ten or twenty?

On Wolf’s Paw, the kings of the Six States had shown themselves to be unworthy of the respect accorded them, so why should they benefit from what Mata Zyndu had achieved? The ranks of nobility had become polluted over the years, Mata realized, and that was why so many men and women of noble birth had behaved so ignominiously.

He was in charge of the fate of Dara now, and he would cleanse their ranks and restore honor to the old titles. He would remake the world to be more perfect. As for justification? Wasn’t it enough that he had the largest army? If anyone was unhappy, let them speak to him on the battlefield.

The heads of the Six States had sat around in endless debates while their countries burned and their people died. He would not make that mistake. He would not hesitate to act.

To begin with, he would divide the world into new pieces and hand them out to people he thought more deserving. Mapidéré’s error had been to trust people who lacked the necessary qualities. In contrast, he would hearken back to ancient times, when the foundations of the world were laid. Like the great Ano lawgiver Aruano, he would also create a new world order that would last millennia. He would measure the world against the rigid grid of his heart and put each man in charge of a domain no more and no less than his just deserts.

“You should hold on to Géfica,” Torulu Pering said. “It has the richest farms in all of Dara, and Lake Tututika gives plenty of fresh water for irrigation. It’s easy to defend, given Thoco Pass and the Miru and Liru Rivers, and yet easy to attack from if you can dominate the sea. Whoever controls Géfica would be able to feed a larger army, and by that means gain an upper hand over the other Tiro states.”

But Mata felt that might lower his esteem among the others. He didn’t want Kuni to have Géfica, so taking it for himself might appear too greedy. He wanted the power to draw lines on a map, but he also wanted to be seen as a wise and generous lord.

“I’m from Cocru,” he said to Pering. “The whole point of leaving home to accomplish great deeds is so that one day I could return home to receive the adulation of my homeland. Géfica is too far from Tunoa.”

Pering sighed. Advising Zyndu was often frustrating. He cared so much about honor and display and so little about the real foundation of power.

Mata decided that instead of keeping Géfica, he would divide it into three pieces — North, Central, and South Géfica — and hand them out to Théca Kimo, who was also from Tunoa and fought well at Wolf’s Paw, Noda Mi, who was in charge of provisions for the army and had always done a good job, and Doru Solofi, who had led the scouting party that first discovered Kuni Garu’s treachery at Goa.

“That makes no sense, Lord Zyndu,” Pering objected. “None of these men have much experience with governing, and it seems that you are rewarding them for their personal loyalty to you, rather than weighing the contributions of the commanders from all the Tiro states fairly. Rebel leaders of the other Tiro states will not like this.”

Mata Zyndu ignored Pering. If they didn’t like it, too bad. The people who meant the most to the rebellion were the people who helped him, and that was that.

On the other hand, the Xana home island of Rui was also made into a new Tiro state, and as its king, Mata Zyndu settled on Kindo Marana. Granting the empire’s greatest commander and the man Kikomi loved such a boon would be seen as a grand gesture and cement his own reputation for compassion and forgiveness. He felt this was right and just — Torulu Pering was always telling him how Kuni was trying to win the hearts of the people; this would show the people just who was the more honorable lord.

“That cannot be,” Pering said. “Marana is associated with the hated empire, and he would be despised by the people of Rui for losing the war, especially since so many of the young men who heeded his call are now at the bottom of the sea feeding Tazu’s sharks.”

“That’s his problem, not mine.”

As for the kings of the Six States, Mata Zyndu decided to shrink their territories and reduce their power. He still seethed at the treachery of Princess Kikomi, but he also felt some measure of sentiment for her, and after all, it seemed wrong to punish Amu for what she had done out of her own misguided, foolish feminine love. He compromised by restoring King Ponadomu to the throne in Müning, except that Amu would be deprived of all her territories on the Big Island and be confined to Arulugi.

Likewise, King Dalo of Gan was a coward, and his kingdom would be reduced to just Wolf’s Paw. And to add insult to injury, the isles of Ogé would be taken away from Gan to be made into a new Tiro state, to be administered by… ah, Huye Nocano, the Gan commander who finally decided to join the Battle of Wolf’s Paw only after it was clear Mata had won. He made a small contribution, so he would get a small domain. That was fair. And the assignment would annoy Gan to no end, which would be delicious.

Mata laughed at his own joke.

Torulu Pering shook his head but held his tongue.

On and on Zyndu went, redrawing old borders and rewarding whoever he pleased.

When the results were revealed, many whispered that his decisions seemed odd, whimsical, nonsensical.

But Mata saw a deeper order, an order that others simply did not appreciate.

For example, some scholars shook their heads as they saw that although the rebellion had only begun because of the courage of Huno Krima and Zopa Shigin, the hegemon refused to grant their families or their followers any title or fief.

But Mata understood that to do so would be to encourage further rebellions against the established order. Sometimes those who lit the spark that began a conflagration must be consumed by it lest the fire burn on indefinitely.

Others complained that despite the bravery of King Jizu of Rima, the hegemon carved Rima into six tiny new Tiro states all clustered around Na Thion like pigs feeding at a trough.

But Mata understood that Jizu had been made into something like a saint, a symbol around which people could rally. Such symbols were the most dangerous because they could be made to say whatever those who held the symbol wished. He had to prevent the cult of Jizu from getting out of hand and maintain order.

And as far as Mata was concerned, Haan had done nothing during the rebellion. Indeed, worse than nothing — Luan Zya had been instrumental in the thievery of Pan. So he decided to install King Cosugi in a new Haan composed of only Ginpen and a crescent-shaped slice of land fifty miles around it. Even parts of Lutho Beach were now no longer encompassed in this tiny Tiro state, but incorporated into one of the three new Tiro states he made out of Géfica.

This is madness, Pering thought. These fanciful borders will cause endless trouble.

As for Faça, King Shilué, ambitious yet cowardly, greedy yet indecisive, had long recognized that Mata Zyndu was a man of hot passions and quick impulses. Flattering him could guarantee no favor. The best strategy, Shilué had decided, was to stay out of his way and out of his sight.

Therefore, ever since the Battle of Wolf’s Paw, King Shilué had kept a low profile, though he gave Mata Zyndu whatever he wanted when Zyndu’s emissaries came to demand more aid — troops, money, food — in the war against the empire. This strategy now paid off, as nothing the man had done stuck out in Mata’s mind as either particularly good or bad. He decided to leave Shilué in charge of Faça as it was.

But many knew of Shilué’s numerous plots and betrayals against his nominal allies. He had orchestrated the politics of Jizu’s Rima from Boama, his fair, foggy capital. He had sought to snatch Ogé from Gan when the very survival of the Six States was uncertain. To these observers, it now seemed as if Shilué was being rewarded for his crafty ways. Pering explained that not punishing Shilué would chill the hearts of friends and breed further discontent among the allies.

But Mata was in no mood for counsel. He saw men like Shilué as undistinguished and therefore harmless.

Mata Zyndu reserved most of Cocru for himself as the new King of Cocru and Hegemon of All Tiro States. To compensate Thufi, he decided to install the man as the king of the remote and barely populated Écofi Island. Since King Thufi began as a shepherd, why not send him somewhere where he had plenty of land to open up new ranches? He laughed at his own wit.

Of course it was a bit awkward for the former Marshal of Cocru to now dictate terms to his old king and lord, but Hegemon Zyndu decided that once King Thufi moved out of Cocru, no one would remember who he was.

That still left the problem of Kuni Garu, however. The man who had actually entered Pan and captured Emperor Erishi. Mata had to give him something more than Zudi, but what?

Mata Zyndu’s eyes roamed over the map until he saw the island farthest from the Big Island.

Tiny Dasu had nothing to offer but spicy foods and unsophisticated fishermen and peasants, barely better than savages. Not only was it far away, it was also blocked on the way to the Big Island by Rui, where Kindo Marana would be king and could keep an eye on Kuni Garu’s every move like a watchdog. It was perfect. Dasu would be the jail for the former jailer, and Kuni Garu would stay on his minuscule island prison until the day he died.

And Mata would keep Jia and Kuni’s children near Çaruza. Oh, Mata Zyndu wouldn’t mistreat them, but they would act as excellent hostages to guarantee Kuni’s good behavior. There would be no more tricks out of Kuni, no more surprise attacks.

Torulu Pering had gone on and on about the threat posed by the ambition of Kuni Garu. Well, with this bit of “reward,” Kuni Garu’s ambition would no longer pose a problem.

Pering had to agree that at least on this point, the hegemon was indeed very clever.

Though Mata had told her that she needn’t feel obliged to do anything, Mira couldn’t just be idle.

She felt awkward sitting all day in the small tent that Mata had installed her in, next to his own. On the day he had brought her back, he had sent her a box filled with gold and silver and jewels, more wealth than she had ever seen, but he had then left her alone, busy with his own affairs.

The servants and maids all treated her as though she were already Mata’s woman, speaking to her with exaggerated courtesy and serving her elaborate meals. When she asked to help around the camp, the servants responded by kneeling and asking her in terrified voices whether their service had been unsatisfactory in some manner. It was suffocating.

So she simply decided to start doing things around the camp. She didn’t know what Mata’s intentions were, but she wasn’t going to be a kept woman. She would make herself useful.

“Let me help out in here, at least,” she pleaded with Mata’s personal cook in the kitchen.

The cook bowed deeply and backed away from the stove, gesturing that he was at Mira’s command.

Though he had once prided himself on being able to appeal to a palate as jaded as Erishi’s, the former palace chef found Mata leaving most of his carefully prepared creations untouched. Ever since the time he spent in Zudi by the side of Kuni Garu, Mata had preferred the same rough rations and throat-burning liquor that were the common soldiers’ fare. The former palace chef had been worried about his own future, and Mira’s offer of taking over cooking for the hegemon pleased him greatly. If the mercurial Mata continued to be displeased with the cooking, he thought, at least now he had someone to share the blame with.

The only dishes Mira knew how to make were from Tunoa: salted fish paste on twice-boiled rice; pickled vegetables wrapped in flatbread made from rough sorghum flour; fresh southern char grilled on planks made from scholar’s trees, spiced with nothing but smoke from the wood and sprinkles of seawater — this last really a mix of Haan and Cocru traditions. The former palace chef looked at these homely dishes and wrinkled his nose. Erishi would have gagged on such food, and he could not imagine how a man who was said to be almost a god would deign to eat such peasant fare.

But the servants who served Mata’s meals on trembling knees came back, astonished. “The hegemon finished everything. And he asked for the portions to be bigger next time.”

This only confirmed the belief held by everyone in camp that Mira knew the secret path to the hegemon’s heart. Mata had left all of Erishi’s wives and concubines untouched, but asked Mira to live right next to his own tent — though she didn’t seem particularly pretty and was not of noble birth, she had somehow gained the favor of the most powerful man in the world. Everyone was envious.

But Mira had simply remembered the momentary look of longing when he had gazed at her on that day when they first met, when he had asked her if she was a woman of Tunoa. She understood that it was not desire for her, but for home.

Mira went out to Kiji Square, bringing with her the food that the former palace chef had prepared as a backup in case her own food found no success with the hegemon. The chef had wanted to throw it all away, but Mira had intervened and asked that the food be distributed to the beggars of Pan. The servants and courtiers scurrying around Mata’s camp hurried to obey.

She watched as they ladled out the rich, exotically spiced dishes and filled the bowls of the line of beggars, and she felt a pang of guilt — so little food, so many mouths to feed. Had she not encountered Mata, she would probably be in their ranks by now.

A beggar in a strangely clean white cape — he probably hadn’t been on the streets for long — approached her.

“Thank you for the food, miss. It’s very kind of you.”

The accent indicated that the man was from Xana. Mira nodded at him coldly. She understood that most of the Xana soldiers were also poor and had suffered much, just like her and her brother, but years’ worth of animosity was hard to push aside.

“You’re close to the hegemon,” the beggar said. It wasn’t a question.

Mira’s face felt hot. “I am simply a woman he pitied.” Does everyone in Pan already know of my awkward position? “Do not believe the gossips.”

“I know nothing of gossip,” the beggar said.

Mira found the beggar odd. He was surprisingly bold, as if he fancied himself a lord, her superior. And there was something about his air that compelled her attention.

“But perhaps I misspoke. I should have said that you will be close to him.”

“Is that a prediction or a command?” Mira asked. The beggar’s impudence was making her angry. She considered calling for some of the courtiers — they were always so eager for her to tell them something to do.

“Neither. Prophecies are funny things — they don’t tend to come out the way I want. And so I will stick to history instead: Mata Zyndu is responsible for your brother’s death.”

Mira blanched. “Who are you? I have borne more than enough of your insults!”

“Listen to your heart. You know my charge is true. Your brother would still be alive now, strong and brave, had he not been seduced by Mata Zyndu’s promise. And what has he gained after marching a thousand miles and living on the edge of a sword to build up Mata’s reputation? The hegemon does not even remember his name!”

Mira turned her face away.

“Men like your brother brought the empire down and secured the victory to which Mata lays claim. He is no better than that Kuni Garu, whom he despises.”

“That’s enough,” said Mira. “I… don’t want to speak with you anymore.” She turned and fled from the square.

“I just want you to remember your brother,” called out the beggar. “Just remember him when you are with the hegemon.”

The next day, Mira decided to tidy up Mata’s tent.

The legends surrounding Mata had grown to the point where the maids whispered to one another that he was so temperamental that a single misplaced pillow could cost the one responsible her head, and none dared to take up the duty, though being so close to a powerful man seemed a good way to curry favors. But Mira was unafraid: Her brother had left home to follow this man, believing that he would make the world right again, freeing it from injustice. She would not dishonor Mado’s memory by being frightened of Mata.

The tent was a mess, she saw. Papers were piled on multiple desks haphazardly arranged around the tent, as though new ones were brought in as soon as old ones had been filled; pillows and cushions for sitting were scattered around, the detritus of ad-hoc meetings with his advisers; the bed where he slept looked like it hadn’t had its sheets changed in weeks.

Mata was sitting at one of the desks, his back to her, his legs folded under him in géüpa. He did not turn as she entered, perhaps thinking that she was one of his personal guards who had come in to help him get ready for bed, as none of the maids dared to come in.

Quietly, she went about her business: collecting the pillows and cushions into one corner of the tent; rearranging the desks into rows so that their papers could all be accessed; stripping off the sheets and putting on new ones; sweeping up the accumulated trash on the floor.

In his presence, fear and cowardice disappear like darkness before light, Mado had written to her after the Battle of Wolf’s Paw. He will sort this upside-down world out and put everything in its rightful place.

Mado died because he believed, thought Mira. He had no regrets as he laid down his life. I cannot tarnish his memory with doubt.

But the hegemon evidently had difficulty putting everyday objects in their rightful places. And Mata’s personal guards, it seemed, were ignorant of the basics of housekeeping. A small smile appeared on Mira’s face.

She looked up from her tasks from time to time, and saw that Mata had not moved. Even in repose, his presence was powerful, otherworldly. Mira could see why he had exerted such a pull on her brother — she could feel the pull herself.

Mata continued to admire something in his hand, rubbing, caressing it obsessively.

She couldn’t help but speak up. “If you keep on rubbing that thing, you’ll make all the corners on it rounded and smooth.”

Mata turned around and paused. He had not been expecting her.

He put the seal he was admiring down. The remark, if it had come from one of his advisers, especially that doddering Pering who seemed to disapprove of everything he did, would have enraged him. But he wasn’t going to get angry at Mira. What did she know of the affairs of the world?

“I’m observing the reward I’m about to bestow upon those who do not really deserve it. There are so few worthy of being called noble.”

Nobility had been important to Mado, Mira remembered. He had written to her of Mata Zyndu’s peerless nobility, a quality that overflowed and inspired those around him. I cannot describe to you how it felt, Mado had written. But for a moment I was touched by the gods, transported into a higher realm of existence as we charged behind him. He is the ocean that lifts up all of us.

The beggar’s words seemed to do battle with Mado’s in her head. She bit her bottom lip and shook her head. Mado was not stupid. He saw the good in this man, and so will I.

Mira continued to sweep the floors. When she was done, she left with the sweepings and a tray of empty dishes and bowls that had held Mata’s dinner. Then she came back with a pitcher of water that she sprinkled on the uncovered part of the tent floor to keep the dust down, humming an old Tunoa folk song.

Come for me, my darling, come for me in your fishing boat;

Come before dawn, for I don’t wish to marry the duke’s son.

I’ll come for you, my sea rose, ’fore the rise of the sun;

We’ll never be apart, so long as ships remain afloat.

She looked up and saw that Mata had been staring at her. She blushed. Trying to find something to say, she saw that the thing Mata held in his hand glowed with the soft light of precious green jade.

“It’s hard to give up a treasure, isn’t it?” she blurted out. Then she silently cursed herself for saying something so foolish, and she went back to her work with redoubled effort.

Mata frowned. Suddenly it seemed very important to him to make this woman admire him. Her implied accusation made him ashamed, as though he himself was not worthy either.

“I kept very little of the treasure taken from the emperor’s palace,” he said stiffly. “Much of it I gave away to the families of soldiers who died fighting for me.” He did not add that he had done this after meeting her, after realizing how little he had done for his men.

Mira paused. “You’re a generous lord.” The silence grew awkward again, and she tried to cover it up by more humming and quicker work.

“Would you like to touch it?” Mata Zyndu held up one of the seals.

Mira knew that this was a symbol of kingship, whose impression on wax could launch a hundred ships, ten thousand men, a hundred thousand arrows, and endless slaughter.

The beggar’s words came to her again. The hegemon does not even remember his name.

She saw Mado’s body again, wrapped in a shroud like thousands of others, at the bottom of the pit that was to be their final resting place. Is this what you called nobility? Is this what you died for?

Mira shook her head and backed away from the seal, as though it were a hot lump of coal. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “But I do not think it as beautiful or worthy as my brother’s life.”

She finished her work, bowed, and left the tent.

Mata Zyndu stared at her departing figure in silence. Then he put the seal down, gently.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” Kuni asked.

“Your Majesty,” Luan Zya said, “I’m a man of Haan, and now that the hegemon has made it even smaller and weaker, King Cosugi will need all the help I can give him.”

They drank their parting cups of arrack and smiled at the memory of Tan Adü.

“Mata Zyndu has made Dasu my prison,” Kuni said wistfully. “Come and visit me from time to time.”

“You will not disappoint Chief Kyzen, King Kuni. I’m certain of it. A caged wolf is a dangerous creature. Dasu won’t hold you for long.”

Kuni wasn’t sure he shared Luan Zya’s optimism. The chips were stacked against him. One, Dasu was tiny and poor. Two, Jia and the children, as well as his father and brother, were still back in Cocru, and Mata made it clear that he intended to keep them there as hostages to ensure Kuni’s loyalty. Three, Mata was going to send ten thousand troops under the command of Kindo Marana to “escort” Kuni and his entourage to Dasu and to guard them from Rui. It would take a miracle for Kuni to escape from his predicament.

“I have one last bit of advice to you, King Kuni. Burn all your ships after your arrival in Dasu.”

“But then I’ll have no way of ever leaving it.”

“Your priority is to clear the hegemon of suspicions about your ambition. Burning the ships will let him know that you are no threat. Focus on the administration of Dasu and being a good king for now, and let time take care of other matters.”

Ratho and Dafiro finally got a chance to meet for the first time since they parted ways in Çaruza. Kuni’s men had been confined to his camp, and Mata’s soldiers had certainly not been allowed to visit.

But this was King Kuni’s last day in Pan, and his soldiers were finally allowed to roam the streets freely for one day. Although both brothers worked hard to not shed any tears, they had wet eyes and noses that suddenly became stuffed up.

“I heard about you on Wolf’s Paw. Could have gotten yourself killed!”

“You’re one to talk. You held the reins of a cruben!”

“I’m the older brother. I’m allowed to do foolish things.”

Daf showed Biter to Rat, who admired it and swung it through the air a few times.

“You will not leave Lord Garu?” Rat asked.

Daf shook his head. “Even if I leave, I know you won’t leave the hegemon. I might as well make the best of my career with a lord who appreciates strategic laziness.”

“Ah, and here I thought you had finally learned something of honor and would feel bad about desertion.”

They embraced and laughed.

“I wish Lord Garu and the hegemon had remained brothers.”

They drank until the last light of dusk, and then parted ways.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX. DASU

DASU: THE SIXTH MONTH IN THE FIRST YEAR OF THE PRINCIPATE.

Marana and his soldiers watched from the sea in surprise as Kuni Garu’s men set the transports that had carried them to Dasu on fire. The sight brought to mind Mata’s gambit at Wolf’s Paw, and Marana frowned.

But Kuni’s words dispelled the association. “These large ships will be too expensive to maintain, and I’m going to stay here for a while,” Kuni shouted, his hands cupped around his mouth. Smiling ingratiatingly, he waved at Marana’s men. “Bring my good wishes to the hegemon, Your Majesty. Don’t be a stranger!” He bowed repeatedly to Marana, like a servant trying to curry favor with his master.

Marana looked away contemptuously. Why was the hegemon so worried about this man? He was no better than a common gangster, a petty criminal more than satisfied with a tiny island and some hovels. Marana decided that Kuni’s one “victory” must have been the result of plain good luck.

He had faced far worthier adversaries. Princess Kikomi, for example. A complex set of feelings fought in Marana’s heart whenever he thought of her. Though he was a masterful schemer, he had met his match in her. Kikomi had, in the end, stayed one step ahead of him and thwarted his plot. Just as she had almost succeeded in ensnaring him with a vision of rebellion, he had almost succeeded in seducing her with promises of eternal glory. The princess was willing to live in abiding infamy in the pages of history to save her people — Marana had to admire such grandness of spirit. He also wondered if, in a way, his own current position could be attributed to Mata’s own surely complicated feelings about Kikomi. Fortune was indeed a strange thing.

He gave the order to set sail for the northern coast of Rui, where Tanno Namen had lived. He had a promise to fulfill. “Do we have any lamb’s tails?” he asked. Even Namen’s dog seemed to have more ambition and honor than the groveling Kuni Garu.

Now that he was settled in Dasu, King Kuni handed out titles to his followers. Cogo Yelu and Rin Coda were made dukes, and Than Carucono and Mün Çakri were made into marquesses. He distributed to his followers the few treasures he had kept from Pan — he had been a robber once, after all — and held a lavish banquet for the three thousand soldiers who had followed him to Dasu.

“Now I’m as poor as every one of you.” He lifted his empty purse and let go, and the wind took the silk pouch from him and blew it into the sea. He shook his wide sleeves in the wind to show that they were also empty. The soldiers laughed.

“Since I have so little treasure, I can only hand out lavish titles. Hopefully they’ll mean something one day.” Then he turned serious, inclining his head in apology. “You’ve followed me and suffered a great deal of hardship. I’m sorry I can’t give you more.”

His followers uttered murmurs of consolation, but they felt warm in their hearts.

Kuni and his advisers went to Daye, the largest town on the northern coast of the tiny rocky isle. This would be the capital of Kuni’s little kingdom. His “palace” was actually just a two-story wooden house not much bigger than the other houses in town.

“Lord Garu, you look weary,” said Cogo.

Now that he wasn’t performing in front of a crowd, Kuni allowed his exhaustion and despair to show on his face.

“What am I doing, Cogo? Have I made a mistake from which I cannot recover? What kind of future can I give to my family or the men who have followed me? My domain is about the size of a sheep pen, as far away from the centers of power as possible. Mata will likely never allow me to return home or to bring Jia here unless I give up my territory — am I doomed to die in obscurity, having risked everything with nothing to show for it?”

Cogo had never seen Kuni so morose since he became the Duke of Zudi. “Strength comes from inside the heart, Lord Garu. If your heart has no center, then you will drift without purpose.”

Kuni was silent for a while, and then he nodded.

Jia took the letter from the Cocru soldier but kept her face as frosty as a statue of Rapa.

The soldier waited awkwardly for a moment, realized that no “thank you” would be forthcoming, and scrambled away.

Jia closed the door. The address on the envelope was written in Kuni’s unmistakable flowing scrawl. The flap of the envelope had been opened, of course.

Ever since Mata had sent the squad of men to camp outside her house, they had insisted on following her around everywhere she went and examining everything that came into and left the house “for her protection.”

“I once called Mata Zyndu brother!” Jia had screamed at the Cocru captain. “Tell him to come here in person and explain to me why I have been made into a prisoner in my own home.”

The captain had muttered that the hegemon was busy with official business and then ducked out of the way as Jia threw a teapot at his head.

Looking at the letter in hand, she was filled with both joy and rage. The zyndari letters in the script, full of soaring ascenders and wide, expansive loops, threatened to break out of their word-squares and reminded her of Kuni’s careless, open smile. But the letter was also a tangible reminder that Kuni wasn’t here, with her and their children, but stuck on a distant island where he could play at being a king.

She wished Kuni were in front of her so she could hug him and kiss him and then punch him a few times, really hard.

News of what had happened in Pan had left her bewildered. How could Kuni and Mata, the heart and soul of the rebellion, have come almost to war against each other? And when would he and Jia see each other again?

My Beloved Jia,

Everything is lovely. Please send my regards to Mata.

— Your Loving Husband

The rest of the page was blank.

Jia had to stop herself from ripping the letter into pieces. After all the weeks of worry and lack of reliable news, this is it?

Then she saw that Kuni had drawn the picture of a dandelion in the upper left-hand corner of the letter, which was written on thick, rough paper. She pulled the letter closer and inhaled — yes, now that she was looking for it, the trace of dandelion fragrance was faint, but to her trained nose, easily detectable.

Kuni must have known that his letters would be read, Jia realized.

She smiled. He remembered what I told him about the uses of the dandelion.

Quickly going to her workshop, she took a cup of dried stone’s ear mushroom, mixed it with water, ground up the mixture until it was a thin paste, and brushed the paste all over the thick page. Then she waited until the paper had been soaked through before dipping it into a thin dish of water, gently washing away the paste.

Zyndari letters emerged in the blank space on the page, fading into view like ships coming out of the fog. Kuni had written the real letter in dandelion milk, invisible until now.

I’m coming home, my beloved, center of my heart.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN. A VISIT HOME

OUTSIDE ÇARUZA: THE SEVENTH MONTH IN THE FIRST YEAR OF THE PRINCIPATE.

A rumor spread in Daye that King Kuni was sick and bedridden. When Kindo Marana’s envoys came to Dasu to inquire after Kuni’s health, a harried Cogo Yelu received them.

“Our poor king thinks of the hegemon every day,” said Cogo. “He has spoken to me often of how he wishes they had parted on better terms, and he thinks of this illness as an opportunity from the gods for him to reflect on his own circuitous path.”

Marana sent his report to Mata Zyndu in Çaruza: “Kuni is in seclusion. No signs of ambition. The lowly weed has decided to settle.”

On a cool summer morning, a beggar arrived at the house outside of Çaruza.

He had gray hair, and his face was scarred. Dressed in rags and straw shoes, he walked with a limp. A straw rope was cinched tight around his belly.

Lady Jia had instructed Steward Otho Krin that all beggars who came to the house should leave with full stomachs, and so he brought out a hot bowl of porridge for the man.

“My lady made this porridge from a special recipe,” explained Krin. “It’s hearty and spiced with potent herbs that will not only fill your belly but fortify your body against diseases. You won’t be hungry for the rest of the day.”

But instead of thanking him profusely, the beggar only looked at Krin, a twinkle in his eye. “Do you not recognize me?”

Krin stared at the beggar carefully, and then gave a little cry. He looked around to be sure that the hegemon’s soldiers down the road were not looking and hurriedly let the beggar into the house. Then he bowed deeply.

“It is good to see you, Lord Garu!”

A warm bath washed off the mud on Kuni’s body and the fake scars on his face. His hair had been bleached gray, and it would take time for it to grow out and be restored its natural black color. He was happy to be free of the cinched straw rope that had disguised his beer belly.

He emerged into Jia’s bedroom to change. A small vase filled with fresh dandelions stood on the small table by the window. Hanging on a stand nearby were a few new robes she had sewn for him with her own hands, he saw. He buried his nose in them and smelled the fresh herbs that she always used to do their laundry. Tears, unbidden, came into his eyes.

He sat down on their bed and caressed Jia’s pillow, thinking of the nights she had spent alone, not knowing what had happened to him. He would have to make it up to her somehow, he vowed.

There were a few strands of hair on the pillow. He picked them up affectionately, and froze.

They were not Jia’s red curls, but the straight, black hair of a man.

“I signed on as a seaman on a merchant vessel at Dasu,” explained Kuni. “That was the only way to evade Kindo Marana’s spies. Once I got to the Big Island, I had to make my way here slowly, switching disguises every few days.”

Toto-tika did not recognize Kuni and cried when he tried to hold the boy, and Rata-tika, the new baby, joined her brother in wailing. This made both Kuni and Jia cry as well. In a house full of weeping people, only Soto managed to get things done. She got food on the table and took away the crying babies.

Otho Krin stood nearby, unsure what to do. Kuni noticed him and, especially, his straight, black hair.

He patted Otho Krin on the back. “Otho, you were a scrawny young lad when I last saw you. I appreciate your taking care of my family. I know that you’ve always been faithful and true, in your own way.”

Otho flinched and Jia’s face was frozen halfway between joy and terror. There was a moment of awkwardness before Soto gave Otho a gentle nudge. Kuni seemed to notice nothing.

“It is… my pleasure to serve,” Otho replied, and bowed. Discreetly, he and Soto left the room, closing the door after themselves.

Once they were alone, Jia broke down and cried in Kuni’s embrace.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Jia,” Kuni said, stroking her hair. “I can only imagine what you think of all that has happened, and you’ve had to endure the cold gazes of everyone in Çaruza all by yourself.”

“It’s hopeless, isn’t it?” Jia wiped her eyes. “I was so angry when I heard what you did and how Mata responded. How can you ever get anywhere when you’re holed up on that little island? And whatever you try, Mata still has me and the kids under his thumb here. My family will not talk to me at all, terrified of what the hegemon might think.”

Kuni held tightly to Jia. Everything she said felt like daggers twisting in his heart.

On an impulse, she seized his hands and looked into his face with feverish eyes. “Kuni, what about begging Mata for forgiveness? Give up your title. Let him make you into one of his ministers or even a commoner. We can live a happy life back in Zudi with our children. My family and yours would be so happy to have us back. Maybe you’re thinking of flying too high.”

Kuni looked away. “I’ve thought about it.”

Jia waited, and when nothing seemed forthcoming, she nudged. “And?”

“I think about other families.”

“Other families?”

“On my way here, I had to travel away from the major cities and big roads, and I got to see a little of how bad things have become. Mata may be a great warrior, but he’s not a good ruler. The old Tiro states were forced to work together only because they feared the empire more than one another, but now all the old enmities are resurfacing; Mata made things worse with his childish map-drawing, and the new Tiro kings he created have no legitimacy. All the states are preparing for war: Taxes have increased to boost the sizes of armies, and prices in the markets keep going up. Though the rebellion is over, the lives of the common people have not grown better.”

“What does any of this have to do with you and me and our children?”

“This is not why you and I risked our lives. The people deserve better.”

Despair and anger warred within Jia as she listened to this speech. “You’d rather be loved by the fickle crowd than be a good husband to me and a good father for our children? How can you neglect us while you blather on and on about ‘saving’ the people? The world is not your concern, we are. Have you thought that maybe the suffering you see is bound up with the very warp and weft of the world? No matter who is emperor or hegemon, war and death are inevitable? That makes you think you’ll be better at ruling the world than him?”

“I don’t know, Jia. That is why I’ve come to you to hear your counsel. But what has happened to you? You were once so willing to challenge the world, to imagine how things could be different.”

“Life happened, Kuni! I’m just an ordinary person, a mother. Why is it wrong for me to want my children to be safe, to care about them more than other people’s children? Why is it wrong for me to want to live with the man who promised to share my life by my side, to not have him risk death and limb every day?”

“The man by your side?” Kuni blurted out. “You dare to speak of the man by your side?”

Jia took a deep breath. Then she looked Kuni in the eyes. “You were not here, Kuni. I did what I did to survive, to know that I could still master my fate. But I have never stopped loving you.”

“I never thought faith would be such a difficult thing between us.” Then Kuni stood there, stunned. He had not meant to voice his suspicions; he had come home to seek refuge and encouragement, but this wasn’t going at all the way he imagined.

There was now an invisible wall between them, they both saw. They had felt closer to each other in their dreams and yearnings than they did now in person. When they had been apart, each had striven to fulfill an idealized vision they thought the other had of them. But the truth was that they had both changed.

Jia’s time of isolation and deprivation had made her treasure the stability and charm of an ordinary life. But Kuni’s ambition, now stoked, had made him impatient with concerns he deemed petty. The passion that had united them early on now seemed to have been reduced to embers.

“Drink, husband,” said Jia, and she served Kuni a bland tea that calmed nerves and dulled hearts. She had given the mix to many couples who were too tired to continue fighting.

Kuni drank it willingly.

The visit was drained of its pleasure, as Kuni and Jia behaved like guests sharing a house.

Both focused on the children, anchors for two kites that rode different winds.

“You and Jia are having a hard time,” said Soto.

Kuni was working on improving Jia’s workshop. Ceramic jars and glass bottles filled with preserved herbs filled every shelf, and there was barely room to move inside. He was nailing new shelves to the wall, installing ladders for her to access the higher shelves more easily, and adding a low gate to the door so that the children would not be able to get inside as they toddled and crawled.

“We’ve been apart for too long,” he acknowledged.

Though he still didn’t know Soto very well, Kuni felt comfortable talking to her. The kids loved the serious but kind housekeeper, and she made the household function as smoothly as Cogo did Dasu. Soto didn’t cower before him like some of the other servants, awed by his status as a king and the legends that had grown up around his complicated history with the hegemon. Instead, she treated him as an equal, and was sometimes even gruff and impatient, especially when he was clumsy with the children. In her presence, Kuni felt more like his old self, careless and free.

“You’ve both grown more used to the image of each other than the reality,” said Soto. “That’s the danger with ideals. We’re never as perfect as how others wish us to be.”

Kuni sighed. “You’re right about that.”

“But I’ve always found that true happiness must take into account our imperfections. Faith is stronger when it acknowledges and embraces doubt.”

Kuni looked at Soto and made a decision. “I’m not blind, Soto. I can guess what happened. Otho has always liked Jia, and I decided long ago to trust them rather than act the part of the jealous lord of folk operas. But perhaps I have been a fool.”

“Not at all. You haven’t raged or been petulant, which speaks well of you. You know that you’ve never been absent from Jia’s heart.”

Kuni nodded. “I haven’t reacted the way you might have expected because… I’ve done things while I was away too, things that I’m not proud of.”

“It is the rare man who would be as severe with himself as he is with his wife,” said Soto. “I’m glad to see I was not wrong about you. The sages and Ano Classics tell us that faith means one thing for a husband, and another for a wife, but you are clearly not a man who accepts received wisdom.”

Kuni gave a little chuckle. “I’ve always thought it nonsense to believe something true simply because it was written in a book long ago. Mata is the one who thinks the past was perfect, but I think we must perfect the present for the future. I believe she did what she did because she thought it necessary, and I would not act the hypocrite.”

“Great men and women are not constrained in the forms their loves may take,” said Soto. “You and Jia may love others, but in each other’s estimation, you’ll always be first among equals.”

“But it will never be smooth sailing and all sunshine, will it?”

“What would be the fun in that?”

“You’re angry at your husband,” said Soto.

She and Jia were embroidering in the shade of the dining alcove while Kuni played with the children in the courtyard. Kuni was looking for dandelion seed clusters and helping little Toto-tika to blow them. Rata-tika, too young to participate, hung on to her father’s neck and watched, crying out in delight.

“I am angry that he takes being a king more seriously than being a husband,” said Jia.

“Do you think you have been taking being a wife more seriously than anything else? I have heard your bedroom door open and close at night.”

Jia stopped her needle. She looked over at Soto. “Be careful of your words.” Her hands trembled.

But Soto continued her needlework, precise, meticulous, each stitch straight and tight, as though measured by the flight of an arrow. Her hands were steady. “You misunderstand me, Lady Jia. Do you love your husband?”

“Of course.”

“How do you reconcile your lover to this love then?”

“It’s completely different.” Jia kept her voice low, but her face was flushed. “Otho was something I needed… for myself, to stay sane, to stay alive. I did it to feel in control again, to be able to be the Lady Jia that those around me needed me to be. I don’t regret it, even if the Ano sages may frown on what I’ve done. And I don’t consider it an act of betrayal because Kuni was never displaced from the center of my heart.”

“Do you think Kuni understands?”

“I… don’t know. But if he’s the man I think he is, he should. I never claimed to be perfect, but I have always tried to do the right thing.”

“That is my point, Jia. The heart is a complicated thing, and we’re capable of many loves, though we’re told that we must value one to the exclusion of others. You can be a good wife at the same time that you’re a good mother, though sometimes the needs of your husband may seem to conflict with the needs of your children. You can be loyal to your husband at the same time that you take a lover for your own sake, though the poets tell us this is wrong. But why should we believe that the poets understand us better than we do ourselves? Do not retreat into conventionality because you’re afraid — as you already suspect, your husband may understand you better than you think.”

“You’re a strange one, Soto.”

“No more than you, Lady Jia. You’re angry at Kuni because you perceive a conflict between his duty to provide a safe home for you and his desire to make Dara a better place for all. But can his heart not contain both? And can you not see how you might help him achieve both?”

Jia laughed bitterly. “Whatever I think, what can I do about it? I’m not a man, just the wife of a man trying to seek his fortune in war.”

“You cannot take refuge in toothless platitudes when it suits you, Jia. Your husband is a king, an equal of the other Tiro kings. Do you really think you’re as helpless as the widows in the Cocru farmlands whose husbands were ordered to fight and die for your husband and Mata?”

“Kuni is the one who decides these things, not me.”

“Because you don’t wield a sword or wear armor, you believe it absolves you of responsibility for how things turn out.”

“What is the alternative? I do not wish to be known as a woman who manipulates her husband to satisfy her hunger for power; I am not going to be called a pillow-whisperer who obtains in the bedroom what should only be won on the battlefield or through legitimate study. I’ve studied the Ano Classics — I know well the dangers of women meddling in the affairs of the state.”

“What of Lady Zy?”

“I would not presume to compare myself to a woman of legend.”

“Yet she was once but a woman who loved a man and who believed she could move her husband to do the right thing. No matter how diligently you study, can you ever become an official? No matter how brave you feel, can you ever charge onto a battlefield? We live in a world in which these paths are closed to you, as a woman, and yet you will not explore other paths by which you may alter your own fate and the fates of others because you fear the wagging tongues and sharp writing knives of scribes who manufacture history for their own purposes.

“The conventional life of a ‘good wife’—as defined by the scribes of the court — is closed to you. You’re the one who defied your family’s wishes and married a ne’er-do-well because of a dream, who followed a bandit into the mountains, who believed in him when no one else would—”

“It’s not… not that… I just want things to be safe for me and my family….”

“But it’s too late for that, Jia. Some believe that the world is a fate-shaken sieve where men and women are sorted out by their innate qualities; others believe that we carve out our own destinies by luck and skill. Yet, either way, those in high places have a duty to do more because they’re more powerful. If you value safety so much, you should never have said yes the day Kuni asked you to yoke your fate to his.

“A marriage is a carriage with two sets of reins, and you must not let him do all the driving. Accept that you’re a political wife, and perhaps you will not feel so helpless.”

When they embraced again, it was raw, awkward, like the first night they had been together.

“It’s never going to be easy with you, is it?” she asked. “You’ll keep on changing, as will I.”

“Would you have it any other way?” he asked. “Safety is an illusion, as is faith without temptation. We’re imperfect, unlike the gods, but in that imperfection we may yet make them jealous.”

And they both felt their hearts expand, large enough to contain a multitude of loves.

Afterward, they lay in darkness, their limbs entwined.

“You must go back to Dasu,” said Jia. “And never speak of surrender to Mata again.”

Kuni could feel his heart speeding up to match the rhythm of Jia’s. “You’re certain?”

“Even if you give up the little that you have, there’s no guarantee that Mata will leave us in peace. But as long as you’re a king, you have room to maneuver. A bandit who rose up to become a duke and who seized the emperor from an airship is never without possibilities.”

Kuni held her tighter. “I knew I would find what I needed from you.”

Jia kissed him. “And you must take on another wife.”

Kuni froze. “What? If this is your misguided way of ‘balancing’ things—”

“Kings are supposed to have multiple consorts to ensure many heirs—”

“Since when am I supposed to be like other kings—”

“Oh, please, Kuni, stop being childish. I know my place in your heart is as secure as yours is in mine. Since I’m the mother of your firstborn, Mata will never imagine that you’d dare do anything as long as he controls me. But you also have to convince him that you’re content with your lot, happy, maybe even overjoyed, to be the king of a tiny, faraway island. There is no better way to do this than to take on another wife, to show him that you’re settling in like a true, greedy, lustful Tiro king, ready to make your home in your nook like a weed. If you’re sufficiently convincing, he may even eventually agree to allow me to go to join you.”

“But Jia, I can’t just marry another girl like some stage prop—”

“I’m not asking you to do anything of the sort — I know you can’t marry someone as a cold, political act. But you’ll be far from me, and I know well how loneliness eats away at affections and passions. You must marry someone you love, someone who’ll be your companion and trusted adviser. You need such a voice by your side, especially in moments of doubt.”

Kuni was silent for a while. “If I do this, someday she may become your rival in the palace.”

“Or my replacement, should Mata decide that I am no longer useful alive.”

Kuni sat up. “What!? I will never permit that to happen.”

But Jia’s voice remained calm. “You cannot be without an heir. Who can predict the direction of the winds for sure? What we’re plotting is dangerous, and before success, we must plan for failure. When Lady Zy persuaded Lurusén to denounce Mapidéré, she knew that she might have to pay for it one day with her life.”

“I know not whether to admire you or to be afraid of you.”

Jia placed her hand on his. “I speak only from prudence. It may be that Mata will be persuaded that your affections lie with your new wife, and paradoxically, the shift will make me safer.”

“You speak of a wager of your life as though we’re discussing the weather.”

“I’m not so naïve as to think it will be easy,” said Jia. “But our faith is not the kind bound by conventions. No matter who pleases your senses and takes up residence in your heart, I know you’ll never be happier than when you can share your flight with me.”

Kuni kissed her. “And I know no matter who you take to your bed when I can’t be around, you’ll always be happiest when you soar with me as high as we did in your dream.”

“My husband is a man of truly capacious mind.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT. RISANA

OUTSIDE ÇARUZA: THE SEVENTH MONTH IN THE FIRST YEAR OF THE PRINCIPATE.

Kuni asked Soto to take him with her into Çaruza.

“You need someone to carry groceries for you,” he said.

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to show your face in Çaruza,” Soto said. “You’re supposed to be ill and in Dasu.”

But Kuni would not be dissuaded. The reconciliation between him and Jia had re-energized him. He felt ready to take on the world; he wanted to see Çaruza and to observe the nobility in Mata’s capital up close. It was a way to thumb his nose at Mata and the little island prison the hegemon had set up for him. And so, disguising himself as a servant, he followed Soto to the city.

Soto bought rice, fish, vegetables, pork ribs…. The basket of goods strapped to Kuni’s back grew heavier and heavier, but Kuni didn’t complain. The sights and sounds of bustling Çaruza, so much more cosmopolitan and sophisticated than Daye, made him realize how much he missed the Big Island.

“Get up, you worthless, lazy dog,” a Cocru army officer, a fifty-chief, shouted as he whipped a thin, young boy on the ground. The boy tried to get up but collapsed back down from weakness. It was clear that he was underfed and abused. The crowd parted around them, giving them plenty of space.

“What’s going on there?” Kuni pushed closer and asked.

Soto shrugged. “The hegemon made many of the Xana prisoners into bonded army laborers — essentially slaves.”

“That boy looks no older than fourteen.”

“The hegemon said that the prisoners deserve whatever happens to them because they served the emperor. Most people agree with him.”

“There’s never going to be an end to suffering if ‘he deserves it’ is all the justification people need for inflicting pain.”

Soto appraised Kuni and nodded, thoughtfully.

Kuni looked at the half-dead young man lying on the ground. His face twitched.

Then he laughed and strode up to the angry officer.

“Sir! Sir! Can I ask you a favor?”

The officer paused and wiped the sweat from his brows. “What do you want?”

“I hate these Xana dogs as much as the hegemon. I like to devise ingenious games to torment the simple brains of Xana slaves. Since this one is clearly useless for more work, can I buy him from you? I have some new games I want to try.”

His voice was oily and smooth, and his eyes radiated pleasure at the anticipation of inflicting torture. Even the fifty-chief shuddered. But he nodded when Kuni whispered his offer in his ear.

“Ah,” Kuni said, making a face. “I don’t have enough cash. Here’s ten silver pieces, which is all I have with me.” He frowned, patted his sleeves, and then his eyes lit up. “But I did bring my seal.”

Kuni went to a stationer by the side of the road and came back with a piece of paper that he handed to the soldier. “Just present this to the doorman at the house of Lord Pering and tell him that Master Kunikin — that’s me — owes you. I’m the private tutor in his household and the house office will pay you out of an advance on my salary. That’s my seal down there.”

The fifty-chief thanked him and unrolled the paper to look at it. He was not a quick reader and puzzled out the letters and logograms with his lips slowly.

“Let’s bring the boy home and clean him up,” Kuni whispered to Soto.

“You and Jia are a lot alike,” Soto whispered back. “You can’t help but want to help people. Do not underestimate the potential of that quality.”

Kuni was thoughtful for a moment. “Thank you.”

The Cocru officer froze as he got to the impression of the illegible seal.

“It’s you!” he shouted. “Fin Crukédori!”

Kuni, Soto, and the boy were not even twenty steps away. Those in the crowd closest to them turned to stare.

“What is he talking about?” Soto asked.

Kuni smiled bitterly. “My past catching up with me.”

The fifty-chief rushed at Kuni. A young woman selling iced sour-plum soup tripped as she was trying to get out of his way, and the ice blocks she carried on her tray scattered on the ground; the soldier slipped on the ice blocks, fell, tried to get up, and fell again.

Kuni said to Soto. “I have to go.”

“Wait!” she said. “Now that I know what manner of man you are, I will tell you my secret.” And she pulled him close to whisper in his ear. Kuni’s eyes widened. Then he looked at Soto, and understanding dawned on his face.

“Do what you have to out there in Dasu,” said Soto. “When the time comes, I will be here.”

He turned around and disappeared into the confused crowd.

Why, Sister, why have you helped that slippery eel slip away? Can’t you see he plots against the favored son of Cocru?

He’s your favorite. I rather like Jia. She’s got… character. This isn’t the time for her to mourn.

I think you’ve been taken in by the pretend virtues of her trickster husband. He’s an actor, a fraud.

Kuni whipped the horse he had stolen to put as much distance between himself and Çaruza as possible. But the horse was old and frail and already was foaming at the mouth. He could see the figures of his pursuers and the cloud of dust they raised behind him.

He cursed his luck. Of all the soldiers in the Cocru army, he had to run into one who had been in Zudi. And of all the soldiers from Zudi, he had to run into one who had seen him using his old trick.

The fifty-chief had called for backup right away. Mata Zyndu had made it clear to the world that Kuni Garu was not allowed off of Dasu. And all of the hegemon’s men knew that a reward came with catching Kuni if he returned from exile without permission.

In front of Kuni, now, was a small farmer’s cottage. He jumped off the horse, whipped it hard to keep it running down the road, and rushed to the door of the cottage, where a young woman was shelling peas.

“Sister, I need your help.” Kuni was aware of the impression he must have made: The roots of his dark hair were growing out under his bleached hair, and he was dressed like one of Jia’s servants. The fake scars on his face and the sweat from his escape made him look like a desperado on the run — which he was.

The young woman, whose olive skin and light-hued hair and eyes suggested that her ancestors were from Amu, not Cocru, stood up, looked at him, and glanced up the road at the approaching dust of Kuni’s pursuers. “If you’re running from the hegemon, you’re probably not that bad.”

Kuni sighed inwardly with relief. Mata never cared much about how the peasants thought of him and saw no point in being their friend. Kuni could just imagine how Mata’s nobles, generals, and tax collectors had been treating the populace. But the people were like the sea: They could float a heavily laden ship, or they could make it sink.

“Come with me.” The young woman led Kuni to the well behind the cottage and had him slowly winch himself down into it with the rope and pulley over the well. Once Kuni was in the water, she told him to hold on to the rope and wear the bucket over his head like a helmet. If someone took a quick look down the well, it would look like the bucket was just floating.

She went back into the cottage and built up the fire in the hearth. But she soaked the wood in water first, and then there was a great deal of smoke. Soon, smoke filled the cottage, spilling out the open door.

The Cocru soldiers in pursuit slowed down as they passed the cottage. The fifty-chief thought he had seen the rider getting off near here. He sent half of his men down the road after the cloud of dust they could still see in the distance. The other half walked up the path to the smoking cottage.

They were greeted by a young woman whose face was covered with soot and tears.

“Have you seen a fugitive?” the fifty-chief asked. “He’s a dangerous man, an enemy of the hegemon.” He hadn’t told his men they were looking for Kuni Garu, specifically, just in case he turned out to be wrong.

The woman shook her head. Agitated, she waved her arms to clear the air around her. But as she did so, the smoke followed her movements, thickened into heavy swirls of dense fog, and soon enveloped both her and the fifty-chief and his soldiers. Everyone began to cough in the smoke, and tears streamed down their faces.

The fifty-chief strained to look around the cottage, but it was hard to see anything. He pushed past the woman and walked deeper into the small cottage. Shadows seemed to leap out of the thick smoke, indistinct shapes and monsters with eyes of fire. The fifty-chief became frightened and confused. His head felt very thick and slow for some reason. It was as though the smoke filled his head.

“The man you are seeking is not here,” the woman’s voice said.

“Not… here,” the fifty-chief repeated.

He shook his head. He just couldn’t think with all this smoke.

He backed out of the dark interior of the cottage, and his head instantly cleared.

Of course the man I’m seeking isn’t here. How silly of me. Why would Kuni Garu try to hide in a peasant’s cottage? Every man in Cocru knows that Kuni Garu betrayed the great Hegemon Zyndu, and no one would dare to help him.

He mumbled an apology to the young woman and led his men on down the road. If they couldn’t catch the fugitive, he decided that he would say nothing. The hegemon would not react kindly if one of his officers found Kuni Garu and let him get away — he might even be suspected of having helped Kuni.

The water in the well was cold, and Kuni shivered as the young woman winched him out. As he emerged into the light, he looked into her face, now bathed in the soft light of the setting sun. Kuni saw that under the streaks of soot and ashes, she was very beautiful.

“What, you’ve never seen a woman of Cocru before?” she said, laughing.

“I’m Kuni Garu,” he said. He had no idea why. Something about her, about the way she subtly moved her hands and arms to clear away the smoke that still lingered in the yard, compelled him to speak the truth.

“I’m Risana,” she said, “a simple smokecrafter.”

Risana laid out some sweet snacks and bitter tea on a tray and set it on the table between them. Kuni thanked her.

“What is this thing you do with… smoke?”

She got up and lit a stick of incense and set the burner down also on the table.

“Watch.”

She moved her hands through the air, trailing the long, oversized sleeves behind them. The air currents in the room changed and shifted, and the smoke, rising in a straight line, began to curl into a spiral. She stopped moving, but the spiral stayed in place, as though it were solid.

“That’s amazing,” said Kuni. “How did you do that?”

“My family was from Arulugi, the Beautiful Island. I don’t know who my father was; it was just me and my mother. She was an herbalist who discovered the secret of creating smoke that can be sculpted. It requires certain ingredients in the incense that, when burning, do not follow the expected patterns of normal smoke.

“We traveled from town to town and made a good living entertaining in the teahouses. My mother improved on the technique and devised ever more elaborate smoke displays. She could create labyrinths out of them, and guests would pay to be lost in them and laugh and scream and feel the thrill of danger that is not really danger.”

He heard a trace of sorrow in her voice. “But something happened, didn’t it?”

She nodded. “My mother realized that the smoke also had an effect on the minds of men and women, made them more compliant, willing to follow suggestions. It was part of what made her labyrinths so effective: She could give the suggestions of monsters moving behind the smoke, and those within would believe they were real.”

Kuni nodded. He had heard of such things, street entertainers who offered to put volunteers into a semi-asleep state in which they would do all kinds of silly things that they would not do normally: The shy would give a rousing oration, the bold would cower at shadows, dignified men and women would cluck like chickens and bark like dogs. It was close to madness.

“One day, a prince famed for his bravery came to experience her smoke labyrinth. Trying to give him a thrill, my mother enclosed him in a thick fog and suggested that he was beset by monsters wielding tongues of fire. She had intended to make the monsters back off when the prince defended himself with his sword, so that he could feel the satisfaction of battling mythical creatures.

“But the prince, despite his reputation as a skilled fighter, turned out to be a coward. As the monsters my mother put into his mind began to appear, he dropped his sword and ran screaming from the labyrinth, having soiled his clothes in the process.

“King Ponahu of Amu was not amused and arrested my mother for witchcraft. She was scheduled to be executed, but she convinced her guards to slip her some herbs — for her womanly troubles, she claimed — and then used them to create a smoke screen that enveloped the guards. She had them open her cell under the influence of the smoke, and she escaped. And then she came to Cocru, and we’ve tried to live here inconspicuously since then.”

“That is a sad story,” said Kuni. “King Ponahu thought your mother’s smokecraft witchery, but isn’t authority itself a form of smokecraft too? It relies on performance, stage management, and the power of suggestion.”

Risana tilted her head and stared at him, until Kuni felt awkward and embarrassed under the gaze of those light-brown eyes.

“What? Did I say something wrong?”

“No, but I wish my mother were still alive. She would have liked you.”

“Oh?”

“She always said that the world would not be set aright until the powerful vied to entertain the powerless, rather than the other way around.”

Kuni laughed, but then, after a moment, looked serious. “There’s much truth worth following in your mother’s words.”

“That was her motto as a smokecrafter: to delight and to lead.”

Being with Risana reminded Kuni of his childhood days when life was simple, and it put him at ease.

He had not realized how much politics there was in his daily life. Every word, every gesture, every expression had layers of meaning that he had to be attentive to. Cogo had drilled into him the belief that a king was always on display, and always speaking, even when he was silent. People were always watching, inferring meaning from how he held his hands, how he seemed to listen or not listen, how he stifled a yawn or drank his tea. In the minds of those around him, there were plots and plots upon plots.

He had to admit that a part of himself enjoyed this, and he was good at it.

Jia, in her own way, was master of the same art. She had long been the center of attention, the one others looked to for approval, for strength, for signs of one kind or another. Though their hearts were connected in a way that made them understand each other like few others could, when they were together, they couldn’t help but continue to play the game, put on a performance, parse each other’s words and acts for clues.

But with Risana, Kuni felt no pressure. She spoke what was on her mind and saw through whatever evasions he put up. She waved her hands, and fog seemed to clear from his mind. There was no need for any flattery, deceit, lies. She was not interested in the kind of mental games that he and Jia were trapped in. Because she saw through layers of guile in men so easily, she seemed to have no guile herself.

Being with Risana made Kuni realize how tiring his life was. There was no longer room in the life of King Kuni for the young man who once felt such pure elation at the sight of a lone man flying across the sky.

Risana had not told Kuni the whole truth about her talent, which was similar to, but also different from, her mother’s.

Whereas her mother had been skilled in planting suggestions in an audience while smoke dulled their senses, Risana was best at the opposite: clearing the minds of those in thrall to the smoke. She was the one who would lead them out of the labyrinths after they’d had their fun, the one who would show them that the monsters they thought they saw were not real.

If she wished, she could also manipulate the smoke in people’s hearts and behind their eyes, making them see visions where there was nothing, to have doubts where there was clarity. But she far preferred to do the opposite.

Even without the aid of her herbal smoke, she had always found it easy to speak with people — she had a talent of seeing what was in their hearts through the fog and smoke of their self-deception and their wish to seem other than they were. Most of the time, she chose to go along with the deception; indeed, that was often what it took to be well-liked.

But sometimes, when she thought the person needed it, she did something different. With a word, a song, a judiciously enforced bit of silence, she showed them what she had seen, giving them that most precious of gifts: acceptance of the truth.

When men and women realized what she was capable of, often they pulled away in fear. They did not like to be so naked.

There was, however, a limit to her skill.

She discovered that some hearts were opaque to her sight, like sealed boxes. She could not tell what their owners wanted or what they feared, and she knew not whether they were friend or foe.

“I’m afraid for you,” her mother had said, when Risana tried to explain this particular blindness.

“What for?” Risana had asked.

“You’ve never learned to navigate the darkness, as the rest of us must.”

And then she had pulled Risana into an embrace, and would explain no more.

At first, Risana had thought Kuni was just such a man, a man whose heart was sealed against her sight. And then she realized that it was simply because she didn’t look hard enough.

Kuni was such a complicated man. There were so many layers in his heart that it appeared opaque. He was like a cabbage, one leaf nestled inside another, each half-formed idea enclosed by another, desires and suspicions and regrets and ideals wrapped tightly lest they spread too far. There was a growing ambition in him and an overwhelming desire to be liked. Yet there was also sorrow and a gnawing sense of doubt, of not being as good a man as he thought he was, of not being as certain of the right path as he wished.

He intrigued her. Powerful men, in her experience, were usually not so full of doubt. Kuni was consumed by the desire to do good for others, but uncertain what “good” might be and whether he was the right man for the job.

Kuni was the sort of man, Risana realized, who, rather than deceive himself, was so full of self-doubt that he could no longer see himself.

And what should I do? Risana asked herself. What is my role when I see a king in need of counsel?

To delight and to lead.

Kuni stayed with Risana for two weeks. At first he told himself that it was because he was still hiding from Mata’s men. But it was impossible to lie to himself with Risana around.

So he asked her to come with him. And she agreed, as she already knew she would.

And that was how King Kuni married his second wife, Lady Risana.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE. LETTERS

DASU AND OUTSIDE ÇARUZA: THE NINTH MONTH IN THE FIRST YEAR OF THE PRINCIPATE.

My Beloved Jia,

As usual, forgive me for writing only in zyndari letters like a schoolboy — a problem we’ll have to endure until you figure out how to form solid logograms from invisible ink; though given my handwriting, perhaps it’s best I can’t use logograms here.

Do you have everything you need? If you need money, let me know — I’m sure I can send you some, and Mata would be too proud to interfere with something like that. It can’t be easy to keep everything running, even with Soto and Otho’s help. I pray that Toto-tika and Rata-tika are not giving you too much trouble.

I’m overjoyed to have received your gifts and the letter of congratulations for me and Risana. She asked me to tell you that she very much loves the box of herbs you sent her, though she would not tell me what they are, only smile mischievously.

Imperfect as we are, I can only resolve to never again make assumptions and cling to ideals and to be honest and reveal to you everything in my heart. She is different from you, and I love you both.

The wedding was a lavish affair, though I think our wedding in Zudi was more fun — I had more freedom then to say outrageous things. Tiro kings from across Dara sent gifts, which will certainly help the Dasu treasury. Even Mata sent a case of fine wines from Zyndu Castle.

Kindo Marana came himself, and I made an elaborate show of how much I enjoyed the pleasures Dasu had to offer: fresh sea air, spicy foods, a population who considers me refined, a new wife.

“Do you not miss home, Lord Garu?” he probed, as he waved his eating sticks to refuse my offer of more spicy dumplings — he has a sensitive stomach.

“Home is where the heart is,” I said, looking over at Risana.

I hope my performance was convincing.

What a game we’re playing, Jia, and may the gods protect us all.

— Your Husband, performing the role of his life

Kuni,

Don’t worry about money. Though we are kept under watch by Mata, we are given all that we need materially. Since your departure, Toto-tika is now able to say a few words and walk on his own, and Rata-tika is just as cute as can be. They miss their father, as do I.

I am indeed curious about Risana. Another woman who has captured your heart… well, interesting. I can’t wait to meet her.

Mata came to see me — just himself this time, and unarmed.

“Kuni seems to prefer his new home,” he said. “Loyalty comes harder to some than others.”

“I suppose some men think of women like clothes,” I said, dabbing at my eyes. “Newer is better.”

He looked at me, and for a moment it seemed as if he was the Mata I knew, the man who held my son in his palm and joked with you. And then his face hardened, and he left.

I hope you’ve looked over the other gifts I sent you carefully. The maps you asked for and engineering plans for water mills and windmills were hidden in the lining of the wedding blankets; a wedding is indeed a good opportunity for smuggling — Rin came up with that idea, didn’t he? I hope he has enough now to do his work properly.

Courage, my husband, and faith.

— Your Jia, learning to spy, which is indeed one of the most interesting things

My Beloved Jia,

Now that I’ve been back in Dasu for a while, I’ve given much thought to what others call my ambition. The misunderstanding between Mata and me may appear to be a matter of competition for honor, for credit and empty fame. But the roots go far deeper than that. Now that I have seen the larger world, I wish to change it, as does Mata. But while he wishes to restore the world to a state that never was, I wish to bring it to a state that has not yet been seen.

I may not be much of a fighter, but I have always tried to do the best for those who have followed me, who have been put in my charge, who are dependent on me. I have seen the poor suffer when nobles seek the purity of ideals. I have seen the powerless die when princes believe in the nostalgia of their dreams. I have seen the common people torn from peace and thrown into war when kings yearn to test the clarity of their vision.

I have come to think that Emperor Mapidéré was misunderstood.

Let me finish, Jia.

In Pan, I saw with my own eyes the horrors of Mapidéré’s madness, the bones of those he had killed were embedded in every wall, and the widows and orphans he had made cried in the streets. Yet there was also something else, something I found in the documents saved by Cogo from the Imperial Archives and which he secretly brought here.

The minutiae of administration show that for all that the emperor had done wrong, he had also gotten some things right. He had promoted the flow of commerce, the migrations of peoples, the exchange of ideas; he brought the wider world to each isolated corner of Dara; he had done all he could to destroy the nobility of the Seven States, the old centers of power, so that all of Dara could be one people.

Why should there be so many Tiro states, Jia? Why should there be so many wars? The ever-shifting lines between the Tiro states are drawn by men, not gods, and why can we not erase them altogether?

I don’t yet know what the right answer is, but I believe that returning to the past is not the answer. I feel the heavy weight of a new responsibility. For the rebellion’s promise of succor to the common people to not be betrayed, I must find a new path forward.

Meanwhile, I’m stuck on this island and must keep myself busy.

Now, contrary to what you might have heard, Dasu is actually a very nice place. There are so few nobles here except the ones I’ve made myself that there are no boring parties or ridiculous gossip. I’m working on getting everyone to stop calling me “Your Majesty.” I don’t like the way people stumble over it, and I don’t much feel like a king. Cogo hates how I’m so careless with protocol, and you know how stubborn he can be. Well, I can be stubborn too.

Daye is really just about the size of Zudi, though much poorer and with far fewer people. As a capital, I’m afraid it’s not going to stand up to Çaruza.

Few traders make their way here, since all we have is fish. Well, if you ever come here, be prepared to eat lots of raw fish and shrimp. The crabs and lobsters here are not as big as the ones they catch in Zathin Gulf, but far tastier.

But my favorite thing about Daye is the view. Because we are on the northern coast, away from Rui and the other islands, we face the endless open ocean. The water is pristine, and we rarely see any trash drifting in. I’ve taken to swimming in the mornings in the cold water, before the sun comes up. It really wakes you up, and you’re ready for the whole day. At night, we build bonfires on the beach and drink and tell stories. Yes, entertainment opportunities in Daye are a bit limited.

The locals say that beyond the ocean, beyond the scattered isles where the pirates hide, below the horizon, there are other islands, filled with other people far different from us. Elders speak of strange flotsam and wreckage washing up on shore years ago, bearing designs never seen in all of Dara. We repeat these stories around the bonfire and scare one another, but I do wonder. Wouldn’t it be exciting, Jia, to find other lands out there that we’ve never seen?

Cogo, as always, has come up with some great ideas for improving the people’s lives — but he’s generous enough to let me take credit for them so that the people will think I’m a wise ruler. Ha!

For example, he thinks we should make the best of what Dasu is most famous for: our cuisine. Emperor Mapidéré had forced people to relocate all over Dara, and the most cosmopolitan inhabitants of the other islands have acquired a taste for Dasu’s spicy cooking. Now Cogo is offering restaurateurs a special banner they can buy after completing a course here in Daye so that they can call themselves Authentic Dasu Cooks.

I came up with the design for the banner: a little leaping whale, which happens to be also on the new flag of the Tiro state of Dasu. So far we’ve already had fifty or so restaurant owners from Arulugi and the Big Island take up our offer, and it’s a good source of revenue. Cogo tells me that one other benefit to this program is getting people all over Dara used to the sight of Dasu flags flying everywhere and associating them with good things — delicious Dasu food. That Cogo, always thinking.

He’s also introduced some new crops — like the taro they grow over on Tan Adü—that seem to do better than the traditional varieties. The farmers who have tried them are very impressed.

Cogo is also experimenting with a new, simpler tax code — though it still seems plenty complicated to me. But when I speak to the business leaders in Daye and the elders in the countryside, they tell me that Duke Yelu is a genius. (And I remind them that I’m an even bigger genius for letting Cogo do what he wants.)

He has also managed to win over Kindo Marana, the man supposedly watching our every move, by humbly going over to Rui on a little fishing boat to seek advice on taxation. Only Kiji knows how they can spend weeks talking taxes, but Marana seems now disinclined to treat us as a threat. His ships used to patrol close to our harbors, menacing the fishermen, and his airships used to circle over Daye daily, which got all the children very excited. But more recently he’s scaled back these spy missions.

On the recruiting front, things aren’t as good. Though Rin has spread the rumor through our network of spies on the other islands — mainly recruited through his connections with smuggling gangs — that I’m looking for able men to join us, few have shown up. Dasu is simply too remote and too poor to be really attractive.

Indeed, every day, a few of my soldiers desert because they miss home or because they don’t see much of a future here. They steal fishing boats at night and row over to Rui, where they board the bigger ships bound for the Big Island. Others have left to go join the pirates up north. It’s all a bit dispiriting.

But I keep on telling myself that this is just a temporary setback. Mata doesn’t have the patience for the boring details of administration, and the new Tiro states are already squabbling over the arbitrary borders he drew and fighting for advantages. Maybe I’m just fooling myself, thinking that I still have a chance to escape from my island prison, but hope is a good dish, even better than Dasu spices.

Above all, don’t worry. I’ll figure it out. I promise.

— Your Loving Husband

Kuni,

I must ask you to stop treating me like a delicate flower you must protect and stop thinking that you must come up with solutions for everything on your own. I fell in love with you not only because I knew you’d fly high one day, but also because I knew you’d always listen to my counsel and not dismiss me for “meddling,” the way the scribes and ministers are alway warning the noble ladies of Çaruza to not interfere in the serious affairs of their husbands, brothers, and sons.

Oh, I’m sure this will come as no surprise to you, but I’ve decided to no longer attend any parties among the nobles in Çaruza. It’s insulting, and frankly, I don’t feel like I’m accomplishing much. At the last party I went to — Mata actually sent the invitation himself: I guess he wanted to feel out your ambition by observing the way I conducted myself — a stupid man, some count or other from Gan, pretended to not know where Dasu was and called you the “king of a lobster pot.” And the other guests laughed like it was so witty. I had to go home before I did something I’d regret. Sorry, your wife is not much of a diplomat — I hope Risana will do better, for both our sakes — and I can never make my face say that which I do not feel.

It’s hard being here on my own. I had hoped my family would finally be reconciled with us after you and Mata made a name for yourselves — and indeed, for a while distant cousins and granduncles I had never met wrote to me, speaking of plans for visits. But now all the cousins and clan elders are pressuring my parents to stay away from me since you’re the hegemon’s least favorite person. Oh, I could scratch out the eyes of these distant “relatives.”

Soto has continued to be a great companion and the children love her. Despite her clear interest in politics, I find it odd that she goes out of her way to avoid the nobles of Çaruza. She disappears whenever any member of the nobility stops by — pretending to inquire after me and the children, but in reality just here to gather material for gossip. Even when Mata stopped by personally the other day — a very awkward visit, let me tell you — she hid herself in the kitchen and wouldn’t come out. There must be a secret in her past.

But I enjoy talking with her… and though I’m no Lady Zy, I want to tell you a few things, my husband, that I think you may be neglecting.

You mention that it’s hard to find and retain capable men who will serve you; but what about the ladies, Kuni? Remember that you’re in a position of weakness, and those with clear paths to success will want to wager on the hegemon and his new Tiro kings. But Mata is a man who believes in traditions, in proven ways of doing things. Those who cannot compete for his attention — the desperate, the poor, those without lineages or formal learning — may be far more willing to gamble with you. It’s not our custom or practice to look to women for talent, so who is to say that you may not have more success there?

Don’t be shocked by my suggestion. I’m not saying you should turn the world upside down and do everything that the Ano sages warned against in their ancient books. But think about what I have said, and perhaps you may find an opportunity you have overlooked.

Oh, I have some news about one of your old followers. Remember Puma Yemu, Commander of the Whirlwind Riders? He did so much to aid you and Mata back during the Battle of Zudi. But Mata has never liked him because of his criminal past and didn’t reward him after he took Pan from you. In fact, when he drove King Thufi away, he also stripped Marquess Yemu of his title and made him a lowly hundred-chief. Yemu was so mad that he quit the army and became a bandit again!

Just the other day, he came to see me in secret and brought me some very good tea that he had seized from a caravan going into Çaruza. Can you believe it? Such a great warrior reduced to banditry again. It’s hardly what he deserved. I dropped some hints about serving you again, and he is very much interested.

Take care of yourself.

— Your Jia, Tired But Happy

My Beloved Jia,

You’re indeed the wisest, my better half. I told Cogo about your ideas, and he immediately agreed that they were brilliant. We’ve been trying to think of ways to get our message out to women of hidden talent.

And your note about Puma Yemu made me think about who else might have lost favor with Mata — if you can keep in contact with them, that would be a great help, but do be careful and don’t make Mata suspect you.

But I’m afraid that I also have some horrible news. Cogo Yelu has left me. Excuse me if this letter doesn’t make much sense. I can hardly think straight.

Cogo didn’t show up this morning for our usual meeting. I sent Dafiro Miro, captain of my palace guards (which consist of him and two other soldiers, but I’m not skimping on titles, since titles are all I have to hand out), to retrieve him. He came back and gave me the bad news: Prime Minister Cogo Yelu was last seen leaving his home at night on a horse headed toward the southern coast of Dasu.

Fearing some mishap, I sent riders immediately after him, and I then spent the rest of the morning pacing around my room like an ant running around on a hot stove. They’ve now returned, Cogo-less. No one knows where he’s disappeared to.

I’m devastated. If even Cogo has decided that following me is a lost cause, then I’m doomed, positively doomed. Ever since I became a rebel, Cogo has been like my right hand. I hardly know how to get home on my own after a night of drinking without him. How am I going to manage his new crops? How am I supposed to certify Authentic Dasu Cooks? How am I to collect taxes without making the people unhappy?

I’m going to be trapped on this little rock in the sea forever.

Many other soldiers and even officers have left me in the past few months, but this betrayal by Cogo feels different. I’m too upset to even be mad at him.

— Your Kuni, in Desperate Times

My Beloved Jia,

Disregard that prior letter. Cogo has returned!

It has been a week since he left, and I haven’t been eating or sleeping well. But this morning, just as I was out using the latrine, I saw Cogo ambling up the street, like nothing had happened.

I didn’t even bother doing up my robes properly. I ran out into the streets in bare feet and grabbed his arms. “Why, oh why did you leave me?”

“Decorum, Lord Garu, remember decorum,” he said, and he was smiling as if this was all very amusing. “I didn’t run away. I was trying to chase down someone who you couldn’t afford to lose.”

“Who were you chasing?”

“Gin Mazoti, a corporal.”

I threw his hands down in disgust. “Cogo, now you’re just lying. At least twenty corporals have deserted in the past months, and who knows how many hundred-chiefs and even captains. And you went away for a whole week to chase down this Gin Mazoti? What’s so special about him?”

“Gin Mazoti is the secret to the rise of Dasu.”

I was very skeptical. I had never heard of this man. But just as Than Carucono can always tell when a colt will grow up to be a great horse, Cogo is very good at recognizing talent in obscurity. I knew that he must have had good reasons to chase after this man, and I should see him.

But instead of bringing the man to me, Cogo said I should go visit him at Cogo’s house, where he was staying temporarily.

“Gin doesn’t believe that he’ll be given enough respect here in Dasu. He used to follow Mata Zyndu, but Mata never listened to any of his suggestions or gave him much to do. So when we departed for Dasu, Gin defected and joined us. But now that he’s been here a few months and hasn’t been promoted, he decided to leave even though I told him to be patient and wait for me to present him to you. So I had no time to tell you anything. I had to chase after him by moonlight.”

“By moonlight!”

“Indeed. I was in my slippers, not even having had the chance to put on good walking shoes.”

“And how did you catch him?”

“Ah,” said Cogo, stroking his chin and smiling until his eyes practically disappeared. “It’s quite a stroke of luck. Gin was going to hire a fishing boat and head for Rui before dawn, and had he succeeded in his plan, it would have been impossible for me to catch him — I’d have to put on a disguise or else Marana’s spies would know something was up. But before Gin could get on the boat, a doctor stopped Gin to get his help.”

“What kind of help?”

“Gin told me all about it afterward. The doctor wanted Gin to hold on to a pair of doves while he wrote out a long prescription describing the ingredients and method of preparation for a patient.”

“Doves!”

“Just so. I got to see these doves myself, and they were extraordinary: thrice as big as the pigeons you normally see, and with eyes so intelligent you’d swear they were about to talk. The doctor, a lanky young man in a green traveling cloak, told Gin that the cooing of the doves made it hard to concentrate.

“ ‘Just hold on to my doves and keep them happy and quiet so I can think. When I’m done, they’ll fly the prescription to my patient.’

“So Gin waited and waited, while the doctor took his sweet time. He’d write one zyndari letter, pause, think hard, and then write another. Finally, Gin said, ‘Doctor, I’m in a hurry. How much longer are you going to take?’

“ ‘You’ve already waited this long,’ said the doctor. ‘Why not wait a little longer? You don’t want the patient to get nine-tenths of a prescription, do you? That’s not going to do him any good at all.’ ”

“What kind of doctor is this?” I asked. “He sounds like a fraud.”

“Fake or not, Lord Garu, you and I have much to thank him for. Due to this unexpected delay, Gin remained at the village by the sea until I got there. I immediately begged him to come back.

“At first he was adamant about not coming back. ‘Lord Garu hasn’t seen me after all these months of waiting. It would be madness to continue to wait.’

“But the doctor broke in. ‘Would you stop drinking medicine after a week when it takes ten days to show results?’

“Gin looked at him and narrowed his eyes. ‘Who are you?’

“The doctor put down his brush and paper and smiled at Gin. ‘I think you already know.’

“Because Gin was staring at him, I looked too. And I realized that the doctor was uncommonly good-looking. Otherworldly, almost. Gin asked, ‘What do you want with me?’

“ ‘I’ve always regretted what was done to you in my name,’ the doctor said. ‘So I’ve kept an eye on you, though I’ve tried to stay out of your way because you can take care of yourself, and a doctor’s first rule is to do no harm.’

“ ‘Why are you showing yourself to me now?’ asked Gin.

“ ‘I’m afraid that if you leave Dasu, you’ll never return,’ said the doctor. ‘And that would be a harm.’ ”

“ ‘If that is all true,’ said Gin, ‘then you must know the truth about me. What chances can a person like me have with a lord of great repute like Kuni Garu?’

“ ‘Lord Garu is hungry for talent,’ said the doctor. ‘He is seeking everywhere: among bandits, pickpockets, scholars who never passed the Imperial examinations, deserters, even women.’ ”

“ ‘Is this true?’ asked Gin, turning to me. And I nodded.”

I was so confused, Jia, that I had to interrupt Cogo. “They know each other? Who is this doctor, really?”

Cogo shook his head. “I don’t know. After this speech, the doctor took back his doves from Gin and walked away, and Gin looked very thoughtful. When the doctor disappeared down the beach, he turned to me and agreed to come back.”

“That’s certainly an interesting story. But Cogo, just how did you come to the conclusion that this Gin is so great?”

“He told me of a way to get you off this island.”

Well, Jia, as you can imagine, we went to Cogo’s house right away.

Gin Mazoti is a small man, thin and wiry. He has leathery, dark-brown skin, black hair cropped close to the skull, and dark-brown eyes that dart around, taking everything in.

Cogo had told me that I needed to be respectful, so I didn’t act like the king, just a man in search of a great warrior. That was easy — I’m always doing that anyway. So I bowed down to him and asked if I had the honor of meeting the famed Master Gin Mazoti.

“It’s Miss Gin Mazoti, actually.” And she bowed back in a woman’s jiri, her hands folded across her chest. “I came back in part because I heard that you’re even willing to consider the talents of the weaker sex. But if you’re going to pay me the honor of an audience, I should at least let you know the truth about myself.”

Well, imagine the expressions on Cogo’s and my faces. (And how prescient of you, my Jia!)

Kisses for Toto-tika and Rata-tika.

— Your Kuni, Ecstatic

CHAPTER FORTY. GIN MAZOTI

DIMUSHI: A LONG TIME AGO.

No one ever called her Gin-tika. Her mother was a prostitute who died giving birth to her, and she didn’t know who her father was. “Mazoti” was just the name of the indigo house where she was born.

Growing up in a whorehouse meant that Gin was the property of the house. She fetched water and welcomed the guests, mopped the floors and rinsed out the chamber pots. She was beaten because she was too slow (“Do you think I’m feeding you to crawl around like a snail?”), and she was beaten because she was too fast (“What makes you think you can just loll about because you finished your chores?”). When she was twelve she overheard the madam speak of auctioning off her virginity. During the night she cut her way out of the closet that the madam locked her in, took all the money that was in the house, and escaped into the streets of Dimushi.

The money didn’t last long, and she was faced with a choice. She could sell herself, or she could steal. She chose to steal.

A gang of thieves took her in.

“When it comes to being a thief, young girls like you have certain advantages,” said Gray Weasel, the leader of the gang.

Gin said nothing because her attention was entirely taken up by the feeling of warm porridge filling her belly. It had been three days since she had eaten.

“You are quick, and you don’t look threatening,” continued Gray Weasel. “Many people instinctively cross the street when they see a group of boys, but they pity a lone girl begging for food and let their guard down. You can relieve them of their possessions while smiling and pestering them to buy a flower.”

Gin thought his voice sounded kind. Perhaps this was because he was the first man who had ever looked at her as a student, as a colleague, as a person, not just a piece of flesh.

It wasn’t always that easy, of course, and Gin also learned to fight — sometimes others tried to steal from her, sometimes she was caught and the constables had no pity. The gang taught her that because she was a girl, she had to learn to make the best of her meager advantages.

Her greatest asset was that people didn’t expect her to fight, though this only conferred a fleeting opportunity that she could make use of, once. She could not posture and taunt and boast and display the way the boys did. She had to behave as though she was helpless and then unleash her strike in one overpowering burst of fury. She went for the eyes, the soft tissue under the lump in men’s throats, the groin. She had no qualms about sharp nails, teeth, hidden daggers. She could choose not to fight and yield, or she could choose one flash of deadly force. There was nothing in between.

One day, the gang robbed a caravan making a stop at a cheap inn. Their haul consisted of gold and jewels and a carriage filled with a dozen frightened boys and girls, none older than six years.

“Looks like this ‘merchant’ is a child trafficker,” Gray Weasel said, looking at the children thoughtfully. “Probably snatched from their parents in faraway lands.”

The children were brought back to Gray Weasel’s home, which was also the thieves’ den. They were fed and put to bed. Gin stayed in the room and told them stories until the last boy sank into an uneasy sleep.

“Good job calming them down,” Gray Weasel said to her, a toothpick dangling from the corner of his mouth. “I was sure some of them would try to run away the first chance they got. You’ve got a way with these kids.”

“I’m an orphan too.”

In the morning, Gin awoke to the sound of children screaming. She rushed out of the house. In the backyard, a few of the children lay on the ground crying. One had a bloody bandage wrapped around his right shoulder, his arm gone. Another sat with gauze wrapped around her head, two spreading red stains marking where her eyes had been. A third had lost his feet, and he crawled slowly, trailing blood on the grass. The other children, still uninjured, were held by members of the gang against the back wall. They screamed and kicked and bit, but the men stood as still as statues, not loosening their iron grasp.

In the middle of the backyard was a stump used for splitting firewood. A girl was tied to it, her left arm laying across the stump. She was so frightened that her voice no longer sounded human, but like the cries of some wild animal. “Please, please! Don’t. No!”

Gray Weasel stood next to the stump, a bloody axe dangling from his hand. His expression was as calm as his voice, as though this was the most routine of mornings. “It won’t hurt for very long, I promise. I’ll just take off your arm from the elbow down. People can’t resist giving money to a pretty, maimed little beggar girl.”

Gin ran up to him. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like? Making enhancements. I’ll drop them off around the city every morning and collect them in the evening. They’ll bring in a lot of money from begging. Compassion can be a valuable thing to steal too.”

Gin moved to stand between him and the girl. “You never did anything like this to me.”

“I thought I saw in you the potential of becoming a good thief.” Gray Weasel’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t let me regret my decision.”

“We saved them!”

“So?”

“We should return them to their parents.”

“Who knows where they’re from? The traffickers didn’t keep records, and these kids are too young to give precise directions. And how do you know their parents didn’t sell them because they couldn’t afford to feed them?”

“Then you should let them go!”

“And allow another gang to snatch them up and make use of what ought to be my property? Are you going to suggest next that I feed them and board them with me for free? Should I abandon my profession and take up Rufizo’s work of doing charity?” He laughed, pushed Gin aside, and swung the axe.

The girl’s scream seemed to go on forever.

Gin jumped on him and tried to scratch out his eyes. He yelped and threw her to the ground. But it took two men to finally subdue her. Gray Weasel slapped her across the face and then made her watch as the rest of the children were, one by one, maimed in various ways. Afterward, he had her whipped.

That night, Gin waited until all the men fell asleep, then she got up and tiptoed her way into Gray Weasel’s room. Through the window, the moonlight cast a pale white pall over everything. Next door, she could hear the pained murmurs of the children.

Slowly, very slowly, she reached into the bundle of clothes next to the bed and retrieved the thin dagger Gray Weasel always kept on him. In a single lightning-quick thrust, she plunged it into his skull through his left eye. He screamed, and Gin pulled out the dagger and thrust it into the soft spot under the lump in his throat. With a bloody gurgle, the scream stopped.

She kept on running until she fell down by the docks next to the Liru River from exhaustion.

That was the first man she ever killed.

Being on her own made it much harder. She had to avoid the gang of thieves, who had let it be known that they were looking for her. She hid in the basements of old temples and only came out when she had to eat.

A couple caught her trying to cut the purse of the wife in the markets one evening. But the husband, a devout follower of Rufizo, decided that rather than turning the young thief in to the constables, he would perform a good deed. They would take the young girl in and try to give her a home.

But the reality of raising a street urchin and rehabilitating a young criminal was far different from how the man had envisioned it. Gin did not trust the couple and tried to escape. They shackled her and read her sacred texts with her meals, hoping that she would open her heart and repent. But she cursed at them and spat in their eyes. So they beat her, proclaiming that it was for her own good because evil had gotten into her heart, and pain was necessary to pry open her heart to Rufizo.

Finally, the couple tired of their experiment in charity. They took her from their house, blindfolded her, and pushed her off their carriage in the countryside far away from Dimushi, far away from their home.

During her stay with them, they had shaved her head (to cure her of her vanity, they said) and dressed her in plain cotton rags that hid her young, lithe figure (to cure her of her lust, they said). Gin was mistaken at first as a boy by those she encountered, and she found that there were advantages to pretending to be a boy. By looking tough as a boy, and by prominently displaying on her belt a short sword that she stole from a hunting lodge, she could avoid a great deal of unpleasant attention.

She stole food at night from the fields, and during the day she wandered down to the Liru River to try to catch some fish.

All day long, laundresses worked next to the river, beating sheets and shirts against the rocks with a cleaning stick. Gin sat a little above the river from them and fished. She caught nothing, so after a while she gave up and just watched the washerwomen. When the women took their lunch break, she looked at them hungrily and swallowed.

An old woman saw the pair of hungry eyes peeking out from behind a tree and offered to share her lunch with the emaciated, dirty boy in rags. Gin thanked her.

The next day, Gin showed up again, and the old laundress shared her food with the boy again.

This went on for twenty days. Gin knelt down and put her forehead against the ground. “Granny, if I ever make it, I will repay your kindness a hundredfold.”

The old woman spat on the ground. “You foolish child! You think I share my food with you because I expect a reward? I do it only because I think you are a sorry sight, and Tututika said all living things have a right to food. I would do no different for a stray dog or cat.” She softened her voice. “I feed you so that you don’t have to steal. A man who steals is a man who has lost all hope, and you’re too young to have no hope.”

Gin cried for the first time that she could remember when she heard this speech, and she refused to get up from her knees for many hours, no matter how much the old woman coaxed her.

The next day, Gin did not go back to the Liru River. She made her way back to the port of Dimushi, where the docks were perpetually busy. There, she found work as an errand boy for the dockmaster and shipping companies. Her thieving days were over.

Gin treasured the freedom that a boy’s disguise brought her. She always kept her breasts tightly bound and her hair closely cropped.

She was also aggressive and quick to anger, sensitive to every slight, every perceived insult. Rumors of her skill with the sword became more exaggerated with every retelling, and so she kept herself safe without having to fight often — but when she did have to fight, she struck without warning and was often deadly.

Once, the dockmaster and a captain had trouble fitting all the captain’s cargo into a ship’s tight hold. Gin, who happened to be there, offered some suggestions that allowed all the boxes to be arranged so as to fit into the small space. From then on, the dockmaster and captains often consulted her for similar matters. She found that she had a talent for seeing the arrangement of things, for designing patterns and shapes and fitting oddly contoured bundles into tight spaces.

“You have a way of holding the bigger picture in your head,” the dockmaster said. “You might be good at games.”

He taught her to play cüpa. The game was played with formations of black and white stones on a grid, and the object was to surround the other player’s stones with one’s own and take over the board. It was a game of patterns and spaces, of seeing potentials and seizing opportunities.

Though Gin learned the rules quickly, she never could beat the dockmaster.

“You play well,” the dockmaster said, “but you’re impatient. Why do you immediately challenge me on every move, attacking before you have uncovered my real weakness? Why do you fight tenaciously for every tiny open space before you, to the neglect of the larger prize of a dominant board position?”

Gin shrugged.

“You play cüpa like you strut around the docks, as if you can’t bear to be considered weak for even a moment. You play like you have something to prove.”

Gin avoided the dockmaster’s eyes. “Because I’m small, everyone has always acted as if they can push me around.”

“And you hate that.”

“I can’t afford to appear soft—”

The dockmaster’s voice took on a stern tone. “You dream of someday standing tall before men who’re bigger than you, but you have not learned to bide your time. If you insist on fighting every fight that comes your way, you’re simply letting them push you around in a different way. You will die young and foolish.”

Gin sat still, thinking. Then she nodded.

After two weeks, Gin started winning against the dockmaster.

The dockmaster, impressed, gave her some classical books on cüpa.

“These books explain the origin of cüpa as a simulation of war. If you study them, you will also understand how the game is entwined with military history and military strategy.”

“I can’t read,” Gin said, embarrassed.

“Then it’s time to learn.” The dockmaster’s eyes and voice were gentle. “My sister never learned to read, and she didn’t understand that she had been betrayed by the man she married when he had her sign a contract that deprived her of her right to dower. You must learn to read to protect yourself. I’ll teach you.”

One day, while Gin was walking about the docks, a large man, a stranger, stopped her.

“I hate the sight of a scrawny little man like you strutting around with a sword. People here tell me you’re a fighter, but I don’t believe it. Either fight me and I’ll bleed you out like a dirty piglet, or crawl between my legs and I’ll let you live.”

For a man of Géfica, crawling between another man’s legs was a humiliation that could not be borne. Other men on the docks soon surrounded the pair, anticipating a show.

Gin looked at the man: He was tall and broad-shouldered, and he had arrogant eyes that told her he was used to bullying others to make himself feel good. But his face was smooth and his arms scarless, which mean that he hadn’t spent much time in the dark alleys of Dimushi. He didn’t know how to really fight. She could kill him before he even knew what was happening.

But then she would have to leave behind this life she had just started to build for herself. She would not be able to finish learning how to read from the dockmaster. She could take the insult or kill the man. These were the only choices. There was nothing in between.

Slowly, Gin put her sword on the ground and began to crawl between the man’s legs.

The crowd booed, the man laughed, and Gin felt her ears grow red. A darkness rose in her heart, urging her to unsheath her sword and plunge it into the soft belly of the man standing over her. But she forced the darkness down.

If you insist on fighting every fight that comes your way, you’re simply letting them push you around in a different way.

Afterward, Gin read the books on cüpa and military strategy in every free moment and dreamed impossible dreams.

Then came the rebellion, and all the world was turned upside down. The docks at Dimushi filled with naval ships and profiteers and smugglers, crowding out the regular merchants. There was less and less work.

One day, the dockmaster called Gin to his room.

“I’m too old for this chaos. I’m retiring to my home village.” He paused, and smiled at Gin. Then he handed Gin a small pouch of loose gold. “This should be enough to get yourself a better sword and some armor. Take care of yourself, daughter.”

Gin looked at him. Daughter. She tried to speak, but no words came.

“I always knew,” he said. “Your disguise is very good, but I grew up with many sisters. I hope someday you can live in a world where you don’t have to be afraid to be a woman.”

Gin got herself a better sword and leather armor. To avoid impressment by the Imperial navy, she left Dimushi to join a roving gang of bandits. They roamed through the countryside and waved whatever flag was convenient. When the Imperial army showed up, they became loyal Xana militias taking arms to support the emperor. When rebels showed up, they became brave Amu or Cocru warriors fighting for freedom.

After a while, she found that she had a knack for leading men. Limited by her small frame, she was not a great fighter on the field, but she was careful and calculating, and men who followed her won many victories in surprising ways.

Yet, because she was so unimposing physically, men attributed the success of her plans to luck rather than skill. She was forever being brushed aside when the bandits struggled for power.

Gin drifted through Haan, through Rima, through Faça, serving briefly in various armies and hoping that she could rise through the ranks. But the officers of the various armies did not take suggestions from this small-statured man seriously. Commanders assumed that she couldn’t know anything about military strategy because she didn’t kill many men with her own hands.

Even the great Marshal Zyndu, whose gambit at Wolf’s Paw she greatly admired, did not give her a chance. She had bribed the guards to give her an audience with him and presented a strategy for how to quickly eliminate the empire’s last bits of resistance in Géjira without killing many more people. But Marshal Zyndu had called her ideas dishonorable.

Gin then joined Kuni’s ragtag army as they set off for Dasu. She had heard that Lord Garu was a good master who thirsted for men of talent, but she could think of no way to see him. In her frustration she got into a drunken rage at a restaurant in Daye and smashed the tables in that place. This was against the strict discipline that Than Carunoco and Mün Çakri maintained in Kuni’s army. Gin was imprisoned and scheduled to be flogged publicly.

Cogo Yelu happened to be walking by the whipping post that morning.

“Does King Kuni want a great warrior?” the man being punished shouted at him.

Cogo Yelu stopped and looked at the man tied to the post. He was in his undershirt only, and the uniform at his feet told Cogo that the man was a lowly corporal. “You do not look like a great warrior.”

“A man who can kill several people with a sword is merely a living weapon. A great warrior can kill thousands of men with just his mind.”

Cogo was intrigued. He ordered the prisoner, a man by the name of Mazoti, released.

A cüpa set sat in Cogo Yelu’s front hall. The stones on the board were laid out in a famous pattern. It was the final formation of a game concluded two hundred years ago between two great cüpa masters: Count Soing, the great Amu strategist, playing with white stones, had conceded the game to Duke Fino, the famed adviser to the Cocru court, playing with black stones.

“Do you play?” Cogo asked.

Mazoti nodded. “I’ve always thought that Soing should not have given up. There was hope yet.”

Cogo was not a great player, but he was a connoisseur of cüpa history and strategy. Mazoti’s statement made no sense. Most of the board was occupied by black stones. The white stones, clustered in the center, had few breaths left.

Every student of cüpa knew that there was no way for Soing to escape from his hopeless situation.

“Care to show me how?” Cogo asked. They sat down to play.

Cogo immediately sent the black stones on attack.

Mazoti placed a stone far away from his army, in a corner of the board. Cogo evaluated the position. There was no threat. It was a pointless move.

The white stones seemed to retreat before the black stones. Instead of engaging, Mazoti only made the situation more hopeless.

“You’re certain?” Cogo asked.

Mazoti nodded again, his face unreadable.

Cogo placed a new column of black stones to cut off Mazoti’s retreat. Mazoti’s only choice was now a battle of attrition at the center, where Cogo had an overwhelming advantage.

Confidently, Cogo placed another stone.

Mazoti’s next stone choked off one of his own breaths. It was a mistake that even a rookie would not have made.

Cogo sighed and shook his head. He struck the final blow and took half of Mazoti’s stones prisoner. Where Mazoti’s army had been, there was now an empty expanse on the board, testament to Mazoti’s blunder.

Cogo prepared to accept Mazoti’s surrender. No player could recover from such a large loss.

But Mazoti said nothing and placed another stone in the corner. The two white stones there were like two lonely scouts with no support.

There was nothing else to do but for Cogo to take over the center, and fill in the empty expanse vacated by Mazoti with his own stones.

Mazoti placed one more stone in the corner. The three white stones looked less lonely than two. But it was still hopeless.

As he took over the empty space in the middle, Cogo frowned and hesitated. Somehow, with his old white stones arranged into rigid ranks and columns gone, Mazoti’s new white stones achieved a kind of nimble, loose formation that defied analysis. Every time Cogo thought he had figured out a way to choke off Mazoti’s new army, the corporal managed to force a new opening. Gradually, the little group of white stones in the corner connected with one another and coalesced into a growing force.

Too late, Cogo realized that he had been too greedy and intent on claiming the middle. Mazoti’s army began to thrust into the soft underbelly of Cogo’s formations, and whenever Cogo patched up one vulnerability, Mazoti seemed to find two more. Now it was the black stones, locked into unwieldy ranks and rows with no life, that were on the run.

Clink. Mazoti placed another stone onto the board. Cogo watched helplessly as Mazoti’s army completed the march to the other corner of the board, dividing his black stones into isolated groups. Now it would only be a matter of time before the black stones would be driven into even more disarray and eliminated from the board.

Cogo put down his bowl of stones. “Lord Garu must meet you.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE. THE MARSHAL

THE TENTH MONTH IN THE FIRST YEAR OF THE PRINCIPATE.

Kuni Garu closed his mouth and acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

He bowed again. “I apologize. Miss Gin Mazoti, I’m all ears for your advice on my state.”

They sat down on the ground around the low table in mipa rari. Kuni Garu took care to pour tea for Gin.

Gin was touched. A king was serving her. Even though he knew she was a woman, he treated her just like the great strategist that she claimed to be. Perhaps this was a lord that she could serve, and serve well.

But first, she would test him again.

“Lord Garu,” she said, in the familiar manner that she knew his followers used with him. “What position will you give me?”

“How many soldiers can you lead?”

“If you give me ten men, I can make them fight like fifty. If you give me a hundred men, I can make them fight like a thousand. If you give me a thousand men, I can conquer Rui in five days.”

Kuni Garu hesitated. There was a thin line between arrogant delusion and genius, and he was inclined to think that this madwoman was closer to the former. But Cogo Yelu had never been wrong, and Kuni had learned to listen to the counsel of those he trusted.

“The more the better then?”

Gin nodded.

“Then I must make you the Marshal of Dasu.”

Gin sucked in her breath. A woman marshal was an idea that did not even exist in fairy tales. Lord Garu really was different.

“Lord Garu, I will be frank. I believe you are in a weak position. Your family is held hostage by the hegemon. You have no more than three thousand soldiers under your command, while the hegemon can call on his own fifty thousand men and fifty thousand more allied troops from the other Tiro states. You have brave commanders following you, but none of them have the capacity to make your vision come true. Most would think that you have no chance.”

Kuni Garu nodded. “Yet you believe you can defeat Mata Zyndu?”

“I cannot match him on the battlefield in single combat, and I will never be able to repeat his feat of daring in the air over Zudi. Yet Mata Zyndu is impulsive, emotional, and he relies on brute valor rather than sound tactics. He has no understanding of the art of drawing power from men’s hearts: politics.

“He can shed tears when a prized horse dies, yet he doesn’t understand how forcefully requisitioning provisions from the peasantry weakens his support.

“He has set up the new Tiro states in a haphazard fashion, rewarding the undeserving and passing over the worthy. He is like a crossbow bolt near the end of its flight: seeming strength disguising terminal fall.”

Kuni and Mazoti stayed in Cogo’s house for three days and three nights. They shared food from the same plate as they debated and slept on mattresses placed next to each other on the floor as they discussed strategy, and Kuni held the reins of the carriage personally as he drove Mazoti around Daye when they both wanted a breath of fresh air.

The palace issued a formal proclamation that King Kuni had decided to name the Marshal of Dasu. The whole army was abuzz with rumors about who it would be. Mün Çakri and Than Carucono both had supporters, and betting pools were set up.

As the army on Dasu assembled outside Daye on the auspicious day, they faced a dais with the blue-whale-on-red-sea banner flying high over it. King Kuni led the ministers and soldiers in prayer to Kiji, patron of this island, and then asked the new Marshal of Dasu to stand up.

The soldiers strained to get a good look at the new supreme commander of all Dasu forces. But they rubbed their eyes and looked again. Could it be? How was this possible?

There, on the dais, in a bright-red dress, was a woman. Not a very good-looking woman to be sure, with her shaven head and thin figure, but there could be no doubt. The new Marshal of Dasu was not a man.

King Kuni bowed down to her three times, as was dictated in the ancient rites of Tiro kings.

“I entrust the army of Dasu to you, Gin Mazoti,” said Kuni. “From this day forward, whatever you have decided about the affairs of the army, let no man, not even me, gainsay.”

He untied his sword from his belt and handed it to Gin. “I am not a noted swordsman, but this sword is a gift from a dear friend. I once slew a great white serpent with it, and it was the first weapon to make Emperor Erishi cower in fear. May this blade be as lucky in your hands as it has been in mine.” Gin bowed in jiri and accepted.

The soldiers below the dais watched the ceremony in stunned silence, but now they could no longer stay quiet.

“Soldiers of Dasu.” Gin Mazoti raised her voice to be heard above the rising murmurs. “The world will be as confused as you when they see me. And in their confusion, we will strike them down.”

Kindo Marana almost spit out his tea as he heard the news that Dasu’s new marshal was a woman.

“What’s next? Will the soldiers of Dasu now hold needlepoint classes and put on makeup before battle?” He laughed, tried to drink, and had to stop to laugh some more.

He could not imagine how this foolish Kuni Garu ever managed to get into Pan and capture Emperor Erishi. He had been lucky once, but luck would not favor him again. Kuni Garu was doomed to die on the tiny island.

Than Carucono and Mün Çakri seethed as they sat around the table.

“Gentlemen,” Gin began the meeting. “I am not so stupid as to not understand that you are unhappy with my elevation.”

Than and Mün had pressed Kuni Garu in private to explain the decision.

“We’ve followed you since the days you were a bandit!”

“What has she done? Nothing!”

But Kuni had demurred, saying only that he did not think that talent cared whether it was found in one Tiro state or another, or in men of noble or common birth, or even whether it wore a robe or a dress. This was as hard to argue against as it was unhelpful.

Than found it hard to look at and address the new marshal properly. Even sitting down, he and Mün towered over her. She looked like a woman and also not like a woman: her shaved head, her scarred face, the muscles in her arms and calloused fingers — they contrasted with her silk dress, her low voice, and her… breasts.

And she looked straight at them instead of lowering her eyes demurely.

“A woman is often weaker than a man physically,” Gin continued. “And that means she must use a different set of techniques when she wishes to overcome a stronger opponent. She must turn his strength against him, let him defeat himself by overexertion, throw him off balance. She must not be ashamed to benefit from every advantage available to her and break the rules of warfare established by men.”

Mün and Than nodded reluctantly at this. Her words, at least, did make sense.

“Dasu is far weaker than the other Tiro states and certainly than Zyndu’s Cocru. Yet our king dreams of victory and of one day, perhaps, ascending to the Imperial Throne. It seems to me that being a woman, I may have a better sense of the hard decisions that must be made to bring about Dasu’s rise from its present weakness. I cannot inspire the soldiers by my personal valor and deeds of strength, and so I will need your support and faith to put my plan into action.”

Mün and Than drank their tea. They found that they were not as angry as they had thought.

“The history books are full of examples of young commanders establishing their authority with the common soldier through terror and discipline. They would put the troops through some silly exercise and then flog or behead those judged insolent. Yet, because I’m a woman, if I were to do this I would be called a petty castrating harpy, a shrew in need of a man’s firm hand. Instead of respect I would only create resentment. Such is the way of the world.

“So, I will need your ideas and help, gentlemen, on earning the hearts of our soldiers.”

On the advice of Mün and Than, Marshal Mazoti immediately abolished the marching drills. “Being able to parade around in synchrony is useless on the battlefield,” she declared, and the assembled soldiers cheered.

Instead, training now primarily took the form of war exercises. The Dasu army was divided into operating units of various sizes. Then they were put through simulated battles involving different scenarios: assaulting a beachhead, defending or taking a fortress, preparing for an ambush in hills and forests. During the war exercises, sword blades and the tips of spears were wrapped with heavy cloth to reduce the chances of serious injury, but other than that, the officers and soldiers were encouraged to make the exercises as realistic as possible.

The new marshal told her officers that their job was not only to carry out the orders of the chain of command, but to improvise on the basis of changing battlefield conditions. Every officer, Mazoti explained, from herself all the way down to a lowly corporal leading a squad, needed to think of themselves as the head of a living organism fighting for survival, and every advantage must exploited. If that involved unorthodox tactics that broke written or unwritten laws of war, so be it. “In war, our only goal is to win.”

Mazoti held cüpa lessons and promoted the game throughout the army. Whether playing the game really improved strategic thinking or not, the effort sent a message that valor and strength alone were not enough, and had to be accompanied by tactical thinking at all levels.

The war exercises, due to their realism, took a heavy toll on the soldiers. Everyone had bruises, and more than a few men suffered broken bones as they fell into pit traps set by the opposing side. Sometimes mock battles were lost when one side was fooled by “enemies” who dressed up as civilians.

For the most part, the soldiers did not complain; they were rewarded for quick thinking and bravery during these exercises. Soldiers received bonuses or had their pay docked depending on how well they performed, and officers were promoted or demoted based on their display of tactical brilliance.

Even the most realistic war games could only do so much. To further the soldiers’ training, Mazoti sent small detachments on raiding missions to pirate havens in the islets to the far north. These skirmishes gave the men experience of real warfare that could not be obtained any other way. Whatever booty they captured they got to keep.

She wasn’t just teaching the officers and foot soldiers; she was also teaching them how to teach. The Dasu army was going to have to grow a lot if the snake was going to swallow an elephant, and she needed to install values and practices that would scale.

But training was not the only thing Mazoti focused on. The marshal also held meetings with small groups of ordinary soldiers to hear their concerns. These meetings, suggested by Than and Mün, were based on the administrative experiences of Lord Garu and Prime Minister Yelu, and they were as effective with the fighting men as they were with ordinary citizens in Zudi and Dasu. Mazoti improved the food served in the mess halls and asked Kuni to increase the pensions that would be paid to the families of those who died or were wounded in battle. After one man complained that he did not have good shoes for marching in tough terrain, Mazoti spent months studying various designs for shoes used by the other Tiro states — her army, after all, was composed of deserters from all over Dara — and made the best one standard equipment for Dasu.

Many veterans of the rebellion had come to Dasu because the other Tiro states rejected them: They had lost hands or limbs in war, and most commanders deemed them no longer useful. But thinking of Muru and the others, Kuni accepted these men into his army — if they wanted to continue their military careers — and he was prepared to debate Gin if she objected; he didn’t want to interfere with the marshal’s authority in military affairs, but this, he felt, was a matter of principle.

Somewhat to his surprise, Mazoti simply nodded when he brought up the topic.

“You’re not concerned about their less-than-perfect bodies?” he probed.

“We all have experiences that shape us,” Mazoti replied, and would say no more.

She worked with the craftsmen and inventors Cogo had recruited to Dasu to create new harnesses and mechanical devices that could replace some of the functionality of lost body parts. The tension in mechanical hands made of bamboo wrapped in cloth could be adjusted with ox sinew until the owners could wield spears effectively, and soldiers who lost a leg could recover some field mobility with spring-loaded peg legs that adjusted to the terrain automatically. These devices were expensive and had to be custom-made for each, but Mazoti considered it money well spent to extend the careers of battle-hardened veterans. In return, the veterans admired the marshal and pledged their lives to the cause of Dasu.

Lady Risana came to see the marshal.

Gin wasn’t sure what to make of the visit. She knew that Kuni’s new wife was one of his trusted advisers, and it was said that Kuni relied on her judgment when he received conflicting counsel. But Gin had only seen her dance with Kuni sometimes, after dinner. She had certainly never heard Risana express much interest in war.

To her relief, Risana did not attempt the kind of small talk that Gin dreaded. She simply stated her purpose.

“Marshal, I think you should make use of the women of Dasu.”

A large number of women had come to Dasu to seek their fortune at Kuni’s call, many with specialized skills: herbalists, cosmeticians, dancers, weavers, dressmakers, entertainers, and other tradeswomen. Some had come with husbands; others were independent and single, either by choice or having lost their families during the rebellion.

Gin was confused. “I will. A marching army draws them naturally, like carrion drawing vultures.” She was thinking of the unofficial camp followers that every army needed and had to tolerate: laundresses, cooks, prostitutes, and so on.

But Risana shook her head. “I don’t mean that.”

Gin regarded her coolly. “Few women have the strength to draw a standard bow or to wield a five-pound sword effectively. What would be the point?”

Instead of answering her, Risana walked over to the corner of Gin’s room, where a bamboo flagpole leaned against the wall. She took the pole and laid it across the gap between Gin’s desk and the windowsill. Then she leapt onto the pole, as graceful as a siskin alighting on a branch. She twirled in place on the tips of her feet; the slender bamboo pole barely dipped.

“Lightness can be an advantage,” said Risana, “especially if you need to be in the air.”

A fog seemed to dissipate from Mazoti’s vision. She imagined slender frames and lighter bodies on battle kites that soared higher, on balloons that stayed aloft longer, on airships that sailed farther and carried more weapons….

She bowed to Risana in jiri. “You have opened my eyes to an advantage that all the Tiro states have been blind to. It is inexcusable that I, of all people, could not see it.”

Risana leapt off the bamboo pole, landed, and bowed back. “Even a brilliant mind sometimes needs a dull stone to sharpen itself.”

Gin smiled at her. “But only some women will qualify for these tasks. I think you have still more suggestions.”

“The women of Dasu have many skills. An army does not need only to fight; there’s also what happens before and what happens after.”

Gin pondered this for a while. Then she nodded. “Dasu is lucky to have you as her queen.”

Besides calling for nimble and agile women who craved adventure to serve in Dasu’s air force — for now limited only to kite riding and ballooning — Marshal Mazoti also began recruiting women to serve in an auxiliary corps within the army itself.

Herbalists and dressmakers made excellent nurses and field surgeons — the herbal remedies were effective at dulling pain, and sewing silk and lace trained steady fingers for stitching wounds; cosmeticians and weavers improved battlefield camouflage; and entertainers and dancers devised new marching songs and battle hymns that would raise morale and spread the message of Kuni’s vision. Adding women meant more hands to repair and maintain armor, more fingers trained as bowyers and fletchers, more bodies and minds to take up the endless tasks that needed to be done in an army.

The women auxiliaries also took part in and advised on other tasks that men carried out: the herbalists made suggestions to the cooks so that a healthier diet could be adopted to prevent diseases common to marching armies; the dressmakers and weavers shared tips with the armorers to improve the production of armor, leggings, shoes, and so on.

Besides these noncombat duties, Gin also gave the women auxiliaries basic combat training so that they could protect themselves or act as emergency reinforcements in a pinch. If others did not expect them to be capable of fighting, that would give Dasu an advantage.

Slowly but surely, jokes about Marshal Mazoti became affectionate rather than dismissive. When officers saluted her, there was now real respect in their eyes.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO. THE DANDELION RIPENS

DASU: THE SIXTH MONTH IN THE SECOND YEAR OF THE PRINCIPATE.

Now that it had been a year since Kuni Garu had come to Dasu, Cogo was finally beginning to see the fruits of his efforts at attracting men (and women) of talent to the island. Rumors spread all over Dara that in Dasu, a hardworking man could count on light taxes and fair laws and that interesting ideas would get a fair hearing, and even a woman would be treated with respect and given a chance to prove the worth of her thoughts.

Many came: inventors with new contraptions, warriors of great strength, magicians claiming new knowledge, herbalists with novel recipes, entertainers with fresh acts — Cogo welcomed them all and tried to sift through the charlatans for nuggets of gold.

“A method for converting base lead into gold,” an alchemist with white hair and a beard that hung to the ground proclaimed. “But I’ll need a great deal of funding to build a laboratory.”

Cogo nodded and politely invited the alchemist to stay in Dasu and raise money from private sources. Next.

“A mixture of potent herbs that will soften stones so that they crumble at the touch,” an old woman from Faça explained. “I’ve been putting on magic shows with it for years.”

“Have you tried to approach miners with this?” asked Cogo.

The old woman nodded. “The mine owners tell me they’re not interested since they can find plenty of men willing to break their backs wielding the pickax and hammer.”

“Not to mention firework powder,” said Cogo.

“But firework powder requires saltpeter, the supply of which is limited, not to mention that firework powder is extremely dangerous. I know there’s potential in this, if developed properly.”

Cogo wasn’t sure what potential she was thinking of, but at least it didn’t sound completely useless. “We would be honored to have you stay with us as the king’s guest.”

“A method for extracting energy from volcanic heat,” a middle-aged man with only one arm said. “I have a prototype that draws on the heat of the earth to boil water, and the resulting steam can be directed to turn a wheel.”

Cogo wasn’t sure how this could be useful, but it seemed interesting. He politely invited the man to stay in Daye and build a prototype for demonstration.

“A treatise on the relationship of the gods to mankind, and how the proper model for the state may be derived from the pattern of rivers and winds,” a young scholar with eyes full of zeal declared. “I will require the king’s undivided attention.”

Cogo’s eyes glazed over as he unrolled the manuscript scroll. The raised logograms were elaborate and painted in color, and the zyndari letters were as dense as flies on honey. He rolled up the manuscript carefully and offered the man a free meal. “King Kuni is somewhat preoccupied with lesser matters,” he said. “But I have a feeling that the hegemon would be extremely appreciative of such a work. I can write you a letter of introduction.”

It was a very busy time in Daye.

Luan Zya came to Dasu dejected and tired.

“I have some things I’d like to discuss with King Kuni,” he said to Cogo, who welcomed him. “But don’t tell him I’ve arrived yet.”

“It’s just as well. The king is away temporarily with Lady Risana to speak with some of the elders on the eastern tip of the island.”

“I see the king is as interested as ever in the details of administration. Would that the other Tiro kings were as diligent.”

“But you and the king are old friends,” Cogo said. “Why don’t you want to go see him right away?”

“It is true that we’re old friends,” Luan said. “But this time, I come not for friendship.”

“Ah,” said Cogo, finally understanding. “You have decided that you may wish to serve him.”

“And what better way to judge a lord’s worth than to get to know his followers first?”

“Then I will introduce you to the marshal.”

Luan appraised Gin’s clean-shaven head, the scars on her face that matched his own, her thin but strong arms. Her clean and simple dress fit her sleek and muscular frame well. She was like a wild lynx, all energy and fury under tight control. He liked her.

“Yes, I’m a woman,” Gin said, since Luan was staring. “You’re surprised?”

Luan chuckled. “Forgive me. I had heard the rumors, but it’s difficult to know how much to believe of such reports. Though considering how long I’ve known King Kuni, nothing should surprise me. When I told him my plan to ride the crubens through Amu Strait, he was the one who assured me that the plan wasn’t crazy.”

They grabbed each other by the elbows, and each felt the heat of the other’s hands through the thin sleeves. Gin was pleased that Luan’s grip was strong. He did not condescend to her.

Over the next few days, Gin took him to observe some of the war exercises, and Luan was impressed. He had never seen training done this way in any of the armies of Dara.

He showed Gin some plans he had devised for constructing siege machinery with more portable components for ease of assembly and transportation; Gin immediately pointed out their flaws — Luan might be intelligent, but designing machines on paper was very different from making them real and useful in the field.

Luan looked dejected.

“Well,” Gin said gruffly. “The basic ideas are not bad. I can probably help you make them work.”

Then Cogo took Luan to see some of the more interesting inventions he had saved for Kuni to evaluate, and Luan grew excited also and discussed their virtues with Cogo.

Evenings, the three stayed up late conversing, drinking, and singing in the little house that passed for a palace in Daye. Their laughter and voices were harmonious, the sound of people who admired and respected one another as consummate craftsmen in their distinct realms. The torches cast their flickering shadows against the paper window of the little house, and it seemed sometimes as though they were three spirits, three dancing pillars that held up the roof of the palace.

“Lord Garu, in a thousand years, how do you think people will remember Emperor Mapidéré?”

Coming from someone else, it would have been an invitation to repeat the universal condemnation of a tyrant. But Luan Zya was not an ordinary man.

“I’ve changed my mind many times on this question,” Kuni admitted. “It’s easy to say that he was a tyrant who did nothing good. But it would also be untrue. I was a provincial boy, and yet I got to see some of the wonders of all the old Tiro states because of his forceful resettlement of people all across Dara.

“We talk often of the hundreds of thousands who died in Mapidéré’s wars, but we rarely speak of the many lives that might have been lost had he not stopped the incessant petty wars between the Tiro states. We talk often of the many who were forced to labor in his Mausoleum, but we rarely speak of the many who would have died from diseases or starvation without the reservoirs and roads he built. Only the gods know if the emphases and omissions in our histories will sway the opinions of men down the ages. A man’s legacy is a hard thing to foresee, especially when passions still run hot, and it is so much easier to speak ill than well.”

Luan nodded. They sat next to each other, and before them was a great bonfire on the beach of Daye and the endless darkness beyond of the open ocean. Above them the stars blinked in the pristine sky like the eyes of the gods.

“Things are rarely simple when it comes to judging a man who did much to change the world.” Luan took a long puff on his pipe, collecting his thoughts. “You’re right that the passage of years has a way of changing minds. When the first Ano settlers, refugees of the sunken Western Continent, arrived in Dara, all these islands were inhabited by natives like the people of Tan Adü. To the Adüans, our founding fathers were murderers and tyrants of no redeeming value. Yet today we walk on land they conquered and celebrate festivals that they brought with them. And few of us stop to reflect on the blood debt all of us owe.

“Emperor Mapidéré justified his wars by arguing that he would unify all the squabbling Tiro states under one throne and turn all swords into plowshares. Indeed, he even sought to confiscate all weapons after the Unification, melt them down, and construct from the metal eight statues of the gods to be placed at the center of Pan. That effort was abandoned in the end as too difficult, though many thought he merely wanted to remove the ability of the populace to resist the state with force.

“But the emperor’s words were not mere self-serving propaganda. Many scholars in Xana and the other Tiro states supported his vision of peace through unification and conquest. The bloody, endless wars between the Tiro states, spurred by the invention of ever more powerful weapons and larger armies, frightened many, and it was thought that a war to end all wars might be preferable to the interminable attrition due to a balance of powers.

“Had Mapidéré patiently spent more time on consolidating his rule, rather than pursuing the mirage of immortality; had he focused more effort on just administration and lasting institutions, rather than megalomaniacal engineering projects — it’s possible that the empire would have survived more than two generations. Had that been the case, in another hundred years, men who remember the old Tiro states would have all passed into death, and the new generations would have known nothing but a unified peace under Xana. Memories of the death and suffering caused by wars do not last beyond three generations, and people would remember Emperor Mapidéré fondly, as a visionary, a lawgiver who gave us peace.”

Kuni Garu threw more wood on the fire. “You are a heretic, Luan. Few dare to think such thoughts.”

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m mad. I spent my entire life seeking revenge against Mapidéré, trying to restore the independent Tiro states, to break apart what he fused together. But when the moment of victory finally arrived, I found myself mourning him because I had spent so much time studying him that I understood him better than his own ministers and children. I may have helped to bring about the fall of Xana, but Mapidéré, in some way, managed to bring about the fall of my convictions.

“After you came to Dasu, I went back to Haan to help King Cosugi to rebuild. I worked tirelessly to build up Haan’s strength, but everywhere I looked, there was only the rise of old conflicts and ancient enmity. When Emperor Mapidéré conquered Haan, he had deposed the old nobles and elites from power, and in their place he had put in a new elite of bureaucrats and merchants who prospered. When King Cosugi returned, he took the new elites out and moved the old elites in. Those who were politically astute profited, while others lost all they had. Yet, for most people — the fishermen, the peasants, the prostitutes and beggars and longshoremen — life did not change. They went on suffering as they had before: Officials remained corrupt, tax collectors stayed cruel, the corvée assignments were still onerous, and the threat of war ever present.

“I heard a children’s song in Haan:

When Haan falls, the people suffer.

When Haan rises, the people suffer.

When Haan is poor, the people are poor.

When Haan is rich, the people are poor.

When Haan is strong, the people die.

When Haan is weak, the people die.”

“Whatever the nobles and kings say they believe in, they always treat the people as mere stones on the cüpa board,” Kuni said.

There was no irony in his speech. In his heart, he still thought of himself as a commoner, a man who had nothing to his name and had to beg his friends for a place to sleep.

Luan looked directly at him, his eyes blazing in the reflected light of the bonfire. “King Cosugi did not see anything wrong with the new draft to raise an army to reconquer old Haan territories from North Géfica, the new corvée to rebuild the Palace of Ginpen, the new taxes to pay for a grand coronation.

“I went to the ruins of my ancestral estate and prayed to the soul of my departed father. Though I thought I had accomplished what I promised him on the day of his death, my heart was not at peace.

“As the moon rose, I saw the light illuminate an ancient quote from the Ano Classics, carved into one of the broken lintels: ‘All life is an experiment.’”

“A fitting quote for a scholar of Haan,” said Kuni.

Luan smiled. “A fitting quote for any man or woman of Dara. I understood then that I had been lacking in my vision. I thought my duty was to restore Haan, but Haan is not King Cosugi or the burned-down palace or the ruins of the great estates or the dead nobles and their descendants pining for glory — these are but parts of an experiment at a way of life for the people of Haan, her true essence. When the experiment has proven to be a failure, one must be willing to try new paths, new ways of doing things.

“I could not bear to walk on my old path, a path that did not serve the people of Haan, any longer. That is why I came to you.

“For Mata Zyndu, there is no law but the use of force, no higher ideal than martial glory. And the world he created is a mirror of his mind. When King Thufi died ‘mysteriously’ on the way to Écofi, rumor had it that his last words were: ‘I should have remained a shepherd.’

“The rebellion was supposed to usher in a more just world, and yet nothing really changed.”

Kuni looked back at Luan, his heart quickening. “Do you think we are words written on a page by the gods, and that there will always be rich and poor, the powerful and the powerless, noble and commoner? Do you think that all our dreams are doomed to forever fail?”

Luan stood up and walked steadily toward the ocean. His dark figure shimmered through the dancing flames, and his voice blended with the roar of the fire. “I refuse to believe in the futility of change, because I have seen how the lowly dandelion, with time and patience, can crack the strongest paving stone. Lord Garu, will you complete the dream of Emperor Mapidéré, but avoid his mistakes? Can you unite the Islands of Dara under one crown and bring about lasting peace, while lessening the burden of the people?”

Lady Risana had quietly appeared out of the dark night to join them by the fire. Noiselessly, she sat by Kuni and put her hand on his shoulder. Her hands flickered in the firelight, and Kuni again felt a clarity of mind and a willingness to speak difficult truths. He was not perfect; he was not a god; he would accept that.

“I don’t know how to answer you, Luan. I’ve always told myself I loved the people, but how can I speak of love when I can’t even raise my own children? I’ve always told myself I’m a compassionate lord, but how can I speak of compassion when I’ve killed so many and betrayed so many others?

“I cannot say that I’m a good man, only that I’m a man who tried to do good. I like to believe that the people will remember me fondly, but I also know that the legacies of men cannot be foreseen during their lifetimes. I do not know if I’m the man who will complete the task you dream of, for that is a question that must be asked of our descendants in a thousand years.”

Luan laughed. “Lord Garu, this is why I serve you. The right path is not revealed to us by the gods or ancient sages, but must be found by ourselves through experimentation. You are uncertain, and in your uncertainty you will always seek to ask questions rather than believing yourself to possess all the answers. An ant who rides a dandelion seed will land wherever the seed lands. Men of talent will be judged in the light of the legacies of those they served.”

“Géüdéü co loteré ma, pirufénrihua nélo. All life is an experiment,” Kuni said. “We are all swallows flying in the storm, and if we should land safely, it will be due to equal measures of luck and skill.”

In the silence, Risana began to sing an old Classical Ano song:

The Four Placid Seas are as wide as the years are long.

A wild goose flies over a pond, leaving behind a voice in the wind.

A man passes through this world, leaving behind a name.

The three of them sat quietly around the fire, until the flame burned itself out and dawn arrived.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE. FIRST STRIKE

RUI: THE SEVENTH MONTH IN THE THIRD YEAR OF THE PRINCIPATE.

For more than a year now, the reports from the airships’ surveillance flyovers of Dasu remained much the same. Gin Mazoti went on holding her strange war games instead of drilling the soldiers, and Cogo went on building new fisheries, roads, bridges, and other meaningless things that had no military use.

As far as Kindo Marana could tell, Kuni Garu was content to remain on Dasu, more like a gardener cultivating his plot than an ambitious warlord plotting military adventures.

But recently, his spies reported that Mazoti seemed to be up to something. On the southern coast of Dasu, right across the Dasu Channel from Rui, two hundred men were seen building ships. Their progress was slow, as they were shorthanded and among them there was no skilled shipwright. Marana intensified surveillance flights over the site. Mazoti seemed to be pushing her workers hard, and the airships reported witnessing workers being whipped.

A Dasu soldier even defected to Rui by stealing a tiny fishing boat and rowing over. Kindo Marana interrogated the man himself.

“Gin Mazoti is a cruel and heartless woman,” the soldier, whose name was Luwen, told Marana. “She’s ordered us to build twenty transport ships within three months. When I told her that this was impossible, she had me strung up by my thumbs and whipped until I fainted.” Luwen lifted his shirt to show the whipping scars on his back, and even Marana winced at the sight.

“She said that if her orders were not carried out, I would be executed on the last day of her three-month schedule. I had no choice but to desert.”

Marana shook his head. Just like a woman, full of wishful thinking and no understanding of the scale of things. Did she think that building a heavy transport ship was like raising a barn? Two hundred men in three months would not even finish two transport ships, let alone twenty. Kuni Garu was a fool to trust his army to this woman, and it appeared that she was capable only of venting her rage on hapless soldiers, not planning logically.

He ordered Luwen be given a good meal and be seen by a doctor.

It was midnight, and the people of the tiny village of Phada, on the northern coast of Rui, were asleep.

A great explosion woke them. As they scrambled out of their houses, they saw a sight that seemed to come out of a myth. A great crater had opened in the ground, and out of the hole, men in full armor emerged, their swords drawn.

Kindo Marana was awoken by his chatelain. The sound of alarm was everywhere.

“Sire, the Dasu army has surrounded Kriphi.”

Marana could not understand what he was being told. How could Mazoti have constructed so many ships so quickly? And even if she managed to do so, how could they have crossed the Dasu Channel unchallenged, as the channel was patrolled by Marana’s ships?

He dressed and ascended the city walls to see for himself.

“Kindo Marana!” Gin Mazoti shouted up at him in the torchlight. “Surrender. We have taken over the air base at Mount Kiji. All the other garrisons on Rui have surrendered, and you’re alone.”

SIX MONTHS EARLIER.

While Marana’s airships crisscrossed the skies of Dasu and his navy patrolled the Dasu Channel, men were hard at work below them, under the sea, beneath the seafloor.

Emperor Mapidéré’s vision of the Grand Tunnels had been long abandoned. The half-finished tunnels, deep holes into the earth that terminated at dead ends, could be found all over the islands. Over the years, weather, erosion, and flooding turned most of them into deep wells, mute relics of a bygone age.

The entrance to the aborted tunnel from Dasu to Rui was located several miles down the shore from Mazoti’s makeshift shipyard, where two hundred men put on a show that drew the attention of Marana’s airships.

Meanwhile, a grain storage depot had been built over the abandoned shaft of the tunnel, and carriages could be seen pulling into the depot and then leaving, apparently to gather more goods from the rest of the island. Marana’s airships took note of the activity but attributed it to merely another effort to stockpile grain against a lean year.

The airships could not see that the carriages entering the depot were much lighter than the ones that left it. They were not carrying things into the depot but away from it. Instead of grain, the carts carried dirt, rocks, and earth excavated from under the sea.

Luan Zya had combed through the strange inventions gathered by Cogo Yelu and found a few of particular interest. One was a method of splitting stone. Water mixed with certain salts extracted from herbs gathered and prepared by the inventor, an old Faça herbalist, could be poured onto stone surfaces, where the paste would seep into the cracks, large and small. After the rock had been stewed in this brine for a while, a second, different solution of salts would then be poured over the rock, and where the two mixtures came into contact, crystals formed.

Like ice in winter, millions of tiny crystals growing in the cracks exerted a force that pried granite and schist apart, and made solid walls of rock as soft as cheese.

The second invention that Luan Zya selected was a way to pump air with a hand-cranked bellows into a sealed tank of water until the water, under great pressure, shot out of a hose. The pressurized stream of water could be focused to strike at any surface with great force. When this water was brought to bear on the rocks softened with the mixture of salts, the rocks crumbled like wet sand.

The combination of these two inventions allowed tunneling through deep rock at speeds that were impossible to conceive. Best of all, it required no use of firework powder, and so was safe and undetectable by surveying airships.

For six months, the Dasu army toiled in secret, completing the dream of Emperor Mapidéré to build a path between Dasu and Rui that went under the sea.

RUI: THE SEVENTH MONTH IN THE THIRD YEAR OF THE PRINCIPATE.

The shipyard was only a decoy, Kindo Marana thought. I was fooled by a simple trick.

He had always been a careful man, but he was too focused on what could be seen and measured, what could be marked down in the notebooks of scouts flying over Dasu. He had been caught by what lay beneath the numbers, hidden by the appearance of superficiality, under the ocean waves.

He imagined the Dasu army emerging from beneath the sea, an endless stream of men erupting onto the surface like a fresh lava flow. It was a trick that he himself had used on Wolf’s Paw against the hesitating General Roma. Mazoti was not above copying her enemy’s successes.

It felt like an unworthy loss, as though someone had taken advantage of a loophole in the tax code.

Luwen, the surrendered Dasu soldier, made his way next to Marana.

“We were both fooled,” Kindo said. “You were just a pawn in her game. She whipped you not because she needed you to work harder, but to hide her real plans.”

Luwen grinned at him. Marana looked back, and his face fell as he finally understood.

With one quick stroke, Luwen lopped off Marana’s head. Then he leapt from the wall, holding aloft the head by its hair.

The Dasu soldiers below the wall had been prepared and caught Luwen safely with a taut cloth stretched out on poles. Mayhem and confusion reigned on the walls of Kriphi, and commanders still recovering from the shock of King Kindo’s death debated whether to immediately surrender or try to negotiate for better terms.

Marshal Mazoti walked up to the man getting off the stretched canvas trampoline.

“Welcome back, Daf.”

Daf cracked a smile. “How hard it is to foresee how life will turn out. Back when our corvée gang joined the rebellion, my brother and I thought we’d never be whipped again.”

Mazoti clasped him by his arms. “Lord Garu and I will not forget your sacrifices. I hope your wounds have healed.”

News of the conquest of Rui by Dasu ripped through the Islands of Dara like a tsunami. Mazoti was only the second opponent to ever triumph over the great Kindo Marana. The other Tiro states, already craving war, began to fight, intuiting that the hegemon would be distracted by the Dasu victory and not pay attention while they fought over more territories.

Zyndu immediately ordered King Cosugi of Haan and King Théca of North Géfica to increase their vigilance and send out their navies to aid the remnants of Marana’s navy in a blockade of Dasu and Rui. He did not bother sending out a messenger to demand an explanation from Garu. What was there to explain? Garu, the man he once thought of as his brother, had rebelled against the hegemon. It was proof of his original treachery at Pan; he was a betrayer through and through.

Dasu still had no navy to speak of. Rui was also much farther away from the Big Island than Dasu was from Rui, so Mazoti’s tunneling trick would not work a second time. Just like Mata Zyndu was once trapped on Wolf’s Paw, he would now trap Kuni on Rui. It was still an island prison, just a bigger one.

But he would go visit Kuni’s family.

Mira wandered the streets of Çaruza aimlessly. She browsed at the market stalls — she had enough money to buy anything she wanted, but nothing appealed to her. She was simply stalling for time, not willing to go back to the palace. At least here, in the streets, with the right dress, she could be anonymous and pretend to be just another Cocru lady of sophistication, instead of—

Instead of what?

She was angry with herself, with Mata, with the courtiers and ladies-in-waiting and the countless servants who surrounded the hegemon. Since coming back from Pan to Çaruza, her position had grown only more awkward. What was she? She still oversaw the preparation of Mata’s meals and tidied his bedchamber, but ministers and couriers called her Lady Mira. Mata had not asked her to come to his bed, and yet everyone seemed to assume that she already visited it with regularity.

I suppose I should ask to go home.

But she never made such a request. Now that she had seen the world, had become used to being in the company of kings and dukes and generals, she wasn’t sure if she could tolerate the cold glances of the villagers back home, who would still speak of her as being “from away.”

It was true that, as she walked through the streets of this metropolis, Mata’s men followed her from afar, keeping her in sight, but she knew it wasn’t because she was their prisoner. Mata had said that he would take care of her, and he would keep that promise wherever she wanted to be. They were there to protect her, because they believed that the hegemon’s enemies might try to harm him through injury to her.

Are they right? Is that how he feels about me?

In truth, she wasn’t sure how she felt about Mata either — indeed, she wasn’t sure if she knew him at all, even after all this time. He was unfailingly polite to her and inquired after her well-being every day. Whatever she wanted, he tried to satisfy her.

Once, she mentioned that she missed her old home, and a few days later, she found her old hut — which her parents and Mado and she had shared back in the Isle of Vines — in the palace courtyard in front of her chambers: every foundation stone, every wooden slat, every layer of wall-mud was in place, and the roof had been freshly thatched. Inside, every piece of furniture, every dented pot, every chipped cup and bowl and plate had been moved over and placed exactly the way she had left them on the day she set out to search for Mado.

Another time, she made an offhand remark that she found the singing of birds pleasant, and the next day, she awoke to a magnificent chorus of birdsong. Walking out, she found her little courtyard filled with hundreds of cages hanging from tree branches, in which songbirds from every corner of the Islands of Dara were guided by dozens of handlers to sing in harmony.

“When will the announcement of the auspicious day be?” The ladies-in-waiting tittered and giggled. “Do not forget us when you’ve been formally elevated!” They were sitting around Mira’s guest hall, keeping her company as they did their embroidery.

Mira refused to pretend that she didn’t know what they were talking about. “The hegemon has been kind to me out of consideration for the service my brother provided to him. I would ask you to not to dishonor him or me with gossip of nonexistent things.”

“So you’re the one holding out? Why? Do you want him to promise to make you First Consort?”

Mira put down her hoop. “Do not continue in this vein. I have not been plotting or scheming, as you seem to think. There is simply no fire where you imagine smoke.”

“You should seize an opportunity that all the women of Cocru pray for. The hegemon is in love! Everyone can see that. “

But am I?

She had left the palace in a foul mood. Everyone seemed to want to tell her what she should be doing. She tried to clear her mind by walking about the streets.

Sometimes she thought she saw him as her brother must have seen him: a man elevated above others by his own qualities, a dyran among mere fish. Sometimes she thought she saw him as just a lonely man, peerless, but also friendless. Sometimes she thought her heart ached for him, and if he asked her to join him, she thought she would.

But then she would remember her brother’s body wrapped in the shroud. She would remember that Mata had not even recognized her brother’s name.

She had dreams in which Mado was alive again:

Sister, has General Zyndu now made the world just and right?

She tried to avoid having to answer, tried to hide from him the fact that the world was still at war, that Mata had not made the lives of men and women in Tunoa better, that Mata had not even known who he was.

But of course, in the end, she had to tell him everything, and as his face fell into stony disappointment, she would wake up, her heart so weighed down with pain and sorrow that it was hard to breathe.

She had come to the end of the row of stalls, and she sighed, thinking she would cross the street and browse aimlessly through the other side.

“Lady Mira, a moment, please.”

Mira saw that the speaker was a beggar wearing a bright-white cape. He smiled at her. “It’s been a while.”

She backed up a step. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t move. “I have something for you.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Mata’s guards are watching us from a distance,” the beggar said. “If I move up to you, they’ll interpret it as a threat, and I may never get a chance to see you again. Please, for Mado’s sake, step closer.”

The mention of her brother’s name softened her. She took a step toward the strange beggar. He handed her a small bundle wrapped in cloth.

“What is it?”

“It’s called Cruben’s Thorn. Mata once almost died from it; I’m hoping you’ll succeed where the first owner failed.”

Mira almost dropped the bundle. “Get away from me.”

“Mata is too skilled to be killed on the battlefield,” said the beggar. “And so he must die from a blade he does not expect. I ask you to consider this not because of the thousands who have died needlessly in his wars or the thousands more who will die if he is not stopped. I ask you to consider only your brother and whether the Mata you know is the Mata he thought he knew.”

“How can I dishonor the memory of my brother by plotting against the man he died for?”

The beggar chuckled. “Lady Mira, your answer gives me hope, for you have not denied me by recourse to any of the qualities of the hegemon, but by appealing to the memory of your brother. Your heart is not his, despite what others may think.”

“If you don’t leave immediately, I’ll cry out for help.”

The beggar took a step back. “Peace. Permit an old man just a few more words.

“I always thought your brother the braver man. He was afraid, and yet he fought. He risked his life without the promise of certain glory and the arrogance of long, distinguished lineage. He thought he was fighting for a better world, not one in which a new tyrant simply replaced an old one. Think of your dreams — oh, yes, I know of your dreams, even if you haven’t told anyone. Think about what dishonors his memory more: that Mata dies or that Mata sits comfortably on his throne, a throne built on the bones of your brother and others like him.

“See him for who he really is, Mira. That is all I ask.”

And the beggar turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Mira alone with the bundle. Without unwrapping it, she could feel the rough handle and the sharp, thornlike blade.

Some want me to marry him; others want me to kill him. They all think they can use me. My only worth to them is my proximity to him.

But I don’t even know who he is. How can I decide what I want?

Mata led his guards to the house of Jia, just outside of Çaruza. He would avenge this act of rebellion and treachery by the ruthless Kuni, whose ambition couldn’t even be contained by the threat to his family. Jia and the children would pay for Kuni’s sins.

But a middle-aged woman stood at the door of Jia’s house and refused to let the guards in. She held up a jeweled pin in the shape of the chrysanthemum arms of the Zyndu Clan and asked to speak to Mata Zyndu. As the pin was clearly old and precious, the guards did not force their way past her but sent a report back to the hegemon.

Mata went up to the madwoman.

“Do you recognize me, Mata?”

Mata Zyndu stared at her. In her lined face he could see shades of Phin Zyndu and of himself.

“I am your aunt, Soto Zyndu.”

Mata cried out in joy and opened his arms to embrace her. Since the death of Phin, he had been plagued by dreams where his uncle rebuked him for his failure to give family loyalty its proper place. He was the last of the Zyndus, alone and filled with guilt. The sudden appearance of his aunt seemed to him a sign from the gods, a second chance for him to do right by his family.

But she pushed him away.

“There has been far too much killing, Mata. You’re consumed by aggrieved pride. All your life, you’ve held to certain ideals about loyalty, honor, just deserts. When the world turned out not to be quite as black and white as you would like, you decided that the world must be remade.

“You are, in your own way, a lot like Emperor Mapidéré. You are both men who, because one path is not smooth, declare that the entire garden must be paved over with flagstones.”

Mata Zyndu was stunned. “What kind of comparison is this? Have you forgotten our family’s history?”

Soto shook her head emphatically. “You’re the one who misunderstands history. Because decades ago Gotha Tonyeti buried alive twenty thousand men of Cocru under your grandfather’s command, you believed you had to drown twenty thousand men of Xana, men who were not even born when that atrocity happened—”

“I had to appease an angry god—”

“Excuses! Do you think your grandfather never killed an innocent? Do you think his father fought only honorable wars? Do you want to see your outrage repeated in twenty more years on the boys of Cocru? Blood always begets more blood—”

“The joy of our reunion is spoiled by your harsh words, Aunt! How did you survive?”

“When Grandfather Dazu died, I locked the doors of our house in the country and set fire to it so that I could follow him to the afterworld. But the gods had other plans for me, and I survived, unconscious, in a space formed by falling stone beams and columns. I have hidden all these years, living in obscurity, trying to atone in some small measure for the sins of the men of the Zyndu Clan.

“I came to serve this family because of the compassion of its lord and lady. I wanted to see if the great lords can take another path.

“You once called Kuni your brother, yet now you would do violence to his wife and children. Ambition has made you mad. Stop this, Mata. No more.”

“Kuni Garu has killed just as I have,” Mata Zyndu said, his voice equal parts grief and rage. “I’ve done what I could to restore order to the world and to bring glory to the Zyndu name. Kuni is a mouse who steals my table scraps. He is unworthy of your protection. Come back to the palace with me, Aunt, and live in splendor again.”

But Soto shook her head. “If you harm a woman and her children in vengeance, then no valor will ever cleanse you of that bloody stain. I’ll not allow you to soil the Zyndu name in such a manner. If you wish to harm them, you must kill me first.”

Soto gently closed the door in Mata Zyndu’s face. It would have been easy for Mata to smash the door open with his bare hands, but he stood in front of the door for a long while without moving.

He thought back to his childhood with Phin, to the tales Phin told of his heroic ancestors. He thought of Princess Kikomi and the death of his uncle. He thought of the happy drinking parties he had with Kuni and his friends. He thought of Mira and Mado.

Finally, he turned around and gazed across the beach, across the dark sea, to the invisible isles of Tunoa beyond the waves. He sighed and walked away with his guards.

“Lady Soto, would you come and have some tea with the mistress?” Steward Otho Krin asked.

Once she had revealed her identity, of course Jia could no longer permit Soto to be treated as a servant. Soto had tried to ignore Jia and continue her work in the house, but the other servants treated her as a great lady, and Soto had to concede defeat. She now lived as a guest of the Garu household, Jia’s companion.

Soto followed the steward through the halls. The children were taking a nap, and it was pleasant to sit in the courtyard, filled with the sweet smell of plum flowers and the buzzing of industrious bees.

Otho brought the tea set. He knelt, placed the tray on the table, gently touched Jia on the shoulder, and whispered to her. Jia put her hand on his for a moment. He stood up, smiled at her, and respectfully backed away from the two.

“Soto, did Mata reply to your request that I be allowed to visit my parents and my father-in-law?”

“Not yet. Right now, he’s preoccupied with the wars between the Tiro states.”

“But we can both guess that the answer is probably going to be no. The smart thing to do is to continue to keep me and the children as prisoners and bargaining chips right here.”

Soto sipped her tea. “True. Though your plan was worth a try. You’re getting to be as crafty as your husband.”

Jia laughed. “I can’t hide anything from you. It did seem to me that I might be able to connect with more of Kuni’s old followers in Zudi if I was allowed to leave.”

“You would have had a better chance if you had gotten your parents or Kuni’s father to manufacture some sickness or death in the family — Mata respects the old traditions and would have probably permitted you to go in mourning. If you want to succeed in future palace politics, you’re going to have to think through your moves more.”

Jia blushed. Soto had a sharp eye and a sharper tongue, but Jia actually found her to be a kindred soul. Jia had abandoned life as a wealthy merchant’s daughter to marry a man who seemed to have no future, and Soto had left a life as a great hereditary lady to live as someone else’s maid. They both knew something about adapting to the vagaries of life. Soto’s criticism was well meant: She had decided to become a political wife, hadn’t she? Then she needed to adapt to its requirements, both pleasant and unpleasant.

Soto had saved her life and the lives of the children, and Jia was grateful for that. But Soto was also full of secrets. Today, Jia was determined to dig into them.

“Do you sometimes wish,” Jia said, “that Mata would win instead of Kuni? He’s family, after all.”

“I don’t know what it means for someone to win in this, Lady Jia. Whatever happens, a great many people will suffer. But I do think that Kuni will be gentler on this world than Mata.”

“Is that all? Do you not wish to gain an advantage for yourself?”

Soto put down her teacup. “Speak plainly, Lady Jia.”

“You told Kuni who you were before he left, didn’t you?”

Soto gazed at Jia, utterly amazed.

“Kuni is a gambler, but he’s not reckless, and he would not endanger me or our children with an invasion of Rui unless he knew of a way to keep us safe. He must have known who you were before he went to war. Did you make some kind of bargain with him? Mata would not take kindly to women meddling in politics, but Kuni is far more flexible.”

Soto chuckled. “I see that I’ve been trying to give advice to a mind already subtle. You’re right that I told Kuni my secret so that he would feel free to make his move when the time was right.”

“And you kept the secret from me because you weren’t sure I could continue to act the part of the proper hostage. If I grew too confident or bold in my dealings with the hegemon, he might have suspected that I was no longer afraid of him, and thus deprived Kuni of the cover of my being essentially at his mercy.”

Soto nodded. “Forgive me for my deception, Lady Jia. I had always hoped you would be a force, but I wasn’t sure if you were ready. I assure you, though, that I do not wish to become a puppeteer behind Kuni’s throne. What I said to Mata is the truth: I believe there must be an end to the killings, and Kuni is far more likely than Mata to achieve that vision.”

“How did Kuni win you over?”

“You won me over for him; and during his visit, his actions and words confirmed that he’s a lord worthy of my loyalty.”

“You didn’t suspect us of just acting? Great lords are often good at theater, as in the stories you tell the children.”

Soto considered this. “If it’s a mask, it’s a very good mask. How can you ever truly know the heart of someone? You and your husband are both natural actors, but if you’re performing, you’ve kept up that performance for your servants, for the powerless, for the low and base. Sometimes there is no distinction between the role and the player.”

Jia gazed at her. “No more secrets, Lady Soto. I want at least one real friend in the palace. As you said, I have much to learn about politics, and there will be more of it in the future.”

Soto nodded. She and Jia continued to drink tea, talking of inconsequential things.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR. THE CRUBEN IN DEEP SEA

ÇARUZA: THE FIRST MONTH IN THE FOURTH YEAR OF THE PRINCIPATE.

By throwing out everything that added weight — armor, weapons, extra provisions and water, even the mattresses in the sleeping quarters for the crew — Marshal Mazoti turned a few of the airships captured from Mount Kiji into sleek speedsters. True to the vision she and Risana had shared, Mazoti staffed them with all-women crews.

Unmatched in speed and maneuverability, these airships evaded the hegemon’s airships and flew all over the Islands of Dara; their heavier pursuers were slower and could not stay aloft for as long.

As they flew over the cities, Dasu airships dropped leaflets denouncing Mata Zyndu for his sins: the Massacre at Dimu, the Slaughter of Prisoners at Wolf’s Paw, the Destruction of Surrendered and Peaceful Pan, the Betrayal of the Promise of Just Rewards for Rebel Leaders, the Usurpation of the Throne of Cocru, the Murder of King Thufi…

The self-righteous tone, the lurid language, the manipulative illustrations — these had troubled Kuni when Cogo Yelu first presented them.

“The facts in these accusations may be true, but why do we have to tell them as if they are stories whispered in teahouses?”

“Sire,” Cogo said, “this is the only way to get the common people to be interested.”

“I know that. But this seems… too much. We’ve done some things that we are not proud of either, and we may yet commit more sins in the future. If we denounce Mata like this, people will think us hypocrites.”

“Hypocrisy troubles only the unrighteous,” said Rin Coda.

Kuni was unpersuaded, but he always listened to counsel.

He nodded reluctantly.

Torulu Pering, who had more than a little experience fighting against airships, came up with a plan.

As one of the Dasu ships headed for Çaruza, Pering ordered Cocru airships near the capital to lay a trap. They took off from the airfield at the last possible minute and plotted an intercept course from the east. This allowed them to take advantage of the rising sun that temporarily blinded the Dasu ship’s pilot. By the time the Dasu ship realized the danger, the Cocru ships would be too close. They’d have to engage in an air fight, and the Dasu airship, lightly armed and outnumbered, would be no match.

But it was deep winter, and just as the ships were about to let loose their volleys of flaming arrows, a heavy, punishing storm of freezing rain began to fall. As the ice sheets thickened on the hulls, the weight gradually pulled all the ships down. The Dasu ship was going to have to land, even though it wasn’t being shot out of the sky.

However, Luan Zya, who had studied the weather patterns around the Islands of Dara during his extensive travels, had been prepared. He had advised Gin to equip the crew with long-handled pikes that they now used to loosen the sheets of ice as they leaned out of the gondola. The Dasu ship rose, unscathed, and for good measure, dropped a full load of pamphlets on the capital of Cocru.

Rapa, my other half, are you really going to work now against a son of Cocru?

Kuni is also a son of Cocru; as was Thufi, and countless others who have died. You have picked your favorite, and I have mine.

I never thought we’d see the day when sister works against sister among the gods.

I’m sorry, Kana. But our hearts are as varied and tumultuous as those of the mortals.

Mata Zyndu read through the pamphlet and grew angrier with each line.

Lies, all the words are lies.

When he killed, he killed only cowards and traitors and enemies. He was always forgiving and generous to his real friends.

Kuni Garu the betrayer, despite his dirty tricks and dishonorable band of hooligans, preened and paraded like a saint before the ignorant masses. Meanwhile, even Mata’s own aunt treated him as some tyrant. There was no justice in the world.

His own room was too confining. Mata strode into the courtyard to get some fresh air.

There was Mira, sitting under the shade of a sweet olive, embroidering. Clusters of pale-yellow flowers hung from the evergreen branches over her, giving off a sweet, pungent fragrance that lingered in the lungs. He walked closer to see what she was making.

It was a picture of him. The needlework was very fine. Mira had used only black threads so that the result was like an ink painting.

She did not faithfully reproduce his face or figure. His body was represented by a rough, elongated diamond, and his head an oval with two triangular patches for his eyes. Yet, with ragged lines and these bold geometric patterns, somehow Mira managed to suggest Mata Zyndu in flight, brandishing his sword while hanging from a kite. It was not a picture that hewed close to nature, with its soft curves and shades of light, but seemed to somehow supersede it, as though showing the skeleton beneath the world’s flesh. The Mata Zyndu in her picture was all spirit and energy.

“It’s very good,” he said, his anger momentarily forgotten.

“I’ve made several of these,” she said. “But none of them feels right. I can’t seem to fully capture the idea of you.”

Mata Zyndu sat down. He felt relaxed in her quiet presence, like a cool breeze in early autumn. She never talked to him about matters of state, never plotted to gain some advantage from him for one faction or another. When she expressed a longing for something, it was simple: a house, a flower she remembered seeing once, the song of birds in the morning.

He wished he could be so easily satisfied as well.

“What’s it like?” he asked idly. “To make pictures like that? It seems to require so much effort, one stitch after another. And it’s so… small.”

Mira went on embroidering, not lifting her eyes. “I imagine it’s not very different from what you do.”

Mata Zyndu laughed. “I am the hegemon of all of Dara. When I stomp my foot, thousands tremble. Comparing what I do to your idle feminine pursuits is like comparing the path of a cruben in the sea to that of an ant beneath my foot.” As he spoke, he put his boot down on an ant crawling nearby and crushed it into a smear.

Mira glanced at the ant and then looked up at him. Something seemed to change and shift inside her. When she spoke again, her tone was different.

“When you lead an army into the field, you make a picture. I use a needle; you wield a sword. I make stitches; you make bodies. I leave behind a figure on fabric; you leave behind a new arrangement of power in the world. In the end you work on a larger canvas, but I do not think the satisfaction we get from our respective work is very different.”

Mata had no answer to this. Mira’s words infuriated him, yet he could not say why. It would be easy to dismiss her as a woman unable to understand the grandeur of his vision, but he stubbornly tried to get her to see. He had always been able to make her happy, hadn’t he?

“It’s silly to compare how you feel to what I feel. I change the lives of every person in these Islands. You are confined to a woman’s narrow circle: a few feet in front of you.”

“That’s true,” Mira said. “Yet in the eyes of the gods, you and I are not much different from that ant. But I do have the consolation that my enjoyment brings no death and suffering; when I die no one will jump up and down in joy; and I remember all the names and faces that matter to me.”

Mata stood up and lifted his hand. If he used his full strength, she would be dead in a moment.

He had been in this position many times on the battlefield, poised to strike a final blow against a foe with Na-aroénna or Goremaw. Always, he had seen something in their eyes: despair, terror, defiance, disbelief.

But she stared back at him with perfect equanimity; there was not even a hint of fear.

“I want to understand you, Mata. But I do not think you understand yourself.”

He put his hand down, got up, and walked away.

LUTHO BEACH: THE THIRD MONTH IN THE FOURTH YEAR OF THE PRINCIPATE.

The Tiro states, old and new, fell upon one another like squabbling children, and the nobles found themselves in a crowded world filled with newly minted aristocrats.

Kings sat uneasily on their thrones. After all, Zyndu had driven away King Thufi and took the Throne of Cocru for himself because he had the loyalty of the army. The example was tempting to the generals of the other Tiro states, and frightening to their kings.

Mata did nothing to discourage the trend, and coups happened in several places as ambitious generals took the places of their former masters. Sometimes, the change was bloodless.

Cocru ships circled around Rui and Dasu, boxing the islands in like a floating wall of wood. The few Dasu ships hid in the harbors, not daring to emerge into the open sea. Kuni Garu made no move to build up a navy to challenge the hegemon. And an airborne invasion was impractical as airships simply did not have that kind of capacity.

The lack of activity after the pamphlets led to whispers that perhaps King Kuni’s ambition was simply to have a larger prison within which to stretch his legs. Gradually, discipline on the Cocru ships grew lax. Sailors on the ships spent their endless patrols playing cards and fishing to add a bit more variety to their monotonous diet of stale biscuits.

Sometime the sailors saw great pods of crubens passing under the ships in the sea lanes between Rui and the Big Island. Sighting a cruben was an auspicious occurrence, and most of the sailors were glad. Maybe it was a sign that the gods favored Hegemon Zyndu, and their time away from the comforts of home would soon be over.

On a deserted stretch of Lutho Beach, in the dead of the night, a pod of crubens beached themselves.

One, two, three… ten crubens crashed through the waves and laid themselves on the sand, where they would have to wait until high tide to swim free again. The sound of their landing was grinding and metallic, less like living flesh, more like the clanging of weapons tumbling across a stone floor.

Suddenly, the crubens yawned and opened their maws wide. But the jaws kept on opening, opening, until the top half of each cruben’s head was pulled so far back that it rested upside down on the creature’s back.

From deep within the belly of the scaled whales, hundreds of men spilled out. The soldiers hiding within the mechanical crubens wore the uniform of Dasu. They had been inside the underwater boats for days, and they greedily gulped the fresh salty night air.

Then, quickly, they melted into the shadows of the night to join their comrades, who had set up temporary barracks in caves along the shore. The empty vessels closed their mouths and waited for high tide, when they would dive beneath the waves and go back to Rui to pick up more passengers.

If one looked at the flags they carried, one might have noticed a small change. The whale charging the red field was covered by a layer of blue-black scales, and there was a great horn on its forehead. The ensign of Dasu was now a cruben rising from a sea of blood.

The mechanical crubens — underwater boats — had been the proudest creation of both Luan Zya and Gin Mazoti. While trying to come up with a way to bypass the blockading navy to land an invasion force on the Big Island, Gin had joked that she wished Kuni could summon the crubens again, as he had on that legendary ride to bring down Emperor Erishi.

A twinkle appeared in Luan’s eyes. “We don’t need to summon the crubens. We can make them.”

He reached for Gin’s hands, and she let him hold them, taking pleasure at the warmth in her lover’s hands.

A boat that could go under water needed to adopt the principles that allowed the airship to adjust buoyancy in a much denser medium. Luan enjoyed the challenge this posed.

The ships were built in secret, in seaside caves on Rui away from the gaze of Zyndu’s airships and spies. Plates of thin and strong sword iron were hammered into circular rings around planks of hard ash, much like a cooper puts hoops around staves to make a barrel. These rigid sections were then attached together with short chains to allow the body of the cruben to flex and bend like a living creature. Shark and whale skins were then wrapped around the frame of the body to waterproof the vessels. At the front, a sharpened bowsprit of ironwood served as the cruben’s single horn.

Buoyancy tanks along the bottom of the boats would cause the vessels to rise or sink, depending on whether they were filled with water or air pumped in via bellows. The inside of the ships had plenty of room for the crew as well as transported soldiers and goods. The eyes, made of thick crystals, allowed the men inside to see out. Other, smaller portholes were made all along the sides of the boats as well to provide illumination for the dark and dim interior.

The vessels had to look like real crubens from above, from which direction came the most danger of detection. The cosmeticians in Dasu’s women’s auxiliary corps painted scales onto the smooth skin, and the work was so detailed that no observer, looking down from a naval ship or airship, could tell the reflected light from these artificial scales apart from the real thing.

With the basic plan of the vessel in place, three great difficulties still remained.

One was the fact that water, unlike air, imposed great pressure. No matter how much they tried to waterproof the vessels, they leaked like crazy and would collapse if they dove too deep. This was not fatal, however, as the mechanical crubens only needed to dive under the blockading ships and to hide from airships. Most of the time, the ships would sail near the surface, only diving deeper as the need arose.

Next was the matter of breathing air for the men onboard. Gin, an avid swimmer and diver, learned that some young men in Dasu, in order to observe the beautiful starfish and corals in shallow lagoons, would swim with their heads under water and breathe through straws held in the mouth with the other end poking above the water. Based on this and the behavior of real crubens, she designed a breathing tube. One end stayed inside the vessel, and the other end, attached to a floating buoy, could be let out to peek above the surface of the sea. A bellows could then be used to pump the water out of the tube to let air in, and the resulting spray looked just like the spray from a real cruben’s blowhole.

The other matter, that of propulsion, was more difficult to solve. Luan initially tried to have the men inside one of the vessels operate the tail like a giant oar, undulating the tail fin in imitation of nature. But this proved far too exhausting and impractical for a trip that would cover the distance from Rui to the Big Island.

But then Luan remembered one of Cogo’s eccentric inventors who had presented a machine that could turn a wheel by means of steam generated from a volcano’s heat and a tank of water. Luan generalized the machine’s principles. He also had learned, through his years of traveling through the Islands, that the bottom of the ocean between Rui and the Big Island was studded with a range of underwater volcanoes whose peaks rose to near the surface of the sea. The rocks around these volcanic vents were heated so that they glowed red. Luan and Gin trained the crews of the mechanical crubens to hover over these vents, and to operate mechanical arms to scoop up these red-hot rocks into a special tank under the boats.

The rocks caused the water in the tank to boil, and the steam was then drawn through a series of tubes to turn a train of pistons, gears, and cranks connected to the tail fin and the pectoral fins. Engineers inside the mechanical cruben would scoop up enough heated rocks from one vent to power the ship to the next vent. In this way, rising to breathe and diving to pick up more hot rocks, the fleet of underwater boats swam through the ocean like a pod of real crubens. As long as the crubens stuck to paths marked by underwater volcanoes, they could travel for days.

Slowly and in secret, the mechanical fleet transported the Dasu army onto the Big Island.

With the final wave of soldiers safely deposited on the shores of Lutho Beach, Gin Mazoti gave the order.

Lookouts in crow’s nests on the ships of North Géfica, Haan, and conquered Rui saw a pod of crubens passing beneath them again. Sailors leaned over the railings to catch sight of the amazing creatures.

But the great beasts slowed as they passed beneath the ships and began to rise to the surface.

Captains shouted frantic orders to maneuver their ships out of the way, but it was too late. Accompanied by explosive cracks and howls of surprise from the Cocru sailors, the mechanical crubens breached the surface, their giant horns smashing holes in the bottoms of the ships, breaking their keels. The panicked ships ran into one another, tangling their oars, and the mechanical crubens dove and rose again, staving them in.

The fleets around Rui were destroyed within a few hours, and all over the sea, survivors clung to the wreckage.

Dasu now ruled the sea from beneath its surface.

Ginpen fell without a single man having to die. King Cosugi saw the massed spears and arrows outside the city walls and surrendered. Marshal Mazoti allowed him to stay in the newly rebuilt palace as a guest of Dasu.

Gin announced that the Dasu army would not bother the occupied population and urged everyone to go on with their lives. At first, the population of Haan was skeptical, but soon grew bolder as the Dasu soldiers really did seem to keep the marshal’s promise.

“So you’ve found a better master,” Cosugi said when he saw Luan Zya, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Luan bowed. “I still serve the people of Haan,” he said.

The cruben flags of Dasu whipped in the wind. King Kuni had returned to the Big Island.