The Wall of Storms

^{CHAPTER ONE} TRUANTS

The sky was overcast, and the cold wind whipped a few scattered snowflakes through the air. Carriages and pedestrians in thick coats and fur-lined hats hurried through the wide avenues of Pan, the Harmonious City, seeking the warmth of home.

Or the comfort of a homely pub like the Three-Legged Jug.

“Kira, isn’t it your turn to buy the drinks this time? Everyone knows your husband turns every copper over to you.”

“Look who’s talking. Your husband doesn’t get to sneeze without your permission! But I think today should be Jizan’s turn, sister. I heard a wealthy merchant from Gan tipped her five silver pieces last night!”

“Whatever for?”

“She guided the merchant to his favorite mistress’s house through a maze of back alleys and managed to elude the spies the merchant’s wife sicced on him!”

“Jizan! I had no idea you had such a lucrative skill—”

“Don’t listen to Kira’s lies! Do I look like I have five silver pieces?”

“You certainly came in here with a wide enough grin. I’d wager you had been handsomely paid for facilitating a one-night marriage—”

“Oh, shush! You make me sound like I’m the greeter at an indigo house—”

“Ha-ha! Why stop at being the greeter? I rather think you have the skills to manage an indigo house, or… a scarlet house! I’ve certainly drooled over some of those boys. How about a little help for a sister in need—”

“—or a big help—”

“Can’t the two of you get your minds out of the gutter for a minute? Wait… Phiphi, I think I heard the coins jangling in your purse when you came in—did you have good luck at sparrow tiles last night?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Aha, I knew it! Your face gives everything away; it’s a wonder you can bluff anyone at that game. Listen, if you want Jizan and me to keep our mouths shut in front of your foolish husband about your gaming habit—”

“You featherless pheasant! Don’t you dare tell him!”

“It’s hard for us to think about keeping secrets when we’re so thirsty. How about some of that ‘mind-moisturizer,’ as they say in the folk operas?”

“Oh, you rotten… Fine, the drinks are on me.”

“That’s a good sister.”

“It’s just a harmless hobby, but I can’t stand the way he mopes around the house and nags when he thinks I’m going to gamble everything away.”

“You do seem to have Lord Tazu’s favor, I’ll grant you that. But good fortune is better when shared!”

“My parents must not have offered enough incense at the Temple of Tututika before I was born for me to end up with you two as my ‘friends.’…”

Here, inside the Three-Legged Jug, tucked in an out-of-the-way corner of the city, warm rice wine, cold beer, and coconut arrack flowed as freely as the conversation. The fire in the wood-burning stove in the corner crackled and danced, keeping the pub toasty and bathing everything in a warm light. Condensation froze against the glass windows in refined, complex patterns that blurred the view of the outside. Guests sat by threes and fours around low tables in géüpa, relaxed and convivial, enjoying small plates of roasted peanuts dipped in taro sauce that sharpened the taste of alcohol.

Ordinarily, an entertainer in this venue could not expect a cessation in the constant murmur of conversation. But gradually, the buzzing of competing voices died out. For now, at least, there was no distinction between merchants’ stable boys from Wolf’s Paw, scholars’ servant girls from Haan, low-level government clerks sneaking away from the office for the afternoon, laborers resting after a morning’s honest work, shopkeepers taking a break while their spouses watched the store, maids and matrons out for errands and meeting friends—all were just members of an audience enthralled by the storyteller standing at the center of the tavern.

He took a sip of foamy beer, put the mug down, slapped his hands a few times against his long, draping sleeves, and continued:

In a corner barely illuminated by the glow of the stove, two boys and a girl huddled around a table. Dressed in hempen robes and tunics that were plain but well-made, they appeared to be the children of farmers or perhaps the servants of a well-to-do merchant’s family. The older boy was about twelve, fair-skinned and well proportioned. His eyes were gentle and his dark hair, naturally curly, was tied into a single messy bun at the top of his head. Across the table from him was a girl about a year younger, also fair-skinned and curly-haired—though she wore her hair loose and let the strands cascade around her pretty, round face. The corners of her mouth were curled up in a slight smile as she scanned the room with lively eyes shaped like the body of the graceful dyran, taking in everything with avid interest. Next to her was a younger boy about nine, whose complexion was darker and whose hair was straight and black. The older children sat on either side of him, keeping him penned between the table and the wall. The mischievous glint in his roaming eyes and his constant fidgeting offered a hint as to why. The similarity in the shapes of their features suggested they were siblings.

“Isn’t this great?” whispered the younger boy. “I bet Master Ruthi still thinks we’re imprisoned in our rooms, enduring our punishment.”

“Phyro,” said the older boy, a slight frown on his face, “you know this is only a temporary reprieve. Tonight, we each still have to write three essays about how Kon Fiji’s Morality applies to our misbehavior, how youthful energy must be tempered by education, and how—”

“Shhhh—” the girl said. “I’m trying to hear the storyteller! Don’t lecture, Timu. You already agreed that there’s no difference between playing first and then studying, on the one hand, and studying first and then playing, on the other. It’s called ‘time-shifting.’ ”

“I’m beginning to think that this ‘time-shifting’ idea of yours would be better called ‘time-wasting,’ ” said Timu, the older brother. “You and Phyro were wrong to make jokes about Master Kon Fiji—and I should have been more severe with you. You should accept your punishment gracefully.”

“Oh, wait until you find out what Théra and I—mmf—”

The girl had clamped a hand over the younger boy’s mouth. “Let’s not trouble Timu with too much knowledge, right?” Phyro nodded, and Théra let go.

The young boy wiped his mouth. “Your hand is salty! Ptui!” Then he turned back to Timu, his older brother. “Since you’re so eager to write the essays, Toto-tika, I’m happy to yield my share to you so that you can write six instead of three. Your essays are much more to Master Ruthi’s taste anyway.”

“That’s ridiculous! The only reason I agreed to sneak away with you and Théra is because as the eldest, it’s my responsibility to look after you, and you promised you would take your punishment later—”

“Elder Brother, I’m shocked!” Phyro put on a serious mien that looked like an exact copy of their strict tutor’s when he was about to launch into a scolding lecture. “Is it not written in Sage Kon Fiji’s Tales of Filial Devotion that the younger brother should offer the choicest specimens in a basket of plums to the elder brother as a token of his respect? Is it also not written that an elder brother should try to protect the younger brother from difficult tasks beyond his ability, since it is the duty of the stronger to defend the weaker? The essays are uncrackable nuts to me, but juicy plums to you. I am trying to live as a good Moralist with my offer. I thought you’d be pleased.”

“That is—you cannot—” Timu was not as practiced at this particular subspecies of the art of debate as his younger brother. His face grew red, and he glared at Phyro. “If only you would direct your cleverness to actual schoolwork.”

“You should be happy that Hudo-tika has done the assigned reading for once,” said Théra, who had been trying to maintain a straight face as the brothers argued. “Now please be quiet, both of you; I want to hear this.”

As he chanted, the storyteller banged a coconut husk against a large kitchen spoon to simulate the sounds of sword clanging against shield; he leapt about, whipping his long sleeves this way and that to conjure the martial dance of legendary heroes in the flickering firelight of the pub. As his voice rose and fell, urgent one moment, languorous the next, the audience was transported to another time and place.

“No!” Phyro couldn’t help himself. Timu and Théra, equally absorbed by the tale, didn’t shush him.

The storyteller nodded appreciatively at the children, and went on.

“Now that is the manner of a real hero,” whispered Phyro, his tone full of admiration and longing. “Hey, Timu and Théra, you’ve actually met the Hegemon, haven’t you?”

“Yes… but that was a long time ago,” Timu whispered back. “I don’t really remember much except that he was really tall, and those strange eyes of his looked terribly fierce. I remember wondering how strong he must have been to be able to wield that huge sword on his back.”

“He sounds like a great man,” said Phyro. “Such honor in every action; such grace to his foes. Too bad he and Da could not—”

“Shhhh!” Théra interrupted. “Hudo-tika, not so loud! Do you want everyone here to know who we are?”

Phyro might be a rascal to his older brother, but he respected the authority of his older sister. He lowered his voice. “Sorry. He just seems such a brave man. And Mocri, too. I’ll have to tell Ada-tika all about this hero from her home island. How come Master Ruthi never taught us anything about Mocri?”

“This is just a story,” Théra said. “Fighting nonstop for nine days and nine nights—how can you believe that really happened? Think: The storyteller wasn’t there, how would he know what the Hegemon and Mocri said?” But seeing the disappointment on her little brother’s face, she softened her tone. “If you want to hear real stories about heroes, I’ll tell you later about the time Auntie Soto stopped the Hegemon from hurting Mother and us. I was only three then, but I remember it as though it happened yesterday.”

Phyro’s eyes brightened and he was about to ask for more, but a rough voice broke in.

“I’ve had just about enough of this ridiculous tale, you insolent fraud!”

The storyteller stopped in midsentence, shocked at this intrusion into his performance. The tavern patrons turned to look at the speaker. Standing next to the stove, the man was tall, barrel-chested, and as muscular as a stevedore. He was easily the largest person in the pub. A jagged scar that started at his left brow and ended at his right cheek gave his face a fearsome aspect, which was only enhanced by the wolf’s-teeth necklace that dangled in front of the thick chest hair that peeked out of the loose lapels of his short robe like a patch of fur. Indeed, the yellow teeth that showed between his sneering lips reminded one of a hungry wolf on the prowl.

“How dare you fabricate such stories about that crook Mata Zyndu? He tried to thwart Emperor Ragin’s righteous march to the throne and caused much needless suffering and desolation. By praising the despicable tyrant Zyndu, you’re denigrating the victory of our wise emperor and casting aspersions upon the character of the Dandelion Throne. These are words of treason.”

“Treason? For telling a few stories?” The storyteller was so furious that he started to laugh. “Will you next claim that all folk opera troupes are rebels for enacting the rise and fall of old Tiro dynasties? Or that the wise Emperor Ragin is jealous of shadow puppet plays about Emperor Mapidéré? What a silly man you are!”

The owners of the Three-Legged Jug, a rotund man of short stature and his equally rotund wife, rushed up between the two to play peacemakers. “Masters! Remember this is a humble venue for entertainment and relaxation! No politics, please! We’re all here after a hard day’s work to share a few drinks and have some fun.”

The husband turned to the man with the scarred face and bowed deeply. “Master, I can tell you are a man of hot passions and strong morals. And if the tale has offended, I apologize first. I know Tino here well. Let me assure you he had no intention of insulting the emperor. Why, before he became a storyteller, he fought for Emperor Ragin during the Chrysanthemum-Dandelion War in Haan, when the emperor was only the King of Dasu.”

The wife smiled ingratiatingly. “How about a flask of plum wine on the house? If you and Tino drink together, I’m sure you’ll forget about this little misunderstanding.”

“What makes you think I want to have a drink with him?” asked Tino the storyteller, whipping his sleeves contemptuously at Scarface.

The other patrons in the pub shouted in support of the storyteller.

“Sit down, you ignorant oaf!”

“Get out of here if you don’t like the story. No one is forcing you to sit and listen!”

“I’ll throw you out myself if you keep this up.”

Scarface smiled, stuck one of his hands into the lapel of his robe, under the dangling wolf’s-teeth necklace, and retrieved a small metal tablet. He waved it around at the patrons and then held it under the nose of the proprietress of the pub. “Do you recognize this?”

She squinted to get a good look. The tablet was about the size of two palms, and two large logograms were carved into it in relief: One was the logogram for sight—a stylized eye with a beam coming out of it—and the other was the logogram for faraway—composed of the number logogram for “a thousand” modified by a winding path around it. Shocked, the woman stuttered, “You—you’re with the—the, um, the—”

Scarface put the tablet away. The cold, mirthless grin on his face grew wider as he scanned the room, daring anyone to hold his gaze. “That’s right. I serve Duke Rin Coda, Imperial Farsight Secretary.”

The shouting among the patrons died down, and even Tino lost his confident look. Although Scarface looked more like a highwayman than a government official, Duke Coda, who was in charge of Emperor Ragin’s spies, was said to run his department in collaboration with the seedier elements of Dara society. It wouldn’t be beyond him to rely on someone like Scarface. Even though no one in the pub had ever heard of a storyteller getting in trouble for an embellished tale about the Hegemon, Duke Coda’s duties did include ferreting out traitors and dissatisfied former nobles plotting against the emperor. No one wanted to risk challenging the emperor’s own trusted eyes.

“Wait—” Phyro was about to speak when Théra grabbed his hand and squeezed it under the table and shook her head at him slowly.

Seeing the timid reactions from everyone present, Scarface nodded with satisfaction. He pushed the owners of the pub aside and strolled up to Tino. “Crafty, disloyal entertainers like you are the worst. Just because you fought for the emperor doesn’t give you the right to say whatever you want. Now, normally, I would have to take you to the constables for further interrogation”—Tino shrank back in terror—“but I’m in a generous mood today. If you pay a fine of twenty-five pieces of silver and apologize for your errors, I might just let you off with a warning.”

Tino glanced at the few coins in the tip bowl on the table and turned back to Scarface. He bowed repeatedly like a chicken pecking at the ground. “Master Farseer, please! That amounts to two week’s earnings even when things are going well. I’ve got an aged mother at home who is ill—”

“Of course you do,” said Scarface. “She’ll miss you terribly if you are held at the constable station, won’t she? A proper interrogation might take days, weeks even; do you understand?”

Tino’s face shifted through rage, humiliation, and utter defeat as he reached into the lapel of his robe for his coin purse. The other patrons looked away carefully, not daring to make a sound.

“Don’t think the rest of you are getting off so easily, either,” said Scarface. “I heard how many of you cheered when he veiled his criticisms of the emperor with that story full of lies. Each of you will have to pay a fine of one silver as an accessory to the crime.”

The men and women in the pub looked unhappy, but a few sighed and began reaching for their purses as well.

“Stop.”

Scarface looked around for the source of the voice, which was crisp, sharp, and uninflected by fear. A figure stood up from the shadowy corner of the pub and walked into the firelight of the stove, a slight limp in the gait punctuated by the staccato falls of a walking stick.

Though dressed in a scholar’s long flowing robes edged in blue silk, the speaker was a woman. About eighteen years of age, she had fair skin and gray eyes that glinted with a steadfastness that belied her youth. The radiating lines of a faint pink scar, like a sketch of a blooming flower, covered her left cheek, and the stem of this flower continued down her neck like the lateral line of a fish, curiously adding a sense of liveliness to her otherwise wan visage. Her hair, a light brown, was tied atop her head in a tight triple scroll-bun. Tassels and knotted strings dangled from her blue sash—a custom of distant northwestern islands in old Xana. Leaning against a wooden walking stick that came up to her eyebrows, she put her right hand on the sword she wore at her waist, the scabbard and hilt looking worn and shabby.

“What do you want?” asked Scarface. But his tone was no longer as arrogant as before. The woman’s scroll-bun and her boldness in openly wearing a sword in Pan indicated that she was a scholar who had achieved the rank of cashima, a Classical Ano word meaning “practitioner”: She had passed the second level of the Imperial examinations.

Emperor Ragin had restored and expanded the civil service examination system long practiced by the Tiro kings and the Xana Empire, turning it into the sole mode of advancement for those with political ambition while eliminating other time-honored paths to obtain valuable administrative posts, such as patronage, purchase, inheritance, or recommendation by trusted nobles. Competition in the examinations was fierce, and the emperor, who had risen to power with the aid of women in powerful posts, had opened the exams to women as well as men. Though women toko dawiji—the rank given to those who had passed the Town Examinations, the first level in the exams—were still rare, and women cashima even rarer, they were entitled to all the privileges of the status given to their male counterparts. For instance, all toko dawiji were exempt from corvée, and the cashima had the additional right to be brought before an Imperial magistrate right away when accused of a crime instead of being interrogated by the constables.

“Stop bothering these people,” she said calmly. “And you certainly won’t be getting a single copper out of me.”

Scarface had not expected to find a person of her rank in a dive like the Three-Legged Jug. “Mistress, you don’t have to pay the fine, of course. I’m sure you’re not a disloyal scoundrel like the rest of these lowlifes.”

She shook her head. “I don’t believe you work for Duke Coda at all.”

Scarface narrowed his eyes. “You doubt the sign of the farseers?”

The woman smiled. “You put it away so quickly that I didn’t get a good look. Why don’t you let me examine it?”

Scarface chuckled awkwardly. “A scholar of your erudition surely recognized the logograms in a single glance.”

“It’s easy enough to forge something like that out of a block of wax and a coat of silver paint, but much harder to forge a believable order from Farsight Secretary Coda.”

“What—what are you talking about? This is the time of the Grand Examination, when the cream of Dara’s scholars are gathered in the capital. Those who like to stir up trouble would seize the opportunity to harm the talented men, er, and women, here to serve the emperor. It’s natural that the emperor would order Duke Coda to increase security.”

The woman shook her head and continued in a placid tone, “Emperor Ragin prides himself on being a tolerant lord open to honest counsel. He even honored Zato Ruthi, who once fought against him, with the position of Imperial Tutor out of respect for his scholarship. Charging a storyteller with treason for taking some literary license would chill the hearts of the men and women he is trying to recruit. Duke Coda, who knows the emperor as well as anyone, would never give an order to authorize what you’re attempting.”

Scarface flushed with anger, and the thick scar twitched like a snake crawling over his face. But he stood rooted to his spot and made no move toward her.

The woman laughed. “In fact, I think I’ll send for the constables myself. Impersonating an Imperial officer is a crime.”

“Oh no,” whispered Théra in the corner.

“What?” asked Timu and Phyro together in a low voice.

“You should never corner a rabid dog,” moaned Théra.

Scarface’s eyes narrowed as fear of the cashima turned to desperate resolve. He roared and rushed at the cashima. The surprised woman managed to scramble awkwardly out of the way at the last minute, dragging her weak left leg. The lumbering assailant crashed into a table, causing the patrons sitting at it to jump back, cursing and screaming. Soon, he climbed back up, looking even more enraged, swore loudly, and came at her again.

“I hope she fights as well as she talks,” said Phyro. He clapped his hands and laughed. “This is the most fun we’ve ever had sneaking out!”

“Stay behind me!” said Timu, stretching out his arms and moving to shield his brother and sister from the commotion in the center of the pub.

The woman unsheathed the sword with her right hand. Bracing herself against the walking stick, she held the sword in an uncertain manner and pointed its wavering tip at the man. But Scarface seemed to have gone berserk. He continued to rush at her without slowing down and reached out to grab the blade of her sword with his bare hands.

The patrons in the pub either looked away or flinched, waiting for blood to spurt as his fingers closed around the sword.

Crack. The sword snapped in half crisply, and the woman was on the ground, stunned by the impact of the burly man against her body. She was still holding on to half of a sword, and not a drop of blood could be seen.

Scarface laughed and tossed the other half of the sword into the open stove, where the wooden blade, painted to look like the real thing, instantly burst into flames.

“Who’s the real swindler here?” Scarface sneered. “It takes one to know one, doesn’t it? And now you’re going to pay.” He strode up to the still stunned woman like a wolf closing in for the kill. Now that the hem of the woman’s robe had ridden up, he saw that her left leg was enclosed in a kind of harness, similar to the sort worn by many veterans who had lost limbs during the wars. “So you’re a useless cripple, too.” He spat at her and lifted his right foot, clad in a massive leather boot, aiming for her head.

“Don’t you dare touch her!” shouted Phyro. “I’ll make you regret it!”

Scarface stopped and turned to regard the three children in the corner.

Timu and Théra stared at Phyro.

“Master Ruthi always said that a Moralist gentleman must stand up for those in need,” Phyro said defensively.

“So you’ve decided that this is the moment you should start listening to Master Ruthi?” groaned Théra. “Do you think we’re in the palace, surrounded by guards who can stop him?”

“Sorry, but she was defending Da’s honor!” Phyro whispered fiercely, not backing down.

“Run, both of you!” shouted Timu. “I’ll hold him back.” He waved his gangly arms about, uncertain how he was going to carry out this plan.

Now that he had gotten a clear look at the three “heroes,” Scarface laughed. “I’ll take care of you brats after I’m done with her.” He turned back and leaned down for the traveling purse attached to the cashima’s sash.

Théra’s eyes darted around the pub: Some of the patrons were huddled near the walls, trying to stay as far away from the fight as possible; others were slowly inching their way to the door, seeking an escape. Nobody wanted to do anything to stop the robbery—and perhaps worse—in progress. She grabbed Phyro by the ears before he could get away, turned him to face her, and touched her forehead to his.

“Ouch!” Phyro hissed. “Do you have to do that?”

“Timu is brave but he’s no good in a fight,” she said.

Phyro nodded. “Unless we’re talking about a competition on who can write the most obscure logograms.”

“Right. So it’s up to you and me.” And she quickly whispered her plan to him.

Phyro grinned. “You’re the best big sister.”

Timu, still dancing about uncertainly, pushed at them both ineffectually. “Go, go!”

Over by the stove, Scarface was examining the contents of the purse he had ripped from the woman, who lay at his feet, unmoving. Maybe she was still recovering from the body blow.

Phyro dashed away and disappeared into the crowd of patrons.

Instead of running, Théra jumped onto the table.

“Hey, Auntie Phiphi, Auntie Kira, Auntie Jizan!” she shouted, and pointed at three of the women among those inching toward the door. They stopped to look at her, startled at having their names called by this strange girl.

“Do you know her?” whispered Phiphi.

Jizan and Kira shook their heads. “She was sitting at the table next to ours,” Kira whispered back. “I thought she might have been listening in on our talk.”

“Haven’t you always said that I can’t let men push me around if I want a harmonious household after I get married?” Théra continued. “Since the menfolk are all running away with their tails between their legs, aren’t you going to help me teach this oaf a lesson?”

Scarface looked from Théra to the three women, uncertain what was going on. But Théra wasn’t going to give him time to figure things out. “Oh, Cousin Ro! Practically our whole clan is here. Why are we so afraid of this dolt?”

“I’m certainly not,” a voice answered from the crowd. It sounded youthful, almost girlish. Then a bowl flew out of the shadows near the door and smashed into Scarface, drenching him in fragrant, hot tea. “Heck, all of us spitting on him would be enough to drown him! Auntie Phiphi, Auntie Kira, Auntie Jizan, come on!”

The crowd that had been trying to escape the pub stopped moving. The three women whose names had been called gaped at Scarface, who now looked like a chicken caught in a thunderstorm. They looked at each other and grinned.

A moment later, three mugs of beer flew through the air and smashed against Scarface. He roared in rage.

“And here’s one from me!” Théra grabbed the flask of rice wine from their table and tossed it at Scarface’s head. It just missed and broke against the stove, and the spilled wine hissed in the fire.

Crowds were delicate things. Sometimes all it took was a single example for a loose flock of sheep to turn into a wolfish mob.

Since the women had such success with their first strikes, the men looked at each other and suddenly discovered their courage. Even the storyteller Tino, so obsequious a moment earlier, threw his half-drunk mug of beer at the robber. Bowls, cups, flasks, mugs flew from every direction at Scarface, who wrapped his arms about his head and stumbled about to survive the onslaught, howling in pain. The couple running the pub jumped up and down, begging people not to destroy their property, but it was too late.

“We’ll pay you back,” shouted Timu over the din, but it was unclear if the pub-keeping couple heard him.

More than a few of the missiles had struck Scarface, and he was bruised all over. Blood flowed from cuts on his face, and he was soaked in tea, wine, and beer. Realizing that he could no longer intimidate the incensed crowd, Scarface spat hatefully at Théra. But he had to get away before the crowd got even bolder and tried to tackle him.

He tossed the purse into the burning stove as a final gesture of pique, and then pushed and shoved his way through the crowd. People, still individually awed by his size and strength, leapt out of his way. He slammed through the pub’s front door like a wolf chased away from the flock by a pack of baying hounds, leaving in his wake only a few snowflakes swirling in the eddies near the entrance. Soon, the snowflakes also disappeared, as though he had never been there at all.

Men and women milled about the pub, slapping one another on the back and congratulating all on their bravery while the proprietor and proprietress rushed around with dustpan and broom and bucket and rag to sweep up the broken pottery and china. Phyro pushed through the crowd until he was standing next to Théra.

“Smacked him right in the neck with that first bowl,” boasted Phyro.

“Well done, ‘Cousin Ro,’ ” Théra said, smiling.

Tino the storyteller and the proprietors of the pub came up to thank the three children for their heroic intervention—and in the case of the tavern owners, also to make sure they really would pay for the damage. Leaving Timu to handle the flowery language of mutual appreciation and proper humility and promissory notes, Théra and Phyro went to see if the young cashima was all right.

She had been stunned by the burly man’s blow but wasn’t seriously injured. They helped her sit up and fed her sips of warm rice wine.

“What’s your name?”

“Zomi Kidosu,” she said in a faint, embarrassed voice. “Of Dasu.”

“Are you a real cashima?” asked Phyro, pointing at the broken wooden sword lying next to her.

“Hudo-tika!” Théra was mortified by the rude question from her little brother.

“What? If the sword isn’t real, maybe her rank isn’t real either.”

But the young woman didn’t answer. She was staring at the fire in the stove, where the other half of her sword had turned to ashes. “My pass… my pass…”

“What pass?” asked Phyro.

Zomi continued to mutter as though she couldn’t hear Phyro.

Théra surveyed the young woman’s worn shoes and patched robe; her gaze lingered for a moment on the intricate harness around her left leg, whose design she had never seen, even from the Imperial doctors who worked with injuries suffered by her father’s most trusted guards; she noted the calluses on the pads of her right thumb, index and middle fingers, as well as on the back of her ring finger; she observed the bits of wax and ink stains under her fingernails.

She’s a long way from home, and she’s been practicing writing, a lot of writing.

“Of course she’s a real cashima,” Théra said. “She’s here for the Grand Examination. That fool burned her pass for the Examination Hall!”

^{CHAPTER TWO} FALLEN KINGS

The swirling snow intensified, and pedestrians and riders in the streets grew scarce as they hurried home or sought shelter in roadside inns and eateries. A few sparrows hiding out under the eaves twittered excitedly, as they seemed to hear a voice in the howling wind.

- What mischief do you plot, Tazu? Have you come to bring discord to the Harmonious City?

For a moment, a wild cackling accompanied by the strident noise of a hungry shark gnashing its teeth interrupted the swirling snowstorm, but it faded so quickly that the sparrows sat stunned, uncertain if they had truly heard it.

- Kiji, my brother, still so humorless after all these years. Like you, I’ve come to observe Kuni’s contest of intellects, a trial of sharp words and stalwart logograms. You have my sympathies for the tribulations of your studious young lady, but I assure you I had nothing to do with the man who ruined her day—doesn’t mean that I won’t have anything more to do with him, though, now that he’s gotten my interest. However, you’re acting so outraged that one wonders who’s the girl and who’s the patron god.

- I don’t trust you. You’re always bringing chaos to order, strife to peace.

- I’m hurt! Though I do confess that it always irks me a bit when the mortals reduce the messy truths of history to neat stories. Too smooth and “harmonious.”

- Then you’re doomed to live in ire all your days. History is the long shadow cast by the past upon the future. Shadows, by nature, lack details.

- You sound like a mortal philosopher.

- Peace has not been easy to earn. Do not stir up ghosts to prey upon the living.

- But we don’t want Fithowéo to be bored, do we? What kind of brother are you that you care not for his well-being?

A clanging of metal shot through the storm, like the thundering of shod hooves over the iron bridge spanning the moat of the palace. The sparrows cowered and made no more noise.

- My charge is war, but that does not mean I crave death. That is more Kana’s pleasure.

A flash of red behind the clouds, as though a volcano were glowing through mist.

- Tazu and Fithowéo, do not besmirch my name. I rule over the shades on the other shore of the River-on-Which-Nothing-Floats, but do not think that I desire their numbers to increase without good cause.

A chaotic swirl in the snow, like a cyclone roaming over a white sea.

- Tsk-tsk. What happened to doing the most interesting thing? You are all such killjoys. No matter. There is a dark stain at the foundation of the Dandelion Throne, whose empire is born from Kuni’s betrayal of the Hegemon. Such a sin at the origin cannot be erased and will haunt him, no matter how much good he thinks he’s doing.

The silence of the other gods seemed to acknowledge the truth of Tazu’s words.

- The mortals are dissatisfied and will make trouble no matter what you profess to desire. The scent of blood and rot draws the sharks, and I am only doing what comes naturally to me. When the storm comes, I know all of you will do the same.

The chaotic swirl blended with the howling storm, and snow soon covered the footprints of the last pedestrians.

Doru Solofi trudged through the snow, trying to move as fast as he could. Finally, he decided that he had gotten far enough away from the Three-Legged Jug and turned into a small alley, where he leaned against a wall to rest, his heart beating wildly and his breathing labored.

Damn that cashima, and damn those children! His little scam had worked well the last few times he'd tried it and earned him a nice bit of money—though he had soon lost it all in gambling parlors and indigo houses. If the cashima really reported him to the constables, he might have to hide for a while until things quieted down. In any event, perhaps it was risky to stay in the capital, where security was bound to be tighter than elsewhere, but he was unwilling to leave its bustling streets and thriving markets, where the very air seemed to crackle by proximity to power.

He was like a wolf who had been driven out from his den, and now he yearned for a home that was no longer his.

Thwack. A snowball slammed into the back of his neck, the cold more shocking than the pain. He whipped around and saw a little boy standing a few yards away down in the alley. The boy grinned, revealing a mouth full of yellow teeth that seemed unnaturally sharp, an impression reinforced by the shark’s-teeth necklace he wore around his neck.

Who is he? Doru Solofi wondered. Is he one of the savages from Tan Adü, where the inhabitants file their teeth to points in accordance with their barbaric custom?

Thwack. The boy lobbed another snowball at him, this one striking him right in the face.

Solofi wiped the snow away from his eyes, struggling to see. Melting snow and ice flowed down the collar of his tunic, drenching his chest and back. He could feel bits of gravel grinding against his skin, especially the tender spots where the hot tea had scalded him. With ice added to the alcohol and tea water that had already soaked his clothes, his teeth started to chatter in the howling wind.

He roared and leapt at the young boy, intent on teaching him a lesson. It was intolerable that even a child now believed that he could torment Doru Solofi, who had once been the most powerful man in this city.

The boy nimbly dodged out of his way, like a sleek shark slithering out of the way of a lumbering fishing boat. Cackling wildly, the boy ran away, and Solofi pursued.

On and on the boy and the man raced through the streets of Pan, careless of the astonished looks of the passersby. Solofi’s lungs burned as he panted in the icy air; his legs felt leaden as he stumbled and slipped through the snow. The boy, however, was sure-footed like a goat on the snowbound cliffs of Mount Rapa, and seemed to taunt him by staying just a step ahead, barely out of his grasp. Several times he decided to stop and give up the chase, but each time, as he did so, the boy turned and lobbed another snowball at him. Solofi could not understand how the boy had so much strength and endurance—it seemed unnatural—but rage had driven reason from his mind, and all he could think of was the pleasure he would feel when he crushed the skull of that nasty urchin against some wall.

The boy dashed down another deserted alley, disappearing around the corner. Solofi lumbered right after—and stopped dead in his tracks as he emerged from the alley.

In front of him, as far as the eye could see, was a miniature metropolis constructed of gray-veined marble, rough-hewn granite, and weathered wood, with man-sized pyramids, cylinders, and simple rectangular blocks erected along a grid of snow-covered footpaths. Topped by statues of ravens, the gravestones and mourning tablets were carved with lines of logograms that tried to summarize a life in a few lines of verse.

The boy had led him to the largest cemetery in the city, where many of those who had died in Pan during the rebellion against the Xana Empire, and later, during the Chrysanthemum-Dandelion War, were buried.

The boy was nowhere to be seen.

Solofi took a deep breath to steady his nerves. He was not a superstitious man and would not be afraid of ghosts. He stepped resolutely into the city of the dead.

At first cautiously, and then frantically, Solofi searched among the gravestones, looking behind each marker for signs of his prey. But the boy had apparently disappeared into thin air like a mirage or dream.

The hairs on Solofi’s back stood up. Had he been chasing a ghost? He certainly had been responsible for the deaths of many during the war…

“One, two, three, four! Faster! Faster! Can you feel it? Can you sense the power flowing through you? Three, two, three, four!”

Solofi whipped his head around and saw that the cries were coming from a man who stood on the steps of the giant marble mausoleum dedicated to the spirits of the Eight Hundred, the first soldiers who had joined Mata Zyndu, the Hegemon, when he raised the flag of rebellion against Emperor Mapidéré on Tunoa.

“Four, two, three, four! Suadégo, you need to work on your footwork. Look at your husband: how he dances with dedication! Six, two, three, four!”

The man on the steps was wiry and dark-skinned, and the way he moved—at once deliberate and furtive, like a mouse strolling across the dinner table after the lights had been snuffed out—seemed familiar to Solofi. He headed in the direction of the man to get a better look, taking care to hide himself behind tall gravestones as he did so.

“Seven, two, three, four! Poda, you need to spin faster. You’re out of sync with everyone else. I might have to demote you after today if you can’t keep up. One, two, three, four!”

Now that Solofi was closer, he saw that about forty men and women stood in four rows in the clearing below the steps of the mausoleum. As far as Solofi could tell, they were performing some kind of dance, though it resembled no dance he had ever seen: The men and women spun like drunken versions of the sword dancers of Cocru; stretched their arms up to the sky and then bent down to touch their toes in some absurd parody of the veiled dancers of Faça; jumped up and down in place while clapping their hands over their heads as though they were fresh recruits in the army being put through an exercise regimen. The only music that accompanied them was a mix of the howling of the winds, the rhythmic, counting chant of the man on the steps of the mausoleum, and their stomping steps against the ground. Though it was still snowing hard, all the dancers were drenched in sweat, and the white mist exhaled from their panting mouths turned into beads of ice in their beards and hair.

Above them, the mousy man continued to pace back and forth, issuing orders to the dancers. Solofi didn’t know what to make of this strange drill instructor.

“All right, we’ll finish here today,” said the man. As the dancers lined up below the steps, he came down and started to chat with them one by one.

“Very good, Suadégo. The spirits are pleased with your progress. Tomorrow you can dance in the second line. Don’t you feel all energized? Ah, these are the new envelopes… let me count how many blessed faith tokens you and your recruits have sold… only two new recruits from this past week? I’m disappointed! You and your husband need to talk to everyone in the family—cousins, second cousins, their children and the children’s spouses, and their cousins—everyone! Remember, your faith is evinced by the size of your contribution, and the more people you recruit to spread the faith, the more pleased the spirits will be! Here’s your prize—it’s a negotiation pill. Hold it under your tongue before you have to talk to a supplier and visualize success, you understand? You must believe or it won’t work!”

He went through a similar speech with every one of the dancers, demoting some, promoting others, but always the chatter centered around the number of new recruits and money.

By the time the man was finished with the last dancer, who departed dejectedly because she hadn’t recruited any new members and was thus banished from the next dance session, Solofi finally realized why the man looked so familiar.

He stepped out from behind the gravestone he had been hiding behind. “Noda Mi! I haven’t seen you in almost ten years!”

After the success of the rebellion against the Xana Empire, the Hegemon had rewarded those who he thought had made important contributions by creating numerous new Tiro states and naming the men as kings. Noda Mi, who had begun as a supplier of grains to Mata’s army before rising to be Mata’s quartermaster, ended up as King of Central Géfica. Doru Solofi, who had begun as a foot soldier before being promoted to a scout for valor, ended up as King of South Géfica—where Pan was—largely because he happened to be the first to discover Kuni Garu’s ambitions.

During the Chrysanthemum-Dandelion War, Noda and Doru tumbled from their thrones before the might of Gin Mazoti’s army and were cast out of the Hegemon’s favor. They had then drifted around the Islands as fugitives in subsequent years, making a living as bandits, highwaymen, merchants of rotten meat and spoiled fish, kidnappers, scammers… while hiding from Emperor Ragin’s constables.

“Look at us,” said Solofi. “Two Tiro kings in a graveyard!” He laughed bitterly as he kicked at the snowdrifts on the mausoleum steps. He handed the pipe of happy herbs back to Noda.

Noda waved his hand to indicate that he had smoked enough. Instead, he took a sip from a flask, letting the throat-burning liquor warm him against the bitter cold. “You’ve certainly put your impressive muscles to good use. That trick with the teahouse storytellers is pretty good. Thanks for sharing the tip; I’ll have to give it a try.”

“It wouldn’t work for you. They wouldn’t be scared enough,” said Solofi, looking contemptuously at Noda’s thin, small figure. “But your pyramid scheme isn’t bad either. How were you able to convince so many fools to dance for you and give you money?”

“It’s easy! Peace has made many in Pan rich and bored, and they crave some excitement in their lives. I let it be known that I could harness the energy of the dead to give the living good fortune, and many showed up to see if what I promised was true. The thing is: Once people are in a crowd, they lose all sense. If I get everyone to dance around like idiots, no one dares to question me, for whoever behaves differently from the rest would then appear as the foolish one. If I get one of them to say she feels energy coursing through her, everyone rushes to say the same, for whoever doesn’t would be admitting that the spirits don’t favor her. In fact, they compete to tell me just how much better the dance is making them feel so as to appear to be more spiritual in the eyes of their fellow dancers.”

“That’s hard to believe—”

“Oh, believe it. Never underestimate the power of the need to appear better than their peers to motivate people, a tendency that I’m happy to indulge. I set up little competitions, promoting dancers from the back to the front if they appear more faithful and demoting them if they’re not as enthusiastic. I give them prizes based on how fervently they gyrate and strut. I tell them that they’re ready to be spiritual teachers on their own, and have them go out to recruit their own magic dance students—and, of course, I collect a portion of the tuition they get. Nothing convinces a fool to believe in a scam better than turning him into a scammer too. I do believe that I could show up naked one of these days and tell them that only the devout can see my spiritual outfit; they would outdo each other in describing the glory of my raiment.”

At this, Solofi’s eyes dimmed momentarily. “Once we did dress in the finest water silk embroidered in gold, you and I.”

“We did,” agreed Noda, his tone equally somber. But then his eyes brightened as he examined Solofi. “Perhaps we can again.”

“What do you mean?” Solofi asked, the pipe of happy herbs in his hand temporarily forgotten.

“We were once kings, yet now we scrabble for a living among the bones of the dead and the vanities of the living, like so many rats. What sort of life is this? Do you not wish to be a king again?”

Solofi laughed. “The age of Tiro kings is over. Ambitious men now grovel at the feet of Kuni Garu and hope they can pass his tests so that they can serve him.”

“Not all men,” said Noda, holding Solofi’s gaze. He lowered his voice. “When Huno Krima and Zopa Shigin met, they started a rebellion that undid Mapidéré’s life’s work. When Kuni Garu met Mata Zyndu, they tore these islands asunder and knit them back together again. Do you not think it a sign for you and I to meet after ten years in this place, where so many ghosts still cry out for vengeance against Kuni Garu?”

Doru Solofi shivered. The sudden chill he felt seemed to be emanating from the mausoleum behind him. Noda Mi’s intense gaze and hypnotic voice were mesmerizing. He could see how such a man could convince crowds to give him money… He recalled the shark-toothed boy who had led him here. Is this truly a sign? Could Noda be right?

“There are others who think like you and me—disgraced nobles, the Hegemon’s veterans, scholars who failed to place in the examinations, merchants who can’t make as much profit as they like by cheating at taxes…. Dara may be a land at peace, but the hearts of men are never peaceful. I have learned much about fanning the flames of dissatisfaction, and you have a figure that is meant to ride at the head of a crowd. The gods meant for us to meet here today, and we can reclaim the glory that is our due from the weed-emperor. Remember, he was once no better than we.”

A small cyclone moved through the graveyard just then, whipping the snow into an imitation of the chaotic whirlpool that had once swallowed twenty thousand soldiers of Xana in a single day.

Doru Solofi reached out and grabbed Noda Mi by the arms.

“Let us call each other brother then, and we’ll swear an oath to bring down the House of Dandelion.”

^{CHAPTER THREE} PRINCES AND PRINCESSES

“Please, Master Ruthi! Slow down!” the empress shouted as she ran down the long corridor leading from the Imperial family’s private quarters to the public areas toward the front of the palace. Ahead of her, an old man with a satchel over his shoulder was marching away at a brisk pace, not even bothering to look back.

Since the emperor wasn’t holding court today, Jia was dressed in a simple silk robe and wooden slippers that allowed her to run, instead of the formal court robe bedecked with hundreds of jade and coral dyrans, the heavy, tall crown of silver and bronze, and those three-foot-long court shoes that resembled small boats. She ran so fast that she was having trouble catching her breath, and her flaming red hair matched her flushed face. A retinue of dozens of ladies-in-waiting and courtiers and palace guards ran next to her, keeping pace—they couldn’t run ahead of her until she’d given the order to seize the escaping man, and of course she wasn’t going to do that. The situation was truly awkward for everyone involved.

The empress stopped, and the guards and courtiers and ladies-in-waiting skidded to an abrupt stop as well, some colliding into each other in a jumble of clanging armor and weapons, gasps of surprise, and clinking jewels. Empress Jia caught her breath and shouted, “Kon Fiji said a learned man should not make those craving knowledge run after him!”

Zato Ruthi, Imperial Tutor, slowed down and then stopped, sighing. But he did not turn around.

Jia caught up to him at a dignified pace, still huffing and puffing.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Ruthi said, still not turning around. “I’m afraid that I can’t possibly be considered a learned man. You’d better seek other able teachers for the princes and princesses. My continued employment would only ruin their education.” His voice was so stiff that the words seemed to bounce off the walls like roasted chestnuts.

“I admit that the children can be a bit rowdy and mischievous,” said the empress, all smiles. “But that is precisely why they need you to discipline their minds with the wisdom of the sages—”

“Discipline!” Ruthi interrupted. The ladies-in-waiting and courtiers winced—nobody interrupted the fiery empress—but Empress Jia’s words clearly touched a nerve, and Ruthi was beyond caring. “Indeed, I tried to administer discipline and look what I’ve gotten for my troubles! All the princes and princesses are nowhere to be found when they’re supposed to be in their rooms working on their punishment essays!”

“Well, to be fair, not all of them. Fara is still in her room practicing her logo—”

“Fara is four! I’m sure the others would have taken her if they didn’t think she’d get in the way of whatever mischief they were planning. And they had the audacity to have their servants rustling paper in their rooms so that if I walked by I’d think they were working!”

“Of course such childish tricks would not be effective against a perspicacious teacher such as—”

“That is not the point! Empress, you know that I have tried my best to teach the children, but even the most patient man has limits. Running away from their punishment essays was bad enough, but look at this. Look!” He dropped the satchel from his shoulder and twisted around to show the empress the back of his robe.

In childish zyndari letters, a couplet was painted on the fabric:

The faces of the courtiers and ladies-in-waiting and palace guards twitched as they suppressed the urge to laugh.

Ruthi glared at them. “Do you think it’s funny to be compared to the foolish man in Lurusén’s poem who played the zither for cows and then complained about not being understood? No wonder learning has such a hard time taking root in such thin soil.” Empress Jia’s retinue blanched and looked away.

Jia ignored the implied insult. “But another way of looking at this,” she offered in a soothing voice, “is to be pleased at the fact that your emphasis on the classics has clearly made an impression. I’ve never known any of the children to quote Lurusén—except maybe Timu, since he has always been studious—”

“You think I should be pleased?” Ruthi roared, and even Jia flinched. “To think that I once debated Tan Féüji and Lügo Crupo on the proper path of government! I’ve been reduced to being insulted by impish children—” His voice cracked, and he blinked hard a few times, took a deep breath, and added, “I’m going home to Rima so I can hide in a hut in the woods and continue my scholarship. I’m sorry, Empress, but the emperor’s children are unteachable.”

A new voice boomed into the scene. “Oh, Master Ruthi, how you wrong the children! My heart breaks to see them so misunderstood.”

Ruthi and Jia turned to find the speaker. Coming down the corridor from the other direction was a middle-aged man whose well-cut robe could not quite disguise his beer belly. Wearing a sad expression, he was surrounded by a retinue of his own courtiers and guards: Kuni Garu, now known by the court name of Ragin, Emperor of Dara.

Thank you, Jia mouthed at Dafiro Miro, Captain of the Palace Guards, who was walking at the head of the emperor’s retinue and nodded back in silent acknowledgment. Miro had run away to find the emperor as soon as Zato Ruthi started shouting at the empty rooms belonging to Prince Timu, Prince Phyro, and Princess Théra.

Even in his rage, Zato Ruthi couldn’t quite ignore the rules of courtly decorum. He bowed deeply. “Rénga. I apologize for losing my temper, but it is clear that I have lost the children’s respect.”

The emperor shook his head like a rattle drum. “No, no, no!” He wrung his hands dramatically to show his distress. “Oh, this reminds me so much of my youth, when I studied under Master Tumo Loing. Why is it that the Garu children are always cursed with being misjudged?”

“What do you mean?” Ruthi asked.

“You have completely misunderstood the couplet composed by my sons and daughters,” said the emperor.

“I have?”

“Absolutely. A father knows his children best. The three of them were clearly ashamed by their behavior—whatever it was they did—”

“They made up a silly story about Kon Fiji being tricked by a folk opera troupe instead of practicing—”

“Right! Terrible, just terrible! And so they realized that they had to apologize to you.”

Ruthi’s face went through a complicated series of contortions as he struggled to phrase the question in respectable language. “How is painting this note on my back an apology?”

“You see, they’re comparing themselves to cows, dumb beasts who don’t understand the beauty of the music played to them. And what they’re saying is, to paraphrase a bit, ‘Master, we’re truly sorry that we have made you angry. We would like to take up the heavy plow under your guidance and labor in the fields of knowledge.’ ”

Led by Captain Dafiro Miro, the gathered courtiers and ladies-in-waiting nodded vigorously in appreciation and chimed in to support the emperor like a chorus of twittering birds.

“Such humble princes!”

“The princesses are truly contrite!”

“I have never, ever heard a more heartfelt note of contrition!”

“Where’s the court historian? He must record this tale of the dyran-wise teacher and falcon-brilliant students!”

“Don’t forget the emperor as cruben-astute interpreter!”

Kuni impatiently gestured for them to be silent. The attendants meant well, but there was such a thing as too much support.

Jia tried to maintain a straight face. She was recalling the time of their courtship, during which Kuni’s unorthodox interpretations of Lurusén had played an important role.

As Ruthi pondered the emperor’s words, his face seemed to relax a bit. “Then why did they write this secretly on the back of my robe? I think it happened when Phyro offered to give me a back massage while I continued to lecture the others on rhetoric. That is hardly how you offer a sincere apology.”

“As Lügo Crupo once said, ‘Words and actions must be read under the guiding light of intent.’ ” Kuni sighed. “Perspective is everything. My children were trying to enact the Moralist maxim that a sincere apology must come from the heart and not be done for mere show. Apologizing to you right after your angry lecture would hardly show much sincerity. By writing this on the back of your robe, they were hoping you’d see it when you changed for the night and could perceive their true meaning in a moment of quiet contemplation.”

“But why have they run away instead of working on their essays in their rooms, as I told them to?”

“That is… er…” The emperor seemed to have trouble fitting this piece into the tale he was weaving, but just then the actual culprits arrived: Risana, Imperial Consort, proceeded down the corridor with the three truants in tow.

“Lady Soto and Chatelain Krin caught them trying to sneak back into their rooms,” said a smiling Risana. “They were disguised as commoners, and no doubt that was why the guards sent into the city to look for them couldn’t locate them right away. Soto and Otho brought them to me, and I’ve told them how much trouble they’re in, so now they’re here to explain themselves.” She bowed to the emperor and empress in deep jiri.

“Da!” shouted Phyro, and he ran up to the emperor and hugged his legs.

“Father,” said Théra, grinning as if nothing was wrong. “Have I got a story for you!”

“Rénga.” Timu bowed deeply, touching his palms to the ground. “Your loyal but foolish child stands at service.”

Kuni nodded at Théra and Timu, and gently but firmly pried Phyro off his legs. “I’ve been explaining your clumsy apology to Master Ruthi, who’s very angry.”

Timu looked confused. “What—”

“Yes, your apology.” Kuni cut him off and looked at Théra and Phyro severely. The three conversed for a moment with their eyes.

“Oh, yes… that was my idea,” said Phyro. “I felt so bad after Master Ruthi yelled at us that I had to do something to make it right.”

“I thought that looked like your chicken scratch,” said Kuni. “And then you decided to run away, no doubt out of shame, am I right?”

“That was my idea,” said Théra. “I thought we should show how sorry we were with action, not just words. So I suggested that we get some presents for Master Ruthi before we wrote our punishment essays.” Keeping her head bowed, she walked up to Zato Ruthi and presented a pair of small plates to him. “I bought these plates from a merchant, who said they were made in Na Thion, your hometown.”

“But those are meant as receipts for the prom—” Timu held his tongue as Théra glared at him.

Théra stole a glance at Kuni, and father and daughter exchanged almost undetectable smiles.

Ruthi examined the plates and shook his head. “These look like they’re from some cheap tavern—look, there’s even a painted sign here for the illiterate. Is this a three-legged kunikin? And what are these numbers written on the back?”

“Oh no!” Théra gave a cry of shock, and her face fell. “I did think they looked a bit too coarse, but the merchant made it sound so convincing! He told me the numbers represent the kiln and the artist.”

“That’s ridiculous! You have to be careful out there in the markets, Théra. They’re full of swindlers.” Ruthi might be scolding, but his voice was kind. “Still, it’s the thought that counts.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” said Phyro. He patted his robe and retrieved a half-empty bag of sugar-roasted peanuts from a sleeve. “I got these for you because I know you like peanuts.” Then he looked embarrassed. “But they smelled so good that I couldn’t help but try a few….”

“That’s all right,” said a mollified Ruthi. “It’s hard for a young boy to resist temptation. When I was your age, I spent all my allowance on candied monkeyberries… but Phyro, you must learn better self-control over time. You’re a prince, not a street urchin.” He turned to Timu, his best student. “And what do you have to say for yourself, young man?”

“Uh… I didn’t really… um…”

Kuni frowned.

Jia sighed inwardly. Her son had always been proper and kind, but lacked the wit to sense when he needed to play along with a story line. She was about to speak when Risana cut in.

“I’m sure that as the firstborn, Prince Timu felt that he had to find the best gift to express his regrets. But you didn’t see anything in the markets that would suit the high regard and honor of your esteemed teacher, did you?”

Ruthi looked at Timu, who nodded with a flushed face.

Risana went on. “So you decided that you have to express your sentiments with a well-written essay later tonight.”

Since Risana was known for her ability to intuit the true feelings of those around her, the children had always been more forthright with her than with their other parents. Ruthi was convinced.

“The sentiments were proper and your hearts were in the right place,” said Ruthi to the children, sounding more like a grandfather than the Imperial Tutor.

“All credit is due to your diligent teaching, of course,” said Jia. “I’m glad we cleared up this terrible misunderstanding.”

“However, since they’ve made you so angry,” said Kuni, putting on a severe mien, “more punishment is in order. The three of them should be made to clean the latrines with the servants for a week, I think.”

The children looked dejected.

“But Rénga,” said a horrified Ruthi. “That seems far out of proportion compared to their offense. This all started because the children were bored while studying Kon Fiji’s Morality. I think the essays I assigned were punishment enough, and everything else that happened later was just a series of misunderstandings.”

“What?” asked Kuni, incredulity straining his voice. “Bored by the One True Sage? That is even worse! Two weeks of latrine duty! Three!”

Ruthi bowed and kept his head lowered. “It is understandable that Kon Fiji’s abstract precepts would feel too dense to them. The princes and princesses are so intelligent that I sometimes forget that they’re still young and spirited, and it is at least in part my fault for pushing too hard. A teacher who demands too much from his charges is like a farmer yanking up the seedlings, hoping thereby to help them grow while achieving the opposite. If you’re going to punish them, then please also punish me.”

The three children looked at each other, and all three fell to their knees and bowed to Ruthi, touching their foreheads to the floor. “Master, it is our fault. We’re truly sorry and will try to do better.”

Kuni reached out and lifted Ruthi by the shoulders until he was standing straight again. “You need not reproach yourself, Master Ruthi. I and the mothers of the children are grateful for the care you’ve devoted to teaching them. I leave their punishment entirely in your hands then.”

Slowly, accompanied by the children, Zato Ruthi headed for his suite back in the family quarters of the palace, his vow of going home to Rima forgotten.

“Oh, Master Ruthi, did you know that the Hegemon yearned for understanding?” Phyro asked as he skipped next to his teacher.

“What are you talking about?”

“We listened to this really great storyteller in—”

“In the markets”—interrupted Théra before Phyro could ruin the hard-earned peace by mentioning the pub—“as we were passing through.”

“In the markets, yes,” said Phyro. “He was telling us all about the Hegemon and King Mocri and Lady Mira. Teacher, will you tell us more stories about them? You must know a lot about what happened then, just like Auntie Soto, and those stories are much more exciting than… um, Kon Fiji.”

“Well, what I know is history, not fairy tales told by your governess, but maybe there is a way to incorporate more history into your lessons if you’re so interested….”

Kuni, Jia, and Risana listened as the voices—Phyro chatting and giggling, Ruthi patiently explaining—faded down the corridor, relieved that another family crisis had been averted. Having the Imperial Tutor resign over “unteachable” princes and princesses would have been quite a scandal, especially coming during the month of the Grand Examination, a celebration of scholarship.

“My apologies, Rénga,” said Captain Dafiro Miro. “I should have kept a closer eye on the children and not allowed them to sneak out of the palace without protection. This lapse in security is unforgivable.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Risana. “It’s hard enough watching regular children. With them, it’s ten times worse. I know you feel you’re constrained in what you can do because they’re your lords, but I give you permission to drag Phyro back by his ear if he tries something like this again that puts their safety at risk.”

“I give you permission too, with Timu and Théra,” said Jia. “They’re certainly getting out of hand, and now I’m wondering if they’re even taking the herbs I prescribed them each morning—the recipe is supposed to make them a bit more contemplative and less wild!”

Kuni laughed. “Let’s not treat spirited children as though they’re in need of medicine! Is it really so bad to have them wander the markets without a bunch of guards and servants by their sides? How else can they learn about the lives of the common people? That was how I grew up.”

“But the times are no longer the same,” said Jia. “Their status as your children makes them vulnerable to those who would wish you ill. You really shouldn’t be so indulgent with their antics.”

Kuni nodded in acknowledgment. “Still,” he added, “Phyro’s antics remind me a lot of myself.”

Risana smiled.

A momentary frown flickered across Jia’s face, but soon it was again as placid and regal as before.

“Ada-tika is very upset to have been left behind,” said Phyro as he came into Théra’s room and slid the door closed behind himself. “I gave her all the candied monkeyberries I had and she still threw a tantrum. Auntie Soto is telling her a story now, so we have some time to ourselves.”

“I’ll try to think of some adventure next time that will include her,” said Théra.

“I’ll go read her a book later tonight,” said Timu.

Ada-tika, whose formal name was Princess Fara, was Kuni’s youngest daughter. As her mother, Consort Fina, had died early, all the other children tried to be extra solicitous of her.

Consort Fina had been a princess from the House of Faça. Kuni Garu had married her to reassure the old nobles of Faça, as that realm had been one of the last to be conquered by the army of Dasu and there were no important figures in Kuni’s closest group of advisers and generals from Faça. It was planned as the first of a series of political marriages for the new emperor. However, Fina had died giving birth to Fara, and Kuni had stopped any further discussions of political marriages, arguing that it was a sign that the gods did not favor such unions.

“There’s not much time left before dinner if we want to help Zomi,” said Phyro.

“I know,” said Théra. “I’m thinking.” She chewed on her nail as she turned the problem over in her head.

Inspired by the courage of the cashima—and, though this wasn’t said, also out of a sense of gratitude for her vigorous defense of the honor of their father, the emperor—the children had promised to help Zomi get into the Examination Hall despite the loss of her pass. Zomi had thanked them for their concern, but she clearly had not taken seriously the promise of three children in a pub—even if they sounded like they came from a wealthy family. She gave them the address of her hostel only reluctantly and emphasized that she didn’t have time to play games.

“We should have told her who we are,” said Phyro.

“Her lack of faith will only make our success more delicious,” said a smiling Théra.

“We can’t let people know we were out in the streets dressed like commoners!” said Timu. “It’s utterly against protocol.”

Phyro ignored him. “Why don’t we just go directly to Da and ask him to make an exception?”

Théra shook her head. “He can’t be seen as intervening on behalf of any candidate to bend the rules for any reason. It would damage the perceptions of fairness.”

“Can’t we just ask Da to send an airship to take her back to Dasu and get Uncle Kado to write her a new pass?”

“First of all, Uncle Kado isn’t in Dasu—he’s hunting in Crescent Island,” said Théra. “And you know he lets his regent run everything in Dasu for him, so he wouldn’t even know who Zomi is.”

“Then why don’t we just send Zomi to see the regent?”

“Dasu is much too far away. It would take two days to get there, even in the fastest airship. We don’t have that kind of time because the Grand Examination is tomorrow. You do need to study more, Hudo-tika. You have no sense of geography. Besides, such a public gesture would embarrass Zomi and might prejudice her chances in the examinations.”

“Then… can we talk to Uncle Rin?”

Théra pondered this. “Uncle Rin is in charge of security at the Examination Hall and he’s always been good about playing along with us, so that’s not a bad idea. Problem is, the passes are collected along with the final answers from all the test takers and turned in to the judges in matched sets. Getting Zomi into the hall isn’t enough; we also have to give her a real pass. Even the Farsight Secretary has no authority to make examination passes.”

“Can’t we just forge a pass for her?”

“Do you think Uncle Rin’s security procedures are just for show? He cuts the passes out of a single sheet of paper with golden threads embedded at the paper mill so that the pattern on each one is unique, and then he distributes the blank passes to all the provinces and fiefs by the projected numbers of cashima. Any passes that are unused are sent back. At the end of the examination, he puts all the used and unused passes together like a big puzzle by matching their golden threads, and any forged pass will stick out like a sore thumb because it won’t fit.”

“How do you know so much about this?” Timu finally broke into the discussion, his voice full of wonder. “I had no idea you were so interested in the Imperial examinations.”

“I used to daydream about taking the examination myself someday,” admitted Théra, her face flushed.

“Wh-what?” asked an incredulous Timu. “But that’s not—”

“I know that’s not possible! You don’t have to explain—”

“But why would you even want to?” asked Phyro. “It’s a ton of work!”

“As princes, you’ll both get to work on something important for Father when you’re older,” said Théra. “But for me and Fara… we’ll just be married off.”

“I’m sure he’d give you something to do if you asked,” said Phyro. “He says you’re the smartest of all of us, and there are some women officials too.”

Théra shook her head. “They’re as rare as cruben horns and dyran scales… besides, you don’t understand. It’s okay for you to work for Father without any qualifications because you’re boys and are expected to… take over for him some day. But for me—never mind, this isn’t important right now. Let’s focus on how to help Zomi. We need someone who has the authority to issue passes, and we have to convince them to give Zomi another chance.”

“While you’re doing that,” said Timu, “I’m going to get started on the essays for all of us. I’m no good at plotting, but I can at least free you up. Just remember to save some time later tonight to copy over my drafts in your own handwriting.”

Though Timu made it sound easy, Théra knew that ghostwriting for her and Phyro wasn’t trivial. Not only did Timu know just the right references to make and the correct moral lessons to draw and the proper structure for assembling the arguments, but he also took care to phrase things so that the essays he wrote for them actually sounded like they were written by Phyro and Théra. Timu really was very intelligent, just not in a way that pleased their father, and Théra could tell Timu sometimes envied her and Phyro, though he tried not to let it show.

“Thank you, Elder Brother,” said Théra. “But I don’t want you to do that. Phyro and I will write the essays ourselves.”

“We will?” asked a surprised Phyro.

“We will,” said Théra firmly. “Maybe the ‘apology’ started as just another prank, but I do feel bad about what we did to Master Ruthi. He really does want the best for us—he didn’t even want us punished more than we deserved.”

“Well, maybe he’s not that bad,” Phyro said grudgingly.

“Besides, Phyro, remember the story about the Hegemon and King Mocri. This is a matter of honor.”

Phyro’s eyes brightened. “Yes! We’re like the Tiro kings of old: honorable princes and princesses with the grace of kings.”

“I’m very glad to hear that,” said a relieved Timu. “Writing an essay with the sort of logical errors Hudo-tika habitually makes is torture.”

The maids and servants hurrying through the halls of the palace did not slow down as crisp peals of laughter and indignant cries of protestation echoed around the Imperial family quarters.

“…we couldn’t think of anyone else who could help us,” said Phyro.

“No one,” affirmed Théra. “This is a task requiring Fithowéo-like courage and Lutho-like wisdom, not to mention Rufizo-like compassion and—”

“And Tazu-like recklessness,” interjected Gin Mazoti, Queen of Géjira and Marshal of Dara.

Gin was receiving the children in her bedchamber instead of a formal sitting room. In a lot of ways, the children treated her as family.

She had arrived at the Imperial palace just that day. She didn’t visit the capital often, as administering Géjira and overseeing the affairs of the empire’s scattered but vast military kept her busy, but the first Grand Examination of the Reign of Four Placid Seas was a special occasion, and she had high hopes for a few of Géjira’s scholars to distinguish themselves.

“Er… I wouldn’t quite put it that way,” said Théra. “I think we should focus on the bravery and wisdom and compassion—”

“Flattery does not become you, Rata-tika,” said Gin. “You’ve come to recruit me as your coconspirator because you want me to shield you from your father’s rage when your silly scheme blows up.”

“Indeed you wrong us, Auntie Gin! Perspective is every—”

“Oh, stop it. Do you think you can outwit me with your tricks? Remember, children, I knew you when you were still making dumplings out of mud and waving willow branches as swords. I understand the way your minds work. As the peasants would say, ‘Soon as you loosen your belt, I know the color of your shit.’ ”

The children giggled. This was one of the reasons they liked Auntie Gin—she never put on airs with them and spoke to them as colorfully as she would to her soldiers.

Now in her thirties, Gin Mazoti still kept her hair closely cropped to the skull, and her compact body, despite her life as a queen, remained muscular and nimble, like a craggy reef standing against the sea, or a coiled snake ready to strike. A sword leaned against the dresser to the side—though no one other than a member of the Imperial family or a palace guard was allowed to carry weapons in the palace, Queen Gin had been given this singular honor by Emperor Ragin. She was the commander of all of the empire’s armed forces, perhaps the most powerful noble in all Dara, and yet now she was being pestered by children to play a dangerous game—breaching the security of the Grand Examination.

Life with Kuni Garu is always interesting.

“Help us, Auntie Gin,” said Phyro. He put on his cutest smile and added a bit of whine. “Pleeeeease.”

Gin had always liked Phyro the most of all of Kuni’s children. This was only in part because Phyro was bright and always begged her for stories about the war. In truth, Gin had a better rapport with Consort Risana than Kuni’s other wives. During the time of Kuni’s rise, Jia was held by the Hegemon as a hostage while Risana rode by Kuni’s side, and Gin had come to respect her as an adviser to the king. Secretly, she hoped that Kuni would designate Phyro the crown prince.

“It’s true that I still have a few extra passes,” said Gin. “But the rules say that they’re meant for specific uses such as to replace the lost pass of another test taker from Géjira, not to get someone from Dasu into the Examination Hall.”

“But this is an extraordinary circumstance,” said Théra. “She lost her pass only because she was being brave; she was defending the innocent.”

“She was defending Da’s honor,” added Phyro.

“Sometimes courage and honor have costs,” said Gin. “She could always go home and wait another five years.”

“But in five years, she’d have to compete against all the new and old cashima again for the few places allocated to Dasu.”

“She’s already passed the second-level examinations once. I’m sure she can distinguish herself one more time.”

“Are you worried that she’ll do better than the scholars of Géjira?”

Blood rushed into Gin’s face and she stared at Théra for a moment, but then she laughed. “You’re getting better at manipulation, Rata-tika, but I was deploying stratagems before you could even walk.”

Théra’s face turned red at having her trick seen through, but she refused to give up. “Would you have been happy if Prime Minister Cogo Yelu had not recommended you to my father back on Dasu but instead told you to wait patiently to distinguish yourself in time?”

Gin’s face turned somber. “You’re too bold, Princess.”

“She deserves an opportunity, as did you. She’s not some wealthy merchant’s daughter, and she doesn’t come from a family of scholars. In fact, she’s so poor that she has to wear a painted sword because she can’t afford to buy a real one. I thought of all people, you would have some compassion for her. Have you been a queen for so—”

“That’s enough!”

Théra bit her bottom lip but said no more.

“Auntie Gin,” Phyro piped up. “Are you scared of the empress?”

Gin frowned. “What are you talking about, Hudo-tika?”

“I heard the empress tell Prime Minister Yelu that she wanted him to administer this examination with extra fairness and adhere strictly to the rules. She told him, ‘Too many nobles think they can get their friends’ children a pass into the Examination Hall with effusive recommendation letters. You must ensure that the results are just.’ ”

“Did she?”

“Yes. She wrote an angry letter to Marquess Yemu because he gave one of his passes to his nephew, who didn’t score as well as some of the other candidates, and the marquess had to apologize.”

“What did the emperor say about this?”

Phyro scrunched up his brows. “Let me think… I don’t think Da said anything.”

“He didn’t even offer Yemu a chance to explain himself?”

Phyro and Théra shook their heads.

Gin looked thoughtful for a while as she pondered this information, and then she locked gazes with Théra once more.

“Does the empress know about this friend of yours?” She spoke in the commanding tone of the Marshal of Dara, with none of the affectionate indulgence she habitually used with the Imperial children. “Don’t lie.”

Théra swallowed, but kept her gaze steady. “No. Mother wouldn’t understand.”

Gin waited a beat. “Just why are you so obsessed with getting this young scholar into the Grand Examination, Princess?”

“I told you. Because she’s brave!”

Gin shook her head. “You know perfectly well how serious your parents are about the rules governing the examination; yet here you’re almost begging for a scandal—”

“I am telling you the truth! Why would I—”

“I may not have Consort Risana’s skill with reading what is in people’s hearts, but I know there’s more to this than being impressed by an act of bravery! What is it that you really want?”

“I want fairness!” cried Théra. “The rules are unfair!”

“What’s unfair about the rules? Everyone needs a pass—”

“But I can’t get a pass no matter how hard I try!” Théra shouted. Phyro, who had never seen his clever, imperturbable sister in such a state, stared at Théra, his mouth agape.

Gin waited.

Théra managed to get herself under control. “She’s a girl just like me, but at least she has the option of taking the examinations to prove herself. Even if Father gave me an official position, the scholars would protest that it is unseemly for a princess to administer and everyone will whisper that it’s only because I’m his daughter. No one will listen to a thing I say. I want to take the exam like the other cashima and prove that I belong. But since I can’t, I’m going to make sure she gets her chance.”

“You are much too young to sound so disappointed with the world. Haven’t you studied Kon Fiji’s precepts about the proper place for a noblewoman of great wisdom? There are other ways of exerting influence—”

“Kon Fiji is an ass.”

Gin laughed. “You’re indeed your father’s daughter. He didn’t have much use for the great sage either.”

“Neither do you,” said Théra defiantly. “Master Ruthi might not talk about you much, but I’ve heard the stories about you and him.”

Gin nodded, and then sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re not unlucky to come of age in a time of peace. Many of the rules that the sages tell us are indispensable get suspended in a time of war.”

Then she got up, looked through her traveling desk until she found a small stack of papers, and retrieved the top sheet.

“What is your friend’s name?”

Phyro and Théra gave her the logograms for Zomi’s name.

“ ‘The Pearl of Fire’? That’s pretty,” said Gin as she dripped wax onto the blank form and then carved out the logograms with a few powerful strokes. “As the name is also derived from a plant, it is a good match for the House of Dandelion. Perhaps this is a good omen.”

She retrieved the Seal of Géjira and pressed an impression into the wax skirt around the logograms. “Here.” She handed the filled-out pass to Phyro.

“Thank you, Auntie Gin!” said Phyro.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Théra.

Gin waved dismissively. “Let’s hope your friend is as worthy as you claim.”

Long after the children had departed, Gin remained sitting at her desk.

At her back, a man emerged from behind a screen. He was lithe, long-limbed, and moved gracefully. Though the dark skin of his face was deeply lined and his hair graying, his green eyes shone brightly with an intense energy.

“It is a pretty name,” the man said. “Perhaps as refined as her mind.” He paused, as if deciding what more to say. Then he added, “She’ll have more chances even if she doesn’t get to attend this session of the Grand Examination, but you have just meddled in the administration of the examinations outside the bounds of your domain.”

Gin did not turn around. “Don’t lecture me again, Luan. I’m not in the mood.”

The voice that replied was warm, though tinged with a hint of sorrow. “I’ve said all I had to say at the banquet in Zudi five years ago. If you weren’t going to listen to me then, you certainly won’t listen to me now.”

“I was once given a chance to rise; perhaps it is the will of Rufizo that I give this girl her chance.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

Gin turned around and chuckled. “I have missed that foolish earnestness that passes for your wit.”

But Luan wasn’t smiling. “I know why you wrote out that pass, Gin. You might be a great tactician, but you… don’t know much about the game of politics. You suspect that my warning to you five years ago was right, and you’re now trying to test whether Kuni’s faith in you still holds as Jia is lining up the pieces for her son.”

“You make me sound like an insecure and jealous wife. I know what I have done for the House of Dandelion.”

“Puma Yemu’s contributions were also great, Gin, but Kuni didn’t even intervene to give him a chance to save face when Jia humiliated him. If you cannot sense the shifting winds—”

“I am not Puma Yemu.”

“This is a clumsy move, Gin. It will not end well.”

Gin flopped carelessly onto the bed. “We’ll speak no more of this. Come and join me. Let’s see if you’ve stayed in shape after five years of drifting about in a balloon.”

Luan sighed, but he obediently came to bed.

^{CHAPTER FOUR} GRAND EXAMINATION

The Examination Hall was a breathtaking sight.

The hall was one of the only cylindrical buildings in the Harmonious City, with a diameter of about four hundred feet. Built atop the old site of Mapidéré’s Imperial armory, right outside the walls of the new Imperial palace, it was about as tall as one of the watchtowers of the city, and concentric circles of gilt shingles on the roof gleamed in the sun, making the building appear as a gigantic blossom—some claimed they saw a chrysanthemum; others a dandelion.

The building also served as the centerpiece of the academic quarter of the city, which, in addition to the Examination Hall itself, consisted of the Imperial Academy, where the firoa—those who had passed the Grand Examination by scoring within the top one hundred of all candidates—could pursue in-depth study with specialists in various subjects; the Imperial Observatory, where astronomers surveyed the stars and divined the fate of Dara; the Imperial laboratories, where renowned scholars conducted research in various fields; and the neat rows of dormitories and individual houses for resident and visiting scholars.

After ascending to the throne, Emperor Ragin had made scholarship a centerpiece of his plan for rebuilding Dara, and Pan was now growing to rival Ginpen in Haan as a center of learning. Those who distinguished themselves in the examinations could serve the emperor through posts in civil administration or by exploring and extending the frontiers of knowledge.

The inside of the Examination Hall was airy and open, as the interior was simply one large, high-ceilinged, circular room. Multiple rows of windows honeycombing the top half of the cylindrical wall and a massive, eyelike skylight in the center bathed the interior in sunlight. The floor was divided into concentric rings of stalls by eight-foot-tall partitions for the test takers, with a capacity close to two thousand. At the center of the hall was a tall pillar that raised a platform into the air, just below the ceiling, like the crow’s nest on a ship. The examination administrators sat on this platform, where they had a panoptic view of the proceedings to detect cheating. Halfway up the wall, above the test takers but below the administrators’ platform, was an elevated walkway that went all the way around the hall for the patrolling proctors, adding further security.

As the sun rose over the walls of the palace, Duke Rin Coda, Imperial Farsight Secretary, looked over to Cogo Yelu, Prime Minister, who sat next to him on the central platform.

“Back when we were all in Zudi, did you ever think a day would come when the best and brightest of Dara would have to answer one of your questions and follow my directions if they wished to advance?” Rin asked.

Cogo smiled placidly. “I think it’s best not to dwell on the past. This day is about the future.”

Chagrined, Rin turned back to face the entrance of the Examination Hall and intoned, “Open the doors!”

The cashima came from every corner of Dara: the fabled ancient academies of Ginpen, whose walls and porticos were draped with ivy and morning glory; the open-air schools of Müning, where lecturers and pupils roamed from hanging platforms to flat-bottomed boats floating over the sparkling waters of Lake Toyemotika; the fog-shrouded forums of Boama, where teachers and students debated ideas in the morning before heading to the sheep pastures for exercise and leisure; the hamlets scattered in the Ring-Woods surrounding Na Thion, where solitary scholars contemplated nature and art; the gleaming, grand, and richly furnished classrooms of Toaza, where cosmopolitan attitudes mixed with commercial purpose; the stone-walled learning halls of Kriphi, where ancient virtues were extolled to dull the pain of recent suffering; the private knowledge gymnasiums of Çaruza, where straw mats lined the floor so that students could study books as well as the martial arts of wrestling, boxing, and swordsmanship.

They were the best students in all of Dara. Emperor Ragin’s system, devised by Prime Minister Cogo Yelu and Imperial Tutor Zato Ruthi, was a continuation and refinement of the ancient examination systems developed in the various Tiro states and under the Xana Empire. With standardized questions and uniform scoring systems, the goal of the Imperial examinations was to filter and sieve all the talent that Dara had to offer and bring forth the best to serve the emperor, regardless of the examinees’ origins.

Every year, students from across Dara took part in the annual Town Examinations in the nearest large town. Answering questions on a variety of subjects from astronomy and literature to mathematics and aquatic and terrestrial zoology, those who passed earned the rank of toko dawiji. Out of a hundred students who took the exams, perhaps no more than ten or twenty accomplished this feat.

Then, every two years, the toko dawiji took part in the Provincial Examinations, in which the scholars had to compose essays on various topics. The essays were judged on criteria such as erudition, insight, creativity, use of evidence, and beauty of calligraphy. Out of a hundred toko dawiji, perhaps no more than two or three would pass and obtain the rank of cashima.

Finally, every five years—and this would be the first time since the founding of the Dandelion Dynasty—the cashima of each province and fief gathered at the regional capital and were selected to participate in the Grand Examination. Since each fief or province was allocated only a limited number of passes, the governor or king or duke or marquess would have to pick the attendees based on their test scores, character, recommendations, presentation, and a host of other factors. The selected cashima, the cream of the crop, gathered in Pan.

All of them had been preparing for this moment for years, some for the entirety of their lives. Some had passed the Provincial Examinations on their first try; others had tried multiple times during the days of the Tiro kings and under the Xana Empire without success, and then, as the rebellion and the Chrysanthemum-Dandelion War interrupted all examinations, did not get another chance until their hair had turned white. Their journeys here had been long and arduous, far more than just a ride in a bumpy carriage or a voyage across the sea, consisting also, as they did, of long hours spent poring over the scrolls of the Ano Classics and volumes of commentary codices, and the deprivation of the joys of youth, the lazy summers as well as the idle winters.

The dreams of entire families hung on them: Nobles who had won their titles by the sword and horse hoped their descendants would add honor to those titles with the writing knife and brush; merchants who had amassed vast fortunes sought the cloak of respectability made possible only by a learned offspring in Imperial service; fathers who had failed in their own pursuit of glory desired to see those dreams redeemed by their sons; clans who hoped to leap out of obscurity pooled their resources to support a single, brilliant child. Many had paid expensive tutors who claimed to know the secret of writing the perfect essay, and even more had paid charlatans who sold crib sheets and cram notes that were as expensive as they were useless.

The cashima streamed into the Examination Hall, each presenting a pass to the guards for careful inspection. Each test taker was also patted down to be sure that the voluminous folds of the robes and the long sleeves of the wrap dresses did not conceal sheaves of paper filled with dense notes written in zyndari letters as tiny as the heads of flies or precomposed essays by some hired ghostwriter. No one was even allowed to bring in a favored brush or writing knife, or a good luck charm obtained at the Temple of Lutho or the Temple of Fithowéo—the Grand Examination Hall, after all, was a battlefield for scholars! The stakes of the Grand Examination were so high that the temptation to cheat was great, and Duke Coda was determined to run a flawless test.

Rin Coda read from the instructions as the examinees found their assigned stalls and settled in:

“For the next three days, your stall will be your home. You will eat in it, sleep in it, and use the chamber pot you find inside. If you must leave for any reason, you forfeit your place in this year’s exam, because we cannot permit the possibility of any outside contact.

“You will find in your assigned stall a scroll of fresh silk as well as scratch paper, brushes, ink, wax, and a writing knife. Your final composition must fit inside the wooden box in the upper right-hand corner of the desk with the cover closed, so plan your logograms carefully. Food will be brought to you three times a day, and two candles are provided for illumination at night.

“Do not try to communicate with any other examinee, whether by tapping on stall walls or passing notes or some other ‘creative’ method. Any such attempt will lead to immediate disqualification, and the proctors will escort you out of the Examination Hall.

“You have until sundown on the third day to complete your answer. I will issue a warning an hour before the end, but when I call time, you must already have the final composition inside the box, ready to be handed in. Do not try to beg for an extension.”

Rin paused and looked around: Close to a thousand pairs of eyes stared up at him, hanging on his every word. Paper was laid out before them; brushes were inked and poised; clumps of wax lay in dispensers. Rin smiled and basked in the significance of this moment.

He cleared his throat and continued, “This year’s essay topic has been chosen by the emperor himself.

“ ‘If you were the prime adviser to the Emperor of Dara, what is the one policy you would immediately advocate to improve the lives of the people of the Islands? Consider history as well as the future. Thoughts from the Hundred Schools of philosophy are welcome, but do not be afraid to offer your own views.’

“You may begin.”

For most of the examinees, the next three days would be recalled as among the most arduous in their lives. The Grand Examination was not merely a test of knowledge and skill of analysis, but also a trial of endurance and steadfastness of will and purpose. Three days was in fact much too long for one essay, and an examinee’s worst enemy was self-doubt.

Some went through all their scratch paper in drafts on the first day and had to make do with writing palimpsests; some began transcribing to silk too quickly and ended up cursing as they changed their minds about an inopportunely placed wax logogram that could not be shifted or dislodged without marring the silk; some stared at the wall for hours, trying to remember that one perfect reference from the epigrams of Ra Oji that was just on the edge of recall, slipping out of grasp like some silvery fish darting into the dark sea; some bit their nails to the quick as they tried to divine the emperor’s own thoughts on the question so as to craft an answer to flatter.

Six hours after the start of the test, the first examinee broke down. A fast writer, he had already finished his essay and begun to copy it onto the silk before he realized a fatal hole in his reasoning. Scraping off so much wax and starting over would ruin his calligraphy, but leaving the logograms in place would result in a flawed argument. Seeing years of effort wasted due to a bout of impatience was too much for him to bear, and he began to scream and cut himself with the writing knife.

The test administrators were prepared for this eventuality. Four proctors were at his stall in a moment and carried him out of the Examination Hall to be treated by a doctor and then sent back to his hostel to recover.

“Shall we wager on how many will make it through the full three days?” asked Cogo Yelu. “My guess is fewer than ninety out of a hundred.”

Rin Coda shook his head. “I’m glad that Kuni and I never had the ambition for the examinations.”

As the first day came to an end, the duke and the prime minister left their observation platform to retire for the night, but the proctors continued to patrol around the Examination Hall. Large oil lamps were lit in the cardinal directions, and the proctors manipulated the curved mirrors behind the torches to focus the light into bright beams that highlighted individual stalls at random in order to catch any attempts at cheating.

The examinees were now faced with a dilemma: Was it better to use up the two candles on the first night to finish up a good draft and leave the revisions and calligraphy to the next two days? Or was the more strategic choice to get a good night’s sleep on the first night and save the candles for an all-nighter the second night? As the hours ticked by, about half the stalls remained lit while the other half went dark, but sleep was hard to come by as neighbors rustled paper and shifted on their sitting mats, bright spotlights roamed overhead, and the fear that time was being wasted gripped the heart.

Three dozen more examinees had to be carried out of the hall during the night after breaking down under the pressure.

The second day and the second night were worse: The smell of unwashed bodies and leftover food and filled chamber pots assaulted the noses of the examinees, and some resorted to desperate measures to eke out every advantage. Some calculated how much wax would be needed for the final version of their answers and added the rest to the burning candles to stretch out the period of illumination; some, having run out of paper, began to use the walls of the stalls as scratch space; some heated the metal spoons that came with their bowls of soup and rubbed them against the other side of the silk to gently soften misplaced logograms so that they might be pried off without damaging the surface; some used the coconut juice they were served to thin out the ink and make it last longer; a few even started to carve their final drafts in the dark, feeling and shaping lumps of wax by touch.

The proctors noted each such instance of rule bending and came to consult with Rin and Cogo.

“I don’t think these count as cheating,” mused a frowning Cogo. “At least I don’t think the rules explicitly prohibit such acts.”

“We should give them a break,” said Rin magnanimously. “I’m pretty sure Kuni would be impressed by some of these tricks.”

A few dozen more examinees had to be removed as they fainted from exhaustion or lost control over themselves due to the intensifying stress. Clusters of empty stalls now dotted the Grand Examination Hall like calm atolls in a sea of activity.

Finally, as the sun rose on the third day, the examinees entered the final stretch of their competition. Almost all of them were now copying the finished essays onto silk, carving the wax logograms with meticulous attention to detail and inking the zyndari letters that served as glosses with flowing curlicues. The box for the final essay was very shallow, and the logograms had to be strategically placed on the scroll to allow it to be folded sufficiently flat to fit—each mountain needed a matching valley, and each exclamation required a subdued lament. The examination was not merely an exercise in reasoning and persuasion, but also a practical problem in three-dimensional geometry.

Those who had chosen to pull the all-nighter on the second night now realized their error: Their hands, shaking with exhaustion, could not hold the knife steady and left uneven surfaces and jagged cuts in the wax. A few decided that the only remedy was to take a quick nap, though a couple of them would, to their horror, find themselves oversleeping the deadline.

As the sun dipped below the walls of Pan, Rin Coda stood up on the observation platform and issued the one-hour warning.

But few of the scholars stirred from the general torpor. Most had decided that one more hour wasn’t going to make a difference. They folded their essays, placed them in the boxes, and lay down on their mats with their arms over their eyes. A few leapt into frenzied motion, realizing that they would never finish in time.

“Knives and brushes down!” shouted Coda, and for the examinees, the declaration was the sweetest sound they had heard in three days. It was the order that released them from hell.

“I have done the best I could, Teacher,” whispered Zomi Kidosu as she closed the cover of the box and sat back in mipa rari on the mat lining the floor of her stall. “The rest is up to chance.”

She wished her teacher were still around so that she could ask him about the decision she had made on the way to Pan, the secret that she hoped would not ruin all she had accomplished. But she was on her own now.

So she prayed to both Lutho, the god of calculation and careful planning, and Tazu, the god of pure randomness, as her teacher had taught her to do.

^{CHAPTER FIVE} MIMI

On a winter day in the twenty-second year of the Reign of One Bright Heaven, which was also a year of the orchid and the last year of Emperor Mapidéré’s life, a little girl was born to Aki and Oga Kidosu, a poor fishing-farming family in a small village on the northern shore of Dasu.

Though the family had few possessions, the tiny hut was always warmed by the glow of joy. Aki tended to the vegetable garden and mended the fishing nets and made stews out of leftover fish and wild herbs and garden snails and pickled caterpillars that tasted as divine to her family as the delicacies served in the grand palaces of Kriphi and Müning. Oga spent the days plowing the sea with the other fishermen and nights patching holes in the wattle-and-daub walls, entertaining his wife and children with stories he made up on the fly. The older children took care of the younger and learned their parents’ trades by helping them. They led a life that was common but not commonplace, meek but not mean, tiring but not tiresome.

The baby girl cried loudly as she was born, but her voice was soon drowned out by the howling wind.

On that same day, Emperor Mapidéré’s fleet left Dasu to explore the route to the Land of the Immortals.

During the last years of his life, Mapidéré became increasingly obsessed with the pursuit of life extension. Self-styled magicians and alchemists swarmed the court, offering elixirs, potions, spells, rituals, exercises, and other measures to halt or even reverse the ravages of time on the body. The dazzling array of solutions all shared one feature, however: a requirement of massive expenditures by the Imperial court.

Year after year, no matter how much money the emperor paid to the men with glinting eyes and whispered promises, no matter what exotic exercises, diets, or prayers the emperor engaged in, he grew older and more sickly, and even killing the lying scoundrels seemed not to improve things one iota.

Finally, just as the emperor was about to give up, two men from Gan, Ronaza Métu and Hujin Krita, came to him with a story that reignited the emperor’s ashen heart.

There was a land to the north, they said, below the horizon, beyond the northernmost islands of Dara, beyond the scattered isles that provided haven for the pirates, beyond the reefs and atolls where the drift-gulls nested, beyond the reach of the fiery fingers of Lady Kana, goddess of death, where men and women enjoyed the blessing of immortality.

“The inhabitants of that realm know the secret of eternal youth, Rénga, and we know the way. All you have to do is to bring a few of the immortals back and ask them for their knowledge.”

“How do you know this?” asked the emperor in a hoarse whisper.

“The merchants of Gan are always in search of new lands and new trade routes,” said Hujin Krita, the younger and more well-spoken of the two. “We have long been intrigued by the many tales of the wonders of that land.”

“And we have combed through ancient tomes for passing references and examined strange wreckages hoarded by storm-cursed fishermen for clues,” said Ronaza Métu, who had a steadier, more calculating presence. “The web of deduction points to an inevitable conclusion: The Land of the Immortals is real.”

Mapidéré looked with envy upon the men’s strong limbs and handsome, arrogant faces, and the emperor seemed to hear the sound of jangling coins in the merchants’ voices. “Stories may be just the insubstantial mirages of Lady Rapa’s dream herbs, hardly worthy of belief.”

“Yet what is history but a record of stories told and retold?” asked Krita.

“And wasn’t a united Dara nothing more than a dream, Rénga, until you made it real?” asked Métu.

“The world is grand and the seas endless,” said Krita. “All stories must be true in some corner of it.”

The emperor was pleased by their speech. There was little logic to the men’s reasoning, but sometimes logic was not as important as belief.

“Tell me the way then,” said Mapidéré.

The men looked at each other and then turned back to the emperor. “Some secrets cannot be shared before their fulfillment, not even with the Emperor of Xana.”

“Of course.” The emperor smiled bitterly on the inside. He had learned a few things about men like these over the years, and he was sorry to detect the familiar signs of another swindle. But he could not resist the seductive song of hope. “What do you propose?”

“Well…” The men hesitated. “The Land of the Immortals is very far away, so we’ll need a fleet of powerful ships, almost floating cities, to survive the long journey.”

“What about airships?” the emperor asked.

“Oh, no! It will be a journey of months, perhaps even years—much too far for the meager supplies that airships can carry. You must build a special fleet for the arduous journey based on our designs.”

Is skimming from the construction funds how they plan on profiting from this scheme? the emperor wondered. No matter, he had ways of dealing with such eventualities. “One of you will be in charge of the construction of the ships, while the other can gather the crews and supplies. I will give you whatever you need.”

The two men looked pleased.

“When the expedition is ready,” the emperor continued, “one of you will command it and the other will stay here to wait for the good news”—he watched the faces of the men carefully—“with me.”

The men looked at each other. “You should go, old friend,” said Krita. “You’re the better sailor.”

“No,” Métu said. “You should have the honor of going because you’re better at persuasion. I will stay and care for both our families. I know you will not disappoint us or the emperor.”

There is no honor among thieves, mused the emperor. If they’re truly frauds, neither of them should want to stay and face my wrath when the other doesn’t return. Yet they each have volunteered to stay and they’re willing to leave their families behind, so perhaps they really do know of a way to the Land of the Immortals.

Night and day, Mapidéré’s shipwrights labored to construct great city-ships based on the merchants’ designs: each as tall as the watchtowers of Pan and with a deck wide and long enough to allow a horse to gallop. They had deep holds for supplies that would last years and luxurious staterooms reserved for the immortal guests on the return journey. In total, a crew of twelve thousand skilled sailors, dancers, cooks, dressmakers, carpenters, blacksmiths, soldiers—some to impress the immortals with the height of Dara’s culture and others to persuade the immortals of the wisdom of obeying the emperor’s orders through more forceful means, should that turn out to be necessary—were conscripted for this expedition into the unknown waters of the north. A prince, born of one of the emperor’s less favored wives, would come along on the expedition as a gesture of the emperor’s esteem for the immortals.

Crown Prince Pulo personally came to send off the fleet from Dasu, the northernmost of the Islands of Dara. He led the crew in a prayer to Kiji, Lord of the Sky and Winds, and Tazu, Master of Sea Currents and Whirlpools. Then he gave the order to fill in the eyes painted on the bows of the ships so that they could peer through the mist and waves to find their way.

The day was cold, but the sky was clear and the sea calm. It was a good day to be off on an expedition.

The storm began as soon as the mast of the last ship had dipped below the horizon. The wind howled across land and ocean, tearing roofs off huts and bending trees until they snapped. Sheets of rain poured from the sky, making it impossible to see beyond one’s outstretched hand. The dignitaries and officials who had come to see the fleet off ducked into basements, shivering with terror as thunder roared overhead and lightning flickered across the sky.

Three days later, the storm stopped as abruptly as it had begun, leaving a bright rainbow arcing over the sea.

Prince Pulo ordered airships to scout the seas for signs of the fleet. They returned after three days, having found nothing.

While the navy was being summoned, all the fishing boats of Dasu were immediately dispatched into the ocean. By this time, most suspected that the fleet had been lost, and the fishermen were told to look for survivors. In reality, the only one they cared about was the prince. Though it was doubtful if the emperor even remembered his name—why else would he have been chosen for such a fool’s errand?—he was still a son of the emperor, and the governor and the magistrates of Dasu were terrified of the consequences if they didn’t demonstrate sufficient zeal in this effort.

So the fishermen were not allowed rest. As soon as they returned, they were told to go out again, and to sail farther. No matter how tired or sleep-deprived they looked, they were not allowed to go home unless and until the prince was found.

Many never returned.

Prince Pulo waited by the coast. He had given up hope of seeing his little brother again, and he was just waiting for wreckage to be washed ashore. But none of the flotsam that showed up on the beach seemed to be from the fleet.

On the tenth day after the end of the storm, a large naval fleet finally arrived from Müning in Arulugi Island, but Prince Pulo said, “Call off the search. This is the season for storms and we don’t need to put more lives at risk. I will inform my father.”

Ronaza Métu, who had stayed behind to assure the emperor of the explorers’ faith in their mission, swore that the fleet must have sailed beyond the reach of the airships and the fishing boats sent to look for it. The storm was nothing but Lord Kiji’s unique way of speeding the ships along.

But Emperor Mapidéré had a different interpretation of the omen. Kiji and Tazu had broken up the fleet and devoured the pieces until there were no signs of the ships ever having existed. This was surely the gods’ way of informing him that he had been duped again.

Métu was put to death, along with all the males of his and his companion’s families within three degrees of relatedness. The emperor didn’t particularly care if the blood would appease the gods, but at least he was satisfied. He hoped he had shown enough zeal for his dead son not to haunt him in this life and for himself to not feel embarrassed if they met again in the afterlife.

Storms like the one that had wiped out the fleet were not exactly unheard of in Dara. In the lore of Dasu and Rui, such storms were described as the result of tempestuous Kiji being angry with his sibling gods, and children born during such storms were sometimes said to be extraordinarily lucky. But the priests of Kiji and the clan headmen of Dasu didn’t record this particular storm in their divination books or family shrines, for had the emperor not already spoken? The hour was cursed.

Yet Aki Kidosu wasn’t willing to defer to their judgment. Her husband had spent only a few nights with their new baby daughter before the magistrate drafted him into the flotilla plying the winter sea to look for the unlucky prince on the expedition to the Land of the Immortals.

“Please, Your Grace, my wife and young daughter need me,” Oga had said. “This baby is a surprise, coming as my wife thought that her childbearing days were long behind, and the nuns of Tututika warned us that she needed extra care—”

“Childbirth is a natural part of the life of women,” the magistrate said. “Men of talent should be honored to serve the emperor. I am told that you’re the best sailor and swimmer hereabouts. You must go.”

“But my sons are already helping with the search, and surely we can take turns—”

“I have also been told that you’re a teller of stories,” said the magistrate, his voice turning severe, “a crafty fisherman with a tongue as slippery as an eel. Do not try to wiggle out of your duty.”

“I’d like to return the next day—”

“No, you will go farther than anyone else because you win the spring boat race every year. If you return before any of the others, I will name you a traitor.”

One by one, the other fisherfolk returned, weary and empty-handed. Crown Prince Pulo’s departure had finally assured the magistrates that they had discharged their duty, and the wearied men and women were allowed to go home and rest.

But Oga was not among them.

“Please,” Aki begged the magistrate. “The other fishing families of the village are too exhausted to go out to the sea again. Can you not ask the navy or the airships to search for him?”

“Impudent woman!” the magistrate chided. “Do you think the Imperial navy and air force should be redirected to look for a mere fisherman?”

“But he was out looking for the prince! He was serving the emperor!”

“Then he should be pleased to have given his life.”

After the men and women of the village had recovered enough strength, they did go out on their own to look for Oga. They insisted that Oga’s sons stay home with their mother—one potential tragedy was more than enough for a family. One after another, they returned with empty boats and mumbled apologies to Aki.

But she was not going to accept that he was gone until she had seen his body. The destitute and the humble were as powerless before hope as the emperor had been.

“Pa will be back when the sorghum is ready for the harvest,” she whispered to the new baby after feedings. Aki called the baby Mimi because the way the baby smacked her lips and rooted for milk reminded her of a kitten. “I know he’ll have so many great stories to tell you.”

“My Mimi-tika, don’t you worry. Papa’ll be home soon, b’fore the next flurry,” Aki sang in lullabies. “He’ll give you piggyback rides and pretend to be your ship in a raging sea.”

“I think he’ll be home before the end of the summer. A year is a long time away at sea,” Aki said, her voice singsongy with false cheer. “Maybe he was rescued by some pirates, and he’s been regaling them with tales of adventure, like he used to do with the other fishermen on winter nights.”

“You’re already two! Papa is going to be so impressed when he sees you.” Then Aki sighed when she thought no one could hear her.

She combed the beaches for wreckage every morning, and she continued to ask the crews of the fishing boats returning home if they’d seen anything while out at sea. She prayed to Lord Kiji and Lord Tazu every evening.

Once a year, when she went to the markets of Daye after the fall harvest to raise the rent for her landlord, she inquired at the governor’s mansion for news of captured pirates and whether any of them matched the description of her husband. The officials shooed her away like a buzzing fly. They had more important things to worry about: A new emperor, Erishi, was on the throne, and there were rumors of distant rebellions. There was no time to deal with a crazy woman who refused to accept the fact of her husband’s death when so many had already died in much less mysterious ways.

After leaving the governor’s mansion, Aki also made sure to stop by the shrine for Lord Kiji to make an offering and seek advice. The monks and nuns told her to be patient and to trust in the gods, but they often abandoned her, sometimes midsentence, to attend to the well-dressed masters and mistresses who came into the shrine bearing chests filled with gifts for Lord Kiji and his attendants.

Like most children of the poor, Mimi was in the fields and on the beach helping her mother as soon as she could walk.

In spring, while her mother and brothers, who were almost a dozen years older, pulled the plow, she toddled after, pushing the sorghum and millet seeds into the soil step after step. In summer, she pulled fat caterpillars off the leaves in her mother’s vegetable garden, crushed the heads and dropped the still-wriggling bodies into a lotus-leaf pouch so that they could be roasted later as a snack—this was how the poor who could not afford meat satisfied their craving for something savory. During fishing season, even before she was old enough to go out as an apprentice to the other fishermen, she patched nets and helped prepare the fish for drying and paste making, wincing as the sharp scales sliced her palms and the salt stung her fingers—until calluses covered her hands so that they looked like taros dug out of the ground.

“Your hands look just like mine,” said her mother. It was neither praise nor lament, but a statement of fact. Mimi agreed that her mother’s assessment was correct, though her hands were much smaller.

She wore the clothes that her two brothers had long outgrown, which were now barely more than rags. She made her own shoes out of bits of driftwood tied to her feet with spare fishing lines. She never knew the texture of silk, though she saw the sons and daughters of the wealthy pass by their field on horses sometimes, the hems of the iridescent robes and dresses fluttering like pieces of clouds torn from a sunset.

Mimi’s life was no different from the lives of the innumerable children of the peasantry all over Dara. It was the fate of the poor to toil and endure, wasn’t it?

But in play, Mimi stood out. It wasn’t that she was unfriendly, but she seemed to have trouble fitting into the subtle web of power and hierarchy that held sway among children at play. While the other children of the village chased each other through the fields and had mud fights and elected kings and queens and reenacted the drama of society, she preferred to wander by herself, staring up at clouds drifting across the sky or watching the surf gently pounding the beach.

“What are you looking at?” the other children sometimes asked.

“I’m listening to the wind and the sea,” Mimi answered. “Can’t you hear it? They’re arguing again… and now they’re making up jokes to tell each other.”

That was the other thing about Mimi, she could talk. She was conversing with her mother in complete sentences long before her second birthday, and she listened to conversations between adults with understanding in her eyes. Everyone remarked on her cleverness.

Perhaps the child is destined to speak to the gods, Aki thought. There were many legends of great priests and priestesses and monks and nuns being able to discern the will of the gods from the signs they left in nature. But she put the thought out of her mind immediately. She couldn’t even afford to send any of her children to the village schoolmaster, let alone make the contribution to the Temple of Kiji required of a novice.

Then came the rebellion against Emperor Erishi and the Xana Empire, and new kings sprouted all over Dara like bamboo shoots after spring rain. War raged throughout the islands, though Dasu was thankfully spared the worst of it. When the Marshal of Xana, Kindo Marana, gave the call, many young men from this small island in the Xana heartland joined the army to put down the rebellion on the Big Island. Some went in search of glory; some went for food and pay; still others were taken by the army regardless of their wishes—including Mimi’s brothers.

None of the young men ever returned.

“My sons will come home with their father,” Aki said. She prayed even harder. Sometimes Mimi prayed with her. All the men in their lives were gone, and what else could they do? Hope was the currency that never ran out, and it was the fate of the poor to toil and endure, wasn’t it?

Mimi tried to listen for signs in the wind and the sea, to read the tides and the clouds. Did the gods hear their prayers? She wasn’t sure. The rumbling of the gods seemed to tell her their mood, but their speech was maddeningly just beyond comprehension. What did it mean that the winds that carried the voice of Kiji, patron of Xana, seemed to be filled with anger and despair while the tides that spoke for Tazu, the god of confusion and disarray, grew in wild pleasure? What was the import of this particular utterance? Of this other turn of phrase?

She strained to make sense of the world, but the world was shrouded in a veil that could not be pierced.

When Mimi was five, she woke up one night, disoriented. Her mother was soundly asleep by her side, and she couldn’t remember the dream that had awakened her. She felt a premonition of something important happening beyond the walls of the hut, and she got out of bed, tiptoed her way to the door, and slipped out.

The sky was completely dark, with no moon and no stars. A faint breeze came from the sea, carrying the familiar briny smell. But out on the northern horizon, where the sea met the sky, flashes of lightning flickered, and the distant rumbling of thunder came to her, delayed and muffled.

She squinted and peered at the horizon. Indistinct shapes seemed to reveal themselves in the murky blend of sky and sea as the lightning flashes continued. A giant turtle, as large as a floating island, was limned in the hazy sky-sea like some hovering airship and swam jerkily to the west as the lightning bolts strobed. Behind it was the outline of an even more massive shark that snapped its jaws as it darted through the sky-sea, leaping up in powerful arcs from time to time and revealing teeth made up of jagged trails of lightning. Though the turtle seemed to be paddling its flippers leisurely and the shark swinging its tail in a frenzy, the shark never caught up to the turtle.

She knew that the turtle was the pawi of Lutho, god of fishermen, while the shark was the pawi of Tazu, god of the destructive nature of the sea. She watched the drama avidly like a show put on by one of the traveling folk opera troupes.

Then the eerie light show in the sky-sea changed again, and now she saw a ship with a strange design being tossed in the waves. It was circular in shape, like half of a coconut shell or a lily pad bobbing up and down in the tempest. A single massive mast, pure white in color, poked up out of the center of the ship like the stalk of a lotus flower, though the sails had long been furled or else torn away by the wind. Tiny figures were trying to hang on to the rigging and gunwales of the ship, but a few seemed to be shaken loose with each rise and fall and tumbled noiselessly into the waves. The unsteady illumination of the lightning seemed to emphasize the terrible fate that the ghostly ship found itself subject to.

The giant turtle swam up to the ship, dove down, and rose again with the ship lodged securely in the deep grooves etched into the back of its shell, as though the ship was a mere barnacle. Leisurely, the island-turtle continued to swim west, while the shark pursued close behind, tail whipping and jaws snapping. Slowly and inexorably, however, the turtle was pulling away.

Before the sea, all men are brothers.

Mimi felt the instinctive sympathy and terror of all the islanders for those who braved the whale’s way. Before the vast brutality that was the sea, all humans were equally powerless. She cheered and cheered for the turtle and the ship it carried, though she was certain that whoever the refugees in the ship were—ghosts, spirits, gods, or mortals—they were too far away to hear her.

Once more, the great shark leapt into the air, higher than ever before, and, as it reached the apex of its arc of flight, shot out a long, twisting bolt of lightning. Like the tongue of a great python, it reached across the space between the shark and the turtle and struck the ship nestled on the back of the turtle.

Everything froze in the harsh, cold glow of the lightning for a moment, and then darkness hid the scene of destruction.

Mimi screamed.

Once again, the horizon lit up with flickers of storm-glow. The great shark on the horizon seemed to have heard her. Whipping its powerful tail, the shark turned toward the island, and its giant eyes, like the beacons of lighthouses, focused on her. The lightning-jaws snapped open, and after a few seconds, a massive peal of thunder boomed around her, and rain poured out of the sky in a sudden flood, drenching her so completely that she thought she was drowning.

Is this what it’s like to defy the gods? she thought. Is this how I will die?

The shark swam toward the beach, its colossal figure now a looming island of roiling lights. It opened its jaws once more, and a long zigzagging lightning bolt shot out, reaching for Mimi like a long tentacle. Air crackled around the lightning bolt, energized by it and glowing with the heat.

Time seemed to slow down; Mimi closed her eyes, certain that her brief life on earth was about to come to an end.

Some hulking presence swooped over her head, so low that the skin over her skull tightened and tingled. She snapped her eyes open and looked up.

A gargantuan, shimmering raptor dove toward the ocean, toward that flickering tongue of lightning. The falcon’s wings were so wide that they blotted out the sky over her head like a bridge made of liquid silver; the flight feathers at the trailing edges of the wings flashed like shooting stars. It was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen.

The falcon lowered its right wing like a shield to block the advancing lightning bolt shooting from the shark’s jaws. The shark’s eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed, and the hissing tongue of light connected with the raptor’s wing. There was a brilliant, massive explosion of sparks like the eruption of a volcano. Bolts of lightning zigzagged in every direction.

One of the smaller bolts shot out at Mimi and struck her in the face.

She felt a searing tongue of liquid heat tunnel right through her. It was as if she had been turned into a funnel for molten rock that was being poured into the top of her skull; the sizzling lava flowed right through her torso to melt all her organs, and then left through her left leg to sink into the ground.

Mimi screamed. And screamed.

She couldn’t believe how long she remained alert as the heat fried every cell in her body, and the last image she remembered before sinking into the bliss of unconsciousness was the giant falcon of light diving toward the shark while the shark leapt out of the ocean, as though the sky and sea were about to consume each other in a titanic battle.

The lightning strike left Mimi’s face scarred and her left leg paralyzed. For days she lay in bed in a coma, waking from time to time screaming and babbling incoherently about what she had seen on that night.

“She was a pretty child,” said the village herbalist, Tora. Then she sighed. In that sigh were a thousand things assumed but unsaid: the loss of a worthy husband perhaps; the denial of a secure future for Aki, who was without a son; a lament for the inconstant ways of the world.

“She is a hard worker,” said Aki peacefully. “Scars do not take away from that. What can you do for her?”

“I can offer some iceweed for the fever and Rapa’s Lace to allow her to sleep better,” said the herbalist. “Keeping her comfortable is about all we can do…. You might also want to… ask the neighbors to help prepare a grave, just in case.”

“The gods did not give her in my old age only to take her away before she can ask them her purpose,” said Aki stubbornly.

Tora shook her head and mumbled something about the cursed hour of the child’s birth, and then went away.

Aki refused to give up. She curled herself around Mimi in bed and kept her warm with her own body heat. Neighbors brought her the rare seawife’s purse—the dyran egg sacks sometimes found attached to the tips of kelp ribbons in undersea forests—which Aki made into soup and fed to Mimi with a fish-bone spoon to add to the soup’s strength.

Slowly, Mimi recovered. She woke up one morning and looked at her mother with a calm, steady gaze, and told her of what she had seen on the night she was struck by lightning.

“Many are the fantastic figures we see in our feverish dreams,” said Aki.

Mimi did not think that her memories were dreams, but she couldn’t be sure. She decided not to press the point.

Tora was summoned again to see if anything could be done about Mimi’s left leg, which was numb and refused to obey her. It was as if the leg was no longer a part of her, but something alien attached to her body that she had to drag around. Her hip, where the leg connected with her torso, tingled with the pain of a thousand needles stabbing into her.

“I can give you a poultice made of shrimp paste and seaweed for the pain,” said the herbalist. “But this leg… will never walk again.”

Aki smiled and said nothing. It was the fate of the poor to toil and endure, wasn’t it? Surely the gods would not deprive Mimi of the ability to do so.

“It hurts so bad that I can’t sleep, Mama,” said Mimi. “Tell me a story.”

^{CHAPTER SIX} THE HUNDRED FLOWERS

Growing up, Aki had told Mimi many stories that she would recall in later days. But memory was a lump of wax that was reshaped by the knife of consciousness with each recollection, and as Mimi grew up and changed, the way she remembered the stories also changed.

Flowery metaphors replaced homely similes; sophisticated kennings replaced unadorned phrasings; echoes of the Ano Classics replaced the patterns of the sea in her mother’s murmurs. It was as impossible to recall the words of her mother accurately as it was to hold on to the sand slipping between the fingers of a squeezing fist.

But the hearts of the tales remained, and the scent of home lingered in those memories: They were the landscape of her childhood dreams, the shores of her first narratives.

Now, my Mimi-tika, before your father and I had children, we used to entertain ourselves by telling each other stories on long winter nights, after we had coupled and before we could fall asleep. Sometimes the stories were told to us by our parents, and by their parents before them. Sometimes we added to the stories, the way daughters mend and alter the dresses inherited from their mothers, the ways sons adapt and reshape the tools inherited from their fathers. Sometimes we swapped the same story back and forth, changing it in each retelling, the way love is shaped and crafted and polished and built up by two pairs of hands in a space of their own.

This is one of those stories.

You know that the years come in cycles of twelve, and each is named after an animal or a plant. The cycle starts with the Year of the Plum, which is followed by the Cruben, the Orchid, the Whale, the Bamboo, the Carp, the Chrysanthemum, the Deer, the Pine, the Toad, the Coconut, and finally, the Wolf, before starting with the Plum again. The fate of each child is bound up with the plant or animal governing the year in which she was born.

But how did these animals and plants become selected for the calendar? That is a story worthy of telling and retelling.

Long ago, when gods and heroes still walked the earth together and fought and embraced each other as brothers, the years were without character. Each year was as likely to be gentle as a carp drifting in mountain streams, bringing with it bountiful harvest on both land and at sea, as it was to be fierce as an aged pine waving its gnarled branches, bringing with it strife and lean winters.

“My brothers and sisters,” said Lord Rufizo, the compassionate god of healers, one day, “we have let time pass by as an undammed river for too long. But our mother, the Source-of-All-Waters, bid us to care for the people of Dara. We must discharge our duties better by bringing order to time.”

The other gods and goddesses assented to this most excellent of suggestions, and the decision was made to divide time into cycles of twelve, much like the way the mighty Miru River is now tamed by dams and water mills every dozen miles or so along its course. Twelve was a good number, as it accounted for the four worlds of Air, Earth, Water, and Fire, multiplied by the three aspects of time: future, present, and past. And each of the years in the cycle would be named after an animal or plant of Dara so as to give it a guiding disposition. That way, the farmers, hunters, fishermen, and shepherds would know what to expect and thus how to prepare for the long term.

“Civilization is a matter of endowing nameless things with names,” said Lord Lutho, who was always interested in giving everything a bookish sheen.

“I nominate a pair of ravens for the first year…” said Lady Kana.

“…because everyone knows that ravens are the wisest of birds,” finished Lady Rapa.

“No, no, no,” said Lord Tazu, who loved contradicting his siblings. “What is the fun in all of us nominating our pawi? First, there wouldn’t be enough of them to go around; and second, we’ve just fought a war over who among us is supposed to be the first among equals. Do we really want to start that again?”

“What do you propose then, Tazu?” asked Tututika, who also disliked the idea of further argument among the gods.

“Let’s make it a game!”

The other gods and goddesses perked up at this, for the gods, like children, loved games most of all.

“We will let every flower, tree, vine, bird, fish, and beast know that the gods of Dara are selecting champions to guide time. On the announced day, we’ll hide in a corner of Dara, and the first twelve living things to find us will be given the honor of governing the years.”

All the gods and goddesses thought this was a brilliant idea, and the game was on.

“Mama! I want to look for the gods!”

“Whatever for? Don’t you know that nothing good ever comes from bothering the gods when they don’t wish to be bothered?”

“I want to know why! Why is Papa gone? Why have Féro and Phasu been taken away? Why was I struck by lightning? Why do we work so hard and have so little to eat—”

“Hush, child. There aren’t always answers, only stories.”

On the designated day, all the plants and animals raced to search every corner of Dara so that they might be among the lucky few to claim a year as their own.

Some subjects of the vegetable and animal kingdoms sought to accomplish their mission on their own: Sleek whales, largest among fish, raced around the islands to explore every hidden cove and visit every pristine beach before the others; golden chrysanthemums bloomed everywhere and saturated the air with their fragrance, hoping to entice a beauty-loving god or goddess out of concealment; clever ravens swooped over the cities of mankind, their eyes alert for anything that seemed divine rather than mortal; coconuts dropped into the ocean one after another, splashing out novel and pleasing tunes that they hoped might move a listening god to yield an exclamation of delight; golden and red carp danced through the ponds and rivers in scintillating formations, brandishing their diaphanous fins and waving their whiskers to mesmerize and delight the immortals; the lotus turned its thousand-eyed seedpods to every direction in the air and bared the hundreds of openings in its roots to listen for minute tremors underwater, a miniature all-seeing-all-hearing spy tower in operation; rabbits and deer raced across meadows on Écofi and Crescent Islands, each intent upon finding the unusual hump in the sea of grass that might be a god in disguise—unaware that the grasses were also plotting to weave false hiding places to divert the silly herbivores while they themselves sought the gods underground with their sensitive roots.

Others decided to form strange alliances to exploit the unique skills of each creature of Dara. The mighty cruben, sovereign of the seas, allied itself with the glowing sea cucumber—half animal, half plant—so that the illumination from the latter might reveal any gods hiding in the dark recesses of deep undersea trenches and enable the former to catch them; the winter plum, the bamboo, and the pine, the three hardiest plants of winter, allied with the heat-loving desert toad so that while the bamboo groves, pine forests, and winter plum copses whispered to each other across snow-capped peaks, the toads could scour the volcanic calderas; the wolf, fiercest predator on land, made a pact with the clinging vine so that as the wolf packs searched the deep woods and howled, the gods running and dodging might be ensnared by soft vine-webs.

From morning till noon, and from noon till evening, the gods were found one by one.

First, the pine forests, bamboo groves, and winter plum copses, surveying every spot touched by ice in the islands, discovered Lady Rapa in the Wisoti Mountains as a delicate face carved into the glasslike surface of a frozen waterfall. Shortly after this discovery, the toads found Lady Kana as a jagged crack in a vitreous screen of obsidian.

The alliance of fire and ice had paid off.

But not all alliances had such happy endings. The arrogant cruben dove straight for the heart of a swirling patch of turbulence in one of the deepest trenches of the sea, whose inky gloom was illuminated by hundreds of glowing sea cucumbers attached to the head of the cruben like jewels encrusting the tip of a ceremonial staff of power. But at the last minute, right before the cruben closed its jaws gently about the laughing form of shape-shifting Tazu, the sovereign of the seas shook its head and discarded the sea cucumbers from its adamantine scales like a water buffalo shaking loose the gnats clinging to its head. While the cruben shot for the surface in a triumphant surge, the poor, soft, glowing tubes drifted helplessly into the bottomless void like falling stars cast out of heaven.

Such was the risk of serving at the pleasure of the mighty and powerful.

“Mama, why are those with the most power always so bad?”

“Mimi-tika, is the fisherman evil who harvests the fruits of the sea? Is the farmer evil who cuts off ears of sorghum? Is the weaver evil who boils the cocoon of the silkworm and unravels its debut dress—now a shroud?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Great lords—whether mortal or immortal—do what they do because their concerns are not ours. We suffer because we are the grass upon which giants tread.”

In a secluded cove on the northwestern coast of the Big Island, the whales plying the shores of the Islands of Dara discovered an ancient sea turtle whose shell was as cracked as the coral reefs peeking out of the sea.

The whales surrounded the turtle and splashed it playfully with sprays from their blowholes, painting a fine rainbow with the mist.

“Lord Lutho,” said the leader of the whales, a massive dome-headed cow whose gray eyes had seen hundreds of springs, “you are hiding exactly the way we predicted you would.”

The ancient turtle laughed and transformed into the dark-skinned divine seer, the fisherman of dreams and omens. “How do you know that you have not found me exactly the way I predicted you would?”

The whales were confused by this.

“If you had foreseen that we would look for you here,” asked the whale, “why did you not hide somewhere else?”

Lutho smiled and pointed at the rainbow, now fading as the whale-mist gradually dissipated.

“Was it because though you could foresee the future, you could not change it?” The whale asked a different question.

Lutho smiled and pointed to the rainbow.

“Was it because you had foreseen the future but decided that the vision was what you wanted after all?” The whale tried yet a third time.

Lutho smiled and pointed to the rainbow, now barely a hint in the air.

“Was it because—” But this time, the whale couldn’t complete the question. Lutho had disappeared along with the rainbow.

“Mama, why did Lord Lutho point to the rainbow instead of answering?”

“Nobody knows, my baby. The whales didn’t, and neither did your father, our parents, grandparents, or their grandparents before them. That’s why it’s called a mystery. I suppose sometimes the gods have lessons for us we can’t understand through words alone.”

“I think Lord Lutho is not a very good teacher.”

“Good teachers are as rare as the cruben among whales, or the dyran among fish.”

It was no surprise that Lady Tututika, last born of the gods and the one who took the most pleasure in beauty, was ensnared by the symphony of coconuts rhythmically pounding the sea and the golden veil dance of the carp—she manifested herself at the mouth of the Sonaru River, and it is said that one can still get a glimpse of that heavenly dance in the motions of the veil dancers of Faça as musicians tap out beats on their coconut drums.

Neither was it a surprise when Lord Rufizo manifested himself when a yearling fawn tripped and injured himself in the rocky highlands near fog-shrouded Boama. How could the god of healing stand idly by when living creatures injured themselves in pursuit of the gods?

“At least Dara will enjoy a year mild as the deer every cycle of twelve years,” said the green-caped divine healer, and the deer leapt around him in joy at being elevated among the Calendrical Dozen.

And finally, as the sun set in the west, Lord Kiji, the patron of ambitious flight and soaring fancy and wide-open skies, surveyed the Islands of Dara in the form of a Mingén falcon gliding over Dara. The bird, dizzied by a pungent pillar of floral aroma emanating from a garden of blooming chrysanthemums near the meeting place of the Damu and Shinané Mountains, fell out of the sky in a spiraling descent, and as he landed, a pack of wolves pounced on him, holding him down.

“I am caught by the king of flowers and the king of beasts!” said the god of all those who yearned to be above others. “I would call this not a bad way to end the day.”

And there was much celebration in Dara, for the gods sometimes behaved as their natures dictated.

The wolf, however, was not quite as joyous as the others among the Calendrical Dozen; this was because the wolf was the pawi of Lord Fithowéo, and Fithowéo was missing.

“The god of warfare and strife?”

“Yes, baby, those are the domains of Lord Fithowéo.”

“It would have been better if he had never been found. Without him, there would be no wars and all the suffering that comes from them.”

“Ah my Mimi-tika, things are rarely that simple when it comes to the gods.”

As you have probably already figured out, this contest came after the Diaspora Wars, when the divine siblings had fought along with vast armies, and brother had turned on brother, sister on sister.

In one of those battles, in order to protect the hero Iluthan, Fithowéo had fought Kiji for ten days and ten nights. In the end, Kiji’s lightning bolts had taken away Fithowéo’s eyes, blinding him. And so it was that the blind god had not participated in the discussion concerning the calendar but hid himself in an obscure cave deep under the Wisoti Mountains, nursing his wounds and avoiding all living creatures.

Water dripped from the stalactites high overhead, and other than clumps of mushroom glowing here and there like faint stars in the night sky, there was no illumination in the cave. The blind god sat by himself, unmoving and mute.

A scent tickled his nose, so faint that he wasn’t sure whether he was just imagining it. But it was a sweet smell, simple and humble, like a trace of mint in a glass of water after a thundershower, like the lingering fragrance of soap bean on freshly laundered robes left in the sun, like the flavor of cooking fire that caresses a weary traveler’s nose after a long night of hard hiking.

And so, without even realizing that he was doing it, Fithowéo got up and walked toward the scent, following his nostrils.

The smell grew stronger—a night-blooming orchid, he decided, and in his mind arose the image of a white flower with a large labellum like a rolled-up tongue that hid the stiff column in the middle, and four translucent petals that stood above the labellum like the translucent wings of a moth. He moved yet closer to the source of the smell, and as the diaphanous wings brushed his nose, he stuck out his tongue and traced the shapes of the petals. Yes, it was indeed the night-blooming orchid, whose shape was a faint echo of the moth that was said to be its sole pollinator, which emerged only in darkness and under starlight. It was a simple flower that was little valued by the ladies and gardeners, who preferred something more showy and ornate.

The tip of his tongue tasted the sweetness of nectar.

“I can taste sorrow on your tongue,” came a whispered voice.

The god drew back, surprised.

“What could make a god sad?” asked the voice. Fithowéo realized that it was coming from the center of the flower he had kissed.

“What is the good of a god of war who cannot see?” a morose Fithowéo said.

“Can you not see?” asked the orchid.

The god pointed to his empty eye sockets, and when no reply came from the orchid, he realized that of course, in this dark cave, the orchid couldn’t see either.

“I cannot,” he said. “My brother blinded me with lightning bolts.”

“But who told you that you were blind?”

“Of course I’m blind!”

“Have you tried to see?”

Fithowéo shook his head. The orchid was not a creature that could be reasoned with.

“I can see,” said the orchid, “even though I don’t have eyes.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Fithowéo.

“I saw you,” said the orchid, utterly confident.

“What do you mean?”

“I reached out with my fragrance until the tendrils drew you to me,” said the orchid. “It took a while, but I saw.”

“That is not seeing,” declared Fithowéo.

“I can tell you that there are a dozen bats hanging on the ceiling above us,” said the orchid. “I can tell you that there is a swarm of moths who visits me every evening, though none of them is my match. I can tell you that there are furry moles who sniff around this cave when winters are rough. I know these things that you do not, and yet you tell me that I cannot see.”

“That…” Fithowéo was without words for a moment. “All right, I suppose that is a kind of seeing.”

“There are many kinds of seeing,” said the orchid. “Didn’t the Ano sages tell us that sight is simply light emanating from the eyes being reflected back by the world?”

“Actually—” Fithowéo started to say.

But the orchid didn’t let him finish. “I see by shooting out lines of fragrance into the world and drawing back what they touch. If you don’t have eyes, you must find other ways of seeing.”

Fithowéo sniffed the air around him. He could detect the musk of the mushrooms to the left and a stronger, second floral scent—sharper, brighter than the fragrance of the orchid. “Is that a cave rose to the right?”

“Yes,” said the orchid.

“And there’s something else,” said Fithowéo, sniffing the air again. “It smells like mud and the bog.”

“Very good, there’s a pool on the other side of me, filled with wormweed and tiny white fish who have lost their eyes because it’s so dark here.”

Fithowéo took a deep breath and separated the faint smell of the fish from the rest.

“You see,” said the orchid, “you’re already constructing a map of smells.”

Fithowéo realized that it was true. As he turned his face from side to side, he could almost see the glowing mushrooms and the cave roses blooming next to the wall of the cave, as well as the pool of ice-cold water beyond the orchid. Their shapes were indistinct, like a blurry vision after he had had too many flagons of mead.

But after a moment of joy, he was plunged into depression again.

“I can’t just stand around like you,” said Fithowéo. “Smells may be sufficient for a flower rooted to the earth. But they’re not enough for a god of rage and motion.”

The orchid said nothing.

“When fate has taken away your weapons,” said Fithowéo, “sometimes you must yield.”

The orchid said nothing.

“When you have no more hope after a battle fairly fought,” said Fithowéo, “the more honorable course is to give in to despair.”

The orchid said nothing.

Fithowéo strained his ears in the darkness, and he heard something that sounded like the rustling of silk.

“Are you laughing?” Fithowéo roared. “You dare to laugh at my misfortune?”

He stood up and lifted his foot. The smell of the orchid was enough for him to fix her position. A step forward and he would be able to grind the orchid under his foot, flattening her against the jagged floor of the cave.

“I am laughing at a coward who claims to be a god,” said the orchid. “I am laughing at an immortal who does not even understand his own duty.”

“What are you talking about? I am the god of wars and battles! I must see the light glancing off a swinging blade and meet it with my battered shield. I must see the speeding arrow to bat it aside with my gauntleted arm. I must see the foe escaping on foot to pierce him with my enduring spear. What good is a map of smells?”

“Listen,” said the orchid.

Fithowéo listened. In the silence of the cave, other than the irregular dripping of water, there seemed to be no other sound.

“Open your ears,” said the orchid. “You have come to a place of darkness, where eyes that see only with light are useless. Do you think creatures who make this place home stumble through their lives?”

And Fithowéo listened harder: He seemed to hear shrill squeaks, so high-pitched that they were barely audible, crisscrossing the air overhead.

“The bats see by shooting out rays of sound from their throat and catching the echoes with their ears as they bounce back.”

Fithowéo listened, and now he realized that the air was filled with another sound: wings beating rapidly against air. The bats were swooping gracefully in wide arcs near the ceiling of the cave.

“Dip your hands into the water,” said the orchid.

And Fithowéo dipped his hands into the cold water, and he felt a tingling all over his hands, even after he got used to the numbing cold.

“The tiny white fish who live in the water flex their muscles and nerves to generate invisible lines of force that suffuse the water,” said the orchid. “Like the mysterious force that fills the air before a thunderstorm, the invisible lines flex and twist around living beings, and so the blind fish see with their bodies.”

Fithowéo concentrated and he could indeed feel invisible lines of force lapping at his arm, and he imagined the ripples of force echoing back to the tiny fish.

“You call yourself a god of war, but war is not merely the music of steel sword against wooden shield, or the chorus of speeding arrows thunking into leather armor. War is also the domain of struggling against overwhelming odds that neither Tazu nor Lutho would touch, the realm of snatching life from the jaws of fiery Kana without Rufizo as your ally, the province of depriving a superior enemy force of the comfort of restful Rapa using only your wits, the territory of finding an unexpected path to humble proud Kiji despite the lack of all advantages, and the sphere of constructing out of ugliness beauty that would shock extravagant Tututika.

“You have become used to victory achieved at little expense against mere mortals, even if they are deemed heroes. But war consists of not only victories; it is also about fighting and losing, and losing only to fight again.

“A god of war is also the god of those who are caught in the wheel of eternal struggle, who fight on despite knowledge of certain defeat, who stand with their companions against spear and catapult and gleaming metal, armed with only their pride, who strive and assay and press and toil, all the while knowing that they cannot win.

“You are not only the god of the strong, but also the god of the weak. Courage is better displayed when it seems all is lost, when despair appears the only rational course.

“True courage is to insist on seeing when all around you is darkness.”

And Fithowéo stood up and ululated. As his voice filled the cave walls and bounced back to his ears, he seemed to see the stalactites hanging overhead like bejeweled curtains, the stalagmites growing out of the ground like bamboo shoots, the bats careening through the air like battle kites, the night-blooming orchids and cave roses blooming like living treasure—the cave was filled with light.

The god of war laughed and bowed down to the orchid and kissed her. “Thank you for showing me how to see.”

“I am but the lowest of the Hundred Flowers,” said the orchid. “But the tapestry of Dara is woven not only from the proud chrysanthemum or the arrogant winter plum, the bamboo who holds up great houses or the coconut who provides sweet nectar and pleasing music. Chicory, dandelion, butter-and-eggs, ten thousand species of orchids, and countless other flowers—we have no claim to the crests of the great noble families, and we are not cultivated in gardens and not gently caressed by the fingers of great ladies and eager courtiers. But we also fight our war against hail and storm, against drought and deprivation, against the sharp blade of the weeding hoe and the poisonous emanations of the herbicide-sprayer. We also have a claim on time, and we deserve a god who understands that every day in the life of the common flower is a day of battle.”

And Fithowéo continued to ululate, letting his throat and ears be his eyes, until he strode out of the cave, emerged into the sunlight, and picked up two pieces of darkest obsidian and placed them in his eye sockets so that he had eyes again. Though they were blind to light, they sowed fear into all who gazed into them.

And that was how the humble orchid joined the Calendrical Dozen.

^{CHAPTER SEVEN} TEACHER AND STUDENT

And so Aki helped Mimi get off the bed and gave her a crutch she made out of driftwood. She did not tell Mimi how unlikely it was that she would ever gain command of her leg. She simply expected her to figure out a way to do so.

Mother and daughter combed the beach and worked in the fields and helped the fishermen with their catch. Aki strode purposefully ahead, not looking back to see if the hobbling Mimi could keep up. For the common men and women of Dara, every day was a day of battle.

And Mimi learned to brush off the numbness in her leg; she learned to ignore the prickling pain in her hip; she learned to lean and shift weight and strengthen herself until she could walk with a crutch under her left arm.

One morning, as the pair combed the beach, they found pieces of some unusual wreckage. The remnants of spars and bulkheads were not made of wood, but some material closer to bone or ivory, carved with intricate designs of an unknown beast: a long tail, two clawed feet, a pair of great wings, and a slender, snakelike neck topped with an oversized, deerlike, antlered head. Aki brought the wreckage to the clan headman, but the elder could not recall ever seeing anything like it.

“It’s not from the emperor’s expedition,” said Aki, and she made no more mention of it. The world was full of mysteries. The strange wreckage seemed to Mimi to be holes in the veil that hid the truth of the world, but she could not understand what she was seeing.

They brought the wreckage to market and sold it for a few pieces of copper to those who liked collecting curiosities.

But Mimi dreamt of the strange beast long after. In her dreams, the beast fought the storm turtle and the gale shark and the squall falcon, while lightning froze their poses momentarily, creating staccato, chiaroscuro scenes as spare and beautiful as they were terrifying.

She hoped that the turtle did manage to save that dream ship, just as she hoped that the gods had spared her father and brothers.

News arrived that the Xana Empire was no more. A great lord called the Hegemon had toppled the throne of Emperor Erishi in the Immaculate City and restored the Tiro kings of old. Few in the village mourned the empire’s passing—patriotism, like white rice, was a luxury of the well-to-do.

It was said that the Hegemon had butchered the sons of Xana at Wolf’s Paw, including all the young men from the village who had gone to fight for Marshal Marana. For days, people waited outside the door of the magistrate’s home, hoping for news of their sons and husbands and fathers and brothers, but the doors remained shut as the magistrate convened with his advisers and clerks on how to properly conduct himself to curry favor with the Hegemon so as to keep wearing the official’s dark silk hat. The lives of the dead soldiers were not even an afterthought.

Aki did not put up mourning tablets for her sons either. “I did not bury them with my hands,” she said, “and I certainly will not bury them in my heart.”

Sometimes, when Mimi woke up in the middle of the night, she saw her mother sitting on the floor next to the bed, her shoulders heaving, her face turned away. Mimi would put a hand out and touch her mother’s back. The two would stay connected like that in the silence, until Mimi fell asleep again.

Eventually the people left the magistrate’s courtyard and went back to their endless toil, which turned sweat into food and pain into drink. Private shrines to the dead and presumed dead were erected in their houses, but none made passionate speeches about the honor of Xana or spoke of vengeance against the Hegemon. The people were too numbed by sorrow to feel hatred—wars were personal to the great lords, but who could say for sure that the Hegemon bore more responsibility for these deaths than the marshal or Emperor Erishi?

While her brothers and father did not come home, a new king did arrive in Dasu.

King Kuni was a strange lord. He lowered the taxes, did not demand corvée service to build a new palace but paid the laborers to repair roads and bridges, and abolished the old, harsh laws of Xana that had meted out punishment for even sneezing too loudly. He let it be known that men and women of the other islands who had been displaced by the wars were free to come to his island, and he would even help them get settled with free seeds and tools. The elders and widows of Dasu rejoiced: The wars had drained the island of men, and husbands and fathers were in short supply. Though some women agreed to marry into existing households, especially if the families were wealthy, not all wanted such an arrangement.

It was also customary for women in love or in need of each other to be joined in Rapa marriages—the goddess was said to have once fallen in love with an ice maiden. As the folk opera troupes sang:

With the war, the number of Rapa marriages had grown so that women could support each other—it was easier to till the fields and to raise children together. Still, there were many women who preferred men and did not want to share, and strangers were indeed welcome.

Aki, who was asked but never agreed to bind herself in a Rapa marriage, paid no attention to any of the new men who came to settle in their village, though several seemed interested in her. She struggled to till their small plot of land with only Mimi’s help and supplemented their income by helping the fishing crews.

“My husband is away,” she said to anyone who asked. “He’ll be back soon. And my sons, too.”

“Do we have any talent?” Mimi asked her mother one day.

“Why are you asking that?”

Seven-year-old Mimi had returned home earlier to prepare dinner while her mother was finishing up in the field. She had to stand on a stool to reach the boiling pot on the stove—dangerous, but the children of the poor had to learn to do things earlier. A crier had come through the village bearing an announcement from the palace in Daye: King Kuni was looking for people with talent and was willing to reward them, no matter their present station in life.

Mimi repeated the message to her mother, word for word. It ended with this: An oyster clasped in the branches of the most exquisite head of coral is as likely to hold a pearl as one mired in mud.

She had always had an excellent memory: She could repeat stories from Aki after one telling, and she could perform entire folk operas in the long winters to entertain her mother.

“The magistrate’s son is said to be going to the palace in Daye to show the king his skill with the brush and writing knife,” said Mimi. “And the village schoolmaster is holding a contest for his students to select two who can recite the most Classical Ano poems to be presented to the king. I heard Uncle So on the other side of the village is going to show the king his new way of tying knots in fishing nets, and Auntie Tora is thinking she wants to present her collection of herbal remedies. Do we have any talent? Maybe we can also go to the king and live like the magistrate’s son.”

Aki looked at her daughter. She is an extraordinary child. What if the king took an interest in her?

Then she remembered what had happened to her husband. Men of talent should be honored to serve the emperor.

“Talent is like a pretty feather in the tail of a peacock, daughter. It brings joy to the powerful but only sorrow to the bird.”

Mimi pondered this. The veil over the world seemed to grow even thicker.

King Kuni rebelled against the Hegemon. Once again, the men (and women also, this time) of Dasu left the fields and fishing boats to die in distant lands. Aki wasn’t surprised. The dreams of the great lords of the world were built upon the blood and bones of the common people. The blossoming of the golden chrysanthemum required the fertilizer made from the ashes of the Hundred Flowers. That was an eternal truth.

Peace did not come again until Mimi had turned thirteen, when King Kuni became Emperor Ragin, initiating the Reign of Four Placid Seas.

One day, Mimi was in the markets at Daye. She was old enough for Aki to trust her to take care of selling the harvested grain and paying the landlord their rent all by herself. She was a better negotiator than Aki, in any event.

The sons and daughters of the wealthy rode through the streets on horseback, whips singing through the air, and Mimi and the other peasants dodged out of their way. Her hobbling gait and the heavy load of the grain sample bag meant that sometimes she was too slow, and several times the horses came close to trampling her. But Mimi only gritted her teeth and did not complain. Just as there were many ways of seeing, there were many ways of walking.

The scholars and bureaucrats of the emperor rode more sedately through the streets on comfortable carts pulled by teams of horses or men, and they kept their gazes averted from the dirty, numb, malnourished faces of the poor next to the sewer ditches hugging the road.

Mimi tamped down her anger. That was the way of the world, wasn’t it? Emperor Ragin was supposed to care about the lives of the common people, but there were gradations among the commoners as well. As far as she could tell, it was only the people who were already well off who sang the praises of the new reign.

It was as useless to think about how she and her mother could also lead a life of ease and luxury, to be dressed in silk instead of rough hemp, to eat soft white rice instead of sandy millet that scratched their teeth, as it was for a dandelion to think that it could be honored like the chrysanthemum.

A crowd was gathered at the center of the market. Curious and hoping for some exciting performance of magic or acrobatics, she pushed her way through the thronging spectators, wielding her walking stick like an oar through thick mud and water. She was disappointed to see only two men sitting face-to-face on a woven mat at the center, their hair styled in the double scroll-bun indicative of their rank as toko dawiji, scholars who had passed the first level of the Imperial examinations.

“…knows that the closer something is, the bigger it appears, and the farther it is, the smaller,” said the first scholar.

“It is your contention then that the sun is closer at dawn and dusk, but farther away at noon, thus explaining why it looks bigger at sunrise and sunset?” asked the second scholar.

“Plainly,” said the first scholar.

“But everyone also knows that the closer a source of heat is, the hotter it feels. How do you explain the fact that the sun feels hottest at noon but cooler at dawn and dusk, if the sun is in fact farther away at noon?” asked the second scholar.

“Er…” The first scholar furrowed his brows, stumped by this puzzle.

“Simple. Your explanation is wrong!” said the second scholar.

“It is not wrong,” said the first scholar, his face turning red. “The great sage Kon Fiji explained that nature, like human society, follows a discernible structure of hierarchy. The sun is as far above the earth as the emperor is above the common people. It only follows that the gods must have intended the sun to be at its greatest distance from the earth when it is at its apex, symbolizing the grace and nobility of the Imperial throne.”

“But what about the noonday heat, my learned friend?” asked the second scholar.

“That is easily explained.” The first scholar took a drink from his cup of tea and furtively glanced at the crowd around them. Now that so many people were watching, he had to win this debate to save face. He put the cup down and raised his voice, injecting into it an arrogant confidence—sometimes it was enough to sound like one knew what one was talking about.

“Your argument assumes that the sun is at a constant temperature. But that is not so. Employing pure reason, we discover that if the sun feels hottest at its farthest point from the earth at noon, it must also gradually increase in heat as it rises and cool down as it sets. The point at which the sun is hottest is also when it is highest, which is indeed the most perfect design.”

Does the world follow a design that can be perceived? Mimi wondered. Is nature a model for society so that what is natural is also what is just?

She had never heard of such arguments before, and she was mesmerized. The learned men seemed to think that the world itself was a kind of speech that could be decoded. She remembered her attempts to understand the conversation of the gods as a child. She yearned for such knowledge, knowledge that would allow her to interpret the signs of the gods, to see through the veil of the world and get a glimpse of Truth.

“You Moralists always assume the conclusion before the argument,” said the second scholar contemptuously. “It is just as Ra Oji said: A disciple of Kon Fiji is the world’s most powerful lens, for he bends all rays of evidence to focus on his desired opinion. Even if he is idle and has an empty belly, he would argue that it is the fault of the food for not recognizing his moral superiority and actively seeking his belly.”

The crowd roared with laughter.

“In the end, a Moralist convinces no one but himself,” continued the second scholar, pleased that he had the backing of the crowd.

“You Fluxists are good at poking fun at seekers of truth while offering up nothing of use yourselves except witticisms,” said the first scholar, his voice trembling with rage. “What is your explanation for the sun’s changing size then?”

“Who knows? It might indeed be the case that the sun moves farther away as it rises, as you contend, or it might be the case that the sun shrinks as it ascends, like a jellyfish contracting its cap to propel itself upward in the ocean. But your very approach is wrong: We need not force nature into models drawn by our desires. As the Ano sages told us, Gipén co fidéra ünthiru nafé ki shraçaa tefi né othu. We need only conform our life to the rhythms set by nature. I wake up in the crisp morning breeze and enjoy a breakfast of raw strips of whitefish, bought fresh off the wharf and spiced with ginger; I hide in the shade of a great parasol tree to take a nap at noon, dreaming that I am a cuttlefish with a fluttering fin skirt and that the cuttlefish is also dreaming of me; and I wake up at dusk to take a brisk walk along the cooling beach, admiring the looming blush of the setting sun. I much prefer my life to yours.”

“Going with the flow is not the path to approach the reality of the universe. I’m no Incentivist, but Gi Anji was at least headed in the right direction when he pointed out that learned men must understand the world and improve it, for we’re not dumb beasts or dandelions scattered by the roadside, but endowed with the godly impulse to transform the earthly realm to bring it closer to heaven.”

“The reality of the universe must be experienced, not constructed….”

What’s it like to ponder such questions all day? Mimi thought. To not limit one’s thoughts to the weather and the harvest and the fishing haul, to not have to struggle to plan for the next meal and the meal after that, but to be able to imagine and debate the substance of the sun and to believe that it is possible to read the larger patterns of life?

The scholars went on debating in that vein, and the crowd cheered and offered their own observations from time to time. Eventually, the scholars tired of the argument and parted ways, having exhausted their store of classical quotations and learned citations. The crowd dispersed and only Mimi was left, still thinking and replaying the debate in her mind.

“The market is about to close, miss.” A kind voice interrupted her reverie.

“Oh no!” Mimi looked around and saw that it was true. The grain buyers were packing up and driving their carts back to the warehouses. She would have to come back the next day. She was mad at herself—how could she have been so irresponsible?

She saw that the speaker was tall, gaunt, like the trunk of a seasoned pine. He was in his late forties, with graying hair that he tied up carelessly in a loose bun, and his skin was as dark as the shells of the great sea turtles. Though scars on his face marred his otherwise handsome features, his green eyes were friendly and warm in the light of the setting sun.

“You seemed fascinated by that debate,” the man said, an interested expression on his face. “What were you thinking just now?”

Still a bit unsettled, Mimi said the first thing that came to her mind, “Why do so many sages have family names that end in ‘ji’?”

The man looked stunned for a second, and then laughed.

Mimi’s face flushed. She lifted the bag of sample grain over her shoulder and turned to leave, her humiliation making her stumble.

“I’m sorry!” the man said from behind her. “It’s refreshing to hear an original observation. I meant no offense at all.”

Mimi could hear the sincerity in his voice. He spoke with an accent from somewhere on the Big Island, and his enunciation was courtly and graceful, like the folk opera singers who played the nobles onstage.

“It was thoughtless of me,” the man said. “I offer you my apologies again.”

Mimi turned and set down her bag. “What was so funny about what I said?”

The man kept his expression very serious, and asked, “Do you know the work of any of the sages they quoted?”

Mimi shook her head. “I’ve never been to school.” Then she added, “Well, I know the name of Kon Fiji, the One True Sage, because they have him in the folk operas sometimes.”

The man nodded. “Your question makes perfect sense; I just never paid attention to the pattern you noticed. Sometimes we stop questioning things we take for granted. In fact, ‘ji’ is not a part of the family names of the sages. It is a Classical Ano suffix to indicate respect, roughly meaning ‘teacher.’ ”

Mimi heard no condescension in his tone, which made her feel better. “You know Classical Ano?”

“Yes. I’ve been studying it since I was a little boy.”

“You’re still studying?”

“You never stop studying,” the man said, smiling. “Not just Classical Ano, but also many other subjects, math, mechanics, divination.”

“You understand the gods?” Mimi’s heart quickened.

“I wouldn’t go that far.” The man hesitated, as though trying to figure out how to explain a complicated idea. “I’ve conversed with the gods, but I’m not sure they even understand themselves. It is possible that the more we know, the less we need to rely on the gods. And the gods are also learning, the same as us.”

This was such a strange idea that Mimi was at a loss for words. She decided to change the subject. “Was it difficult to learn Classical Ano?”

“At first. But since all the important books and poems are written in it, my tutor made me work at it. Eventually it became as easy to read the logograms of Classical Ano as it was to read the zyndari letters.”

“I don’t know how to read at all.”

The man nodded, a trace of sorrow in his eyes. “I come from old Haan, where every child had the chance to learn to read. Now that the world is at peace, perhaps that will be true not only in Haan, but all of Dara.”

The vision seemed absurd to Mimi, but the voice of the man was so fervent and hopeful that she didn’t want to make him sad. “What did you think of the debate?”

“I think they were both very learned,” said the man, smiling again. “But that is not the same as wise. What did you think?”

“I think they need to weigh the fish.”

The man was taken aback. “Oh? What… does that mean?”

“It’s something my mother taught me. She used to ask me whether I knew why whitefish became heavier over time after you’ve hauled them out of the sea.”

The man closed his eyes, pondering this. “That is indeed puzzling. I would have thought that as the water left the flesh, the fish would become lighter over time, not heavier. Is it something unusual about the structure of the whitefish? Maybe the flesh absorbs moisture from the air? Or perhaps the whitefish, when alive, contains some kind of gas that lightens it, like the Mingén falcon? Or—”

Now it was Mimi’s turn to laugh. “You’re acting just like I did, assuming what someone is telling you is true. Instead, you should be weighing the fish.”

“And what would you find out if you did?”

“Whitefish doesn’t get any heavier over time. It was a story made up by unscrupulous merchants who blew air into the bellies of their fish to make them seem bigger. And when their fish turned out to weigh less than other fish of the same size, they argued that their catch was fresher, which was why they weighed less.”

“How would you apply this story to the debate?”

Mimi looked at the setting sun. “I have to go home before it gets dark, but if you come and meet me by the wharf north of the city tomorrow morning, I’ll show you.”

“I’ll certainly do that. By the way, what is your name?”

“Mimi, of the Kidosu clan. And yours?”

The man hesitated for just a second, and then said, “I’m Toru Noki, a wanderer.”

The next morning, Toru showed up at the wharf at the crack of dawn.

“You’re prompt,” said Mimi, pleased. “I wasn’t sure if you would take me seriously, seeing as how you have the air of a learned man.”

“I’ve had some experience with early morning appointments by fishing wharves,” said Toru. “They usually end up teaching me much about the world.” But he didn’t elaborate.

Mimi stood without leaning against her walking stick, which was planted into the sand of the beach. Attached to the top of the bamboo pole was a horizontal crossbeam, at one end of which was mounted an old, small bronze mirror whose center was brightly polished. At the other end was a circular frame made from a thin stalk of bamboo with a banana leaf stretched taut across it.

She adjusted the mirror until an image of the rising sun was reflected onto the banana leaf. She carefully traced its outline with a piece of charcoal.

“You designed this yourself?” Toru asked.

“Yes,” Mimi said. “I’ve always liked to look at things in nature: the sea, the sky, the stars, and the clouds. The sun is too bright to look at directly, so I figured out this way of looking at a reflection.”

“It is very well conceived,” said Toru admiringly.

“We’ll have to do this again at noon. You can come back later or wait nearby. I have to go into the city to sell the grain. It’s our only livelihood, and that can’t wait.”

“Your family doesn’t fish?”

“My father used to,” Mimi said, her voice dipping lower. “But my mother doesn’t want me to learn. He… disappeared in the sea.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Toru.

They went into the city, and though Toru offered to help carry the bag of sample grain, Mimi wouldn’t let him (“I’m probably stronger than you”). The man did not insist, which Mimi appreciated. She never liked people to assume that because of her leg, she was less capable than others, and sometimes people had trouble understanding that.

Mimi wanted to try the open market, but Toru suggested that they try the royal palace first.

“The royal palace? But the government usually offers the worst prices.”

“I have a feeling you’ll be surprised.”

Emperor Ragin had given his older brother, Kado, the island of Dasu as a fief and named him King of Dasu. But everyone knew that it was just a symbolic gesture, and King Kado stayed in reconstructed Pan, the Harmonious City, most of the time, leaving his kingdom to be run by the emperor’s bureaucrats like the other provinces administered directly by the emperor. The royal palace used to be King Kuni’s palace, and before that it was the governor’s mansion under the Xana Empire. It wasn’t much bigger than the other houses in Daye, as the city was never a great metropolis like the big cities on the Big Island or even Kriphi, the old Xana capital on nearby Rui Island. Ostentation had never been the emperor’s style, even back when he was just King Kuni.

An acquisitions clerk sat in the yard of the palace, bored out of his mind. Emperor Ragin had a reputation for being frugal, and King Kado’s regent—really the acting governor of Dasu—had given orders to keep the prices offered for grains low. Only peasants with the lowest quality grains, ones that they couldn’t sell to the private merchants, came to try their luck with the government. The acquisitions clerk had had only one vendor approach him all day yesterday, and he expected today to be the same.

Oh, potential vendors! The clerk widened his eyes and took notice. I wonder how bad their harvest has been that they’re willing to come here.

As the clerk examined the two people—the man with his long limbs and open stride, and the limping girl with a walking stick and the heavy bag of sample grain over her shoulder—approaching his desk, he sat up straight and rubbed his eyes.

What is he doing here? He had been in Pan with the regent during the coronation, and he remembered seeing the striking figure of this man standing next to Prime Minister Cogo Yelu and Queen Gin.

He jumped up as though springs had been installed under his bottom. “Er, Grand Sec—er—Imperial Sch—er—” The man is supposed to have refused all titles. How am I supposed to address him?

“The name is Toru Noki,” the man said, smiling. “I have no titles.”

The clerk nodded and bowed repeatedly like a shadow puppet whose tangled strings were being jerked by the puppeteer in an attempt at freeing them. He must have very good reasons for disguising his identity. I’d better not blow his cover.

The girl set the bag on her shoulder down on the ground. “Toru, would you help me loosen the string on the sack? My fingers are a bit numb from holding on to it.”

The clerk watched in disbelief as one of the closest advisers of the Emperor of Dara squatted down like a common peasant to untie the string on the grain sack.

This girl must be very, very important. The clerk turned the thought over in his head and knew what he had to do.

He barely glanced at the grain. “Excellent quality! We’ll buy everything you have. How about twenty per bushel?”

“Twenty?” Mimi sounded amazed.

“Er… how about forty then?”

“Forty?” She sounded even more shocked.

The clerk looked at “Toru Noki” helplessly. This is already four times the going rate in the market! He gritted his teeth. If the regent complained later, he’d just have to explain the situation the best he could.

“Eighty then. But that’s really as high as I can go. Really. Please?”

The girl seemed in a daze as she signed the contract by drawing a circle on the paper with the inked brush.

“We’ll send over the shipping carts in two days,” the clerk said.

“Thank you,” said Mimi.

“Thank you,” said Toru Noki, smiling.

“Good negotiation,” said Toru.

“That wasn’t a negotiation at all,” said Mimi. “Just who are you? That clerk acted like a mouse who had seen a cat.”

“I really am just a wanderer these days,” said Toru. “I’m not lying when I tell you I don’t have a title.”

“That doesn’t mean you aren’t important.”

“Sometimes knowledge can get in the way of a friendship,” said Toru, his tone serious. “I like how we can converse now as equals. I don’t want to lose that.”

“All right.” Mimi nodded reluctantly. Then she brightened. “It’s noon! We should take our second measurement.”

She planted her walking stick into the ground and took out the mirror and the banana leaf and set up the contraption as she had before. The two looked at the image of the noonday sun projected onto the banana leaf. It matched exactly the outline she had traced in the morning.

“As I suspected,” declared Mimi triumphantly. “The sun is exactly the same size at sunrise and at noon. It only looks bigger when it’s near the horizon but actually isn’t.”

“Well done,” said Toru. “It is just as you said: Always weigh the fish. I’ve always believed that the universe is knowable, but your phrasing cuts to the heart of the matter.”

But Mimi felt disappointed. “Their debate sounded so interesting, though. I almost wish the sun did change in size.”

“You can’t build an elaborate house on a bad foundation,” said Toru. “If the basis for their dispute turned out to be illusory, it doesn’t matter how good their reasoning was. There is wisdom in the words of the sages, but one must keep in mind that they didn’t know everything. Models can be helpful in understanding the world, but models must be refined by testing against observation. You have to both experience reality and construct it.”

Mimi pondered Toru’s words. Somehow the veil over the world seemed to have grown slightly more transparent.

Is the world but a model for the ideal in the minds of the gods? Or is the world something beyond the reach of all models, in the same way that what I feel when I gaze at nature cannot be expressed in words?

“That sounds smarter than what both of those toko dawiji said.”

“I can’t take credit for that. It’s a quote from Na Moji, founder of the Patternist school of thinking. I suppose I’m more of a Patternist than anything else, but I think all the Hundred Schools have some wisdom to teach us. They are like different tools for shaping and understanding reality, and a talented craftsman can gain insight into the world and remake it with their aid. I think you have Patternist instincts too, and you have much raw talent. But you have to cultivate it.”

Talent, Mimi thought. The words of her mother came unbidden to mind. Talent is like a pretty feather in the tail of a peacock, daughter. It brings joy to the powerful but only sorrow to the bird.

“What do talent and wisdom have to do with the daughter of a poor peasant?” she asked. “The poor have one path in this world, and the powerful another.”

“Don’t you know the story of Queen Gin? She began as a street urchin, child, and yet she became the greatest tactician in all of Dara by cultivating her talent.”

“That was a time of war, of chaos. Now the world is at peace.”

“There are talents useful in war, and talents useful in peace. I do not know all there is to know about the gods, but I do believe it is not their will that a great pearl lie in obscurity, unable to shine.”

What’s it like to have so many tools of the mind at your disposal that you could dissect reality and put it back together as skillfully as my mother can scale and gut a fish within minutes and turn it into a delicious dinner?

Mimi had never envied the children of the wealthy who went to school and learned to read and write, but now she felt a keen hunger whose intensity was painful. She had been given a taste of the wider world out there, a glimpse of the Truth beneath the surface, a hint of the meaning of the speech of the gods. She wanted more. So much more.

Could not such knowledge be turned into silk clothes and white rice? Into servants and carriages and clinking coins that would relieve my mother and me from toil? Into arrogant looks and proud gazes directed at the road ahead instead of at the thronging poor to the sides?

Abruptly, she turned and knelt before Toru and touched her forehead to the ground.

“Will you teach me, Toru-ji? Will you help me cultivate my talent?”

But Toru stepped to the side, avoiding accepting her prostration. Mimi’s heart sank. She looked up, her eyes narrowed. “What happened to that talk about a pearl not lying in obscurity? Are you too timid to dive into the dark sea to retrieve it?”

Toru laughed lightly, but there was a hint of sorrow and bitterness in it. “You have a fiery spirit, and that is a good thing. But you’re also impatient and cannot hold your tongue, which is not always a good thing.”

Mimi’s face flushed. “I thought you were interested in the truth.”

“It is not enough to sharpen a brilliant mind,” Toru said. His eyes seemed to be focusing on something far in the distance, in time or space. “The road you ask me to lead you on is winding and rugged, and it requires knowing when to delay the truth and how to craft it so that it is more pleasing to powerful ears. These are not skills I possess in abundance either. I can enlarge your vision and show you how to pick out the patterns hidden all around you, but there are patterns, patterns of power, that I cannot teach you to read.”

“Is that why you’re roaming the Islands instead of helping the emperor in the Harmonious City?”

For a moment, Mimi was afraid that she had gone too far, but then Toru’s face relaxed, and he stepped back to stand before her still prostrate form and bowed back to her.

“Perhaps it is the will of the gods that we meet, and who am I to defy their wishes?”

Mimi touched her forehead to the ground three times, solemnly, the way she had seen players from the folk opera troupes do when they portrayed students being accepted by great masters. Toru stood in place, accepting the honor.

“You may call me teacher,” said Toru, “but in truth, we will be teaching each other. As the relationship between a teacher and student is one of great trust, it is important for us to know each other’s true names. ‘Toru Noki’ is a name given to me by some friends long ago in a distant land. My true name is Luan, of the Zya clan of Haan. What is your formal name, Mimi-tika?”

The prime strategist of Emperor Ragin. Mimi stared at the man in wonder. And he has just addressed me as though I am his daughter. She couldn’t believe she wasn’t dreaming. “I… don’t have a formal name. I’ve always just been Mimi, a peasant girl.”

Luan nodded. “Then I will give you a formal name.”

Mimi looked at him expectantly.

Luan mused. “How about ‘Zomi’?”

Mimi nodded. “It sounds pleasant. What does it mean?”

“The Classical Ano logogram for the name means ‘pearl of fire,’ which was a plant in the Ano homeland across the sea. It was said that the zomi was the first plant to grow from the ashes of forest fires and to bring color to a world deprived of it by destruction. May your fiery nature be as auspicious.”

^{CHAPTER EIGHT} A DRINKING PARTY

The celebration of the hundredth day after the birth—or in this case, the adoption—of the son of Mün Çakri, First General of the Infantry, was a wild and unorthodox affair. Not only had General Çakri invited everyone from within three blocks of his mansion—there were over three hundred banquet tables, which spilled out of his courtyard and filled most of the street in front of his residence—but the general had personally wrestled five pigs in a mud pen for the entertainment of all the guests.

So much wine and beer was consumed and so many pigs slaughtered for the feast that the butchers and tavern keepers and sauce vendors in that quarter of Pan would reminisce for years about the day they made “real profit.”

But now that it was getting dark, and most of the guests had finally departed after offering their well wishes and taking home the lucky taros dyed in red, it was time for a more intimate after-party, where General Çakri would finally get to talk to his close friends.

Naro Hun, Mün Çakri’s spouse, finally prevailed upon the redoubtable general to bathe himself before coming out to greet his friends in the family dining room.

“You don’t look much better than the pigs you wrestled,” said a frowning Naro, who had always kept his desk spotless when he was a mere gate-clerk in Zudi. “I am not touching you until you wash.”

“They’ve seen worse,” muttered Mün. “I used to compete with Than to see who could go longer without bathing when we were at war.” But he obediently went into the bathroom and quickly dumped buckets of hot and cold water over himself and came out with a towel wrapped around his waist.

“You can’t possibly think that’s appropriate—” But Mün pulled him into a kiss, and Naro relented. After all, people who had gone to war with you would hardly object to seeing your chest hair.

And so Mün Çakri, semi-naked and cradling the swaddled baby like a precious package, who was napping after his time with the wet nurse, and Naro Hun, handsomely dressed in a new father’s water-silk robe embroidered with stags and swordfish, emerged into the warm dining room, where some of Dara’s most powerful generals, nobles, and ministers were having tea and cakes around a large round table.

“Let me see the baby!” shouted Than Carucono, First General of the Cavalry and First Admiral of the Navy.

“Use both hands!” admonished Mün. “And cradle the head. The head! That’s a baby, not a block of wood, you oaf! Be gentle!”

“He has handled babies before, you know,” said a smiling Lady Péingo, Than Carucono’s wife. “I’ve made a few with him. And the baby will be fine: He’s almost six months old!”

“I cannot believe that I am being told to be gentle by a man who wrestles pigs,” said Than. “I don’t know how Naro puts up with you—you must break a bowl or cup every day. Aha, look at how your baby smiles at me! I’m certain that your beard frightens him.”

“Let me have a turn,” said Puma Yemu, Marquess of Porin. Than handed the baby to him, and Puma promptly tossed the little bundle high into the air.

“By the Twins!—” Mün cried, and Lady Péingo gasped, but Puma caught the baby and laughed.

“I’m going to kill you,” promised Mün.

“I do this with my own kids all the time,” said Puma. “They love it.”

“I’m sure you only do it when Tafé and Jikri aren’t around,” said Lady Péingo, laughing. “You may act all tough among the men, but your wives definitely make the rules governing you.”

Puma smiled and did not dispute this. Gurgling squeals emerged from the bundle in his arms. Naro and Mün rushed over to be sure the baby was all right.

“This is the first time I’ve seen him laugh!” exclaimed Naro.

“Of course,” said Puma. “I told you he’d love it. Babies love to fly.”

Mün pried the baby out of Puma’s hands and glared at him.

“See,” said Puma, “now the baby is going to cry. You look especially frightening with your beard like that.”

“He likes playing with my beard!” Mün proudly stroked his bushy beard, which stuck out in every direction like the spines of a hedgehog. The baby continued to giggle in his arms.

“I certainly hope he turns out to resemble Naro more than you,” said Than.

“That will definitely be the case,” said Mün. “The boy was born to Naro’s sister. She and her husband knew we were looking to adopt, and they were pleased to be able to help us. I will teach the boy everything I know, and nothing will please me more than for him to have Naro’s looks and my skill at fighting.”

Everyone understood that Naro’s sister had likely offered the adoption as a way to gain an advantage for her own family, but there was no need to bring that up at a happy moment like this. It was possible to do something simultaneously out of love as well as self-interest.

“How did you decide on the name Cacaya?” asked Rin Coda. “It’s very unusual.”

Mün’s face turned bright red. “I… like the sound of the name.”

“Does it mean anything?”

“Why does it have to mean anything?” said Mün, getting more defensive. “This is just a nursing name. We won’t have to pick an auspicious formal name for years.”

But Rin, with his farseer instincts, sensed that there was more to this story. “Come on, spill it! It sounds Adüan to me.”

Everyone turned to look at Luan Zya, who had lived among the people of Tan Adü for many years. Luan looked back at Mün with a smile.

“You can tell them,” said Mün reluctantly. “I did ask you to help pick it, so I guess it’s all right.”

Luan coughed and slowly said, “The word is indeed Adüan. It refers to the thick and strong hair on the snout of the wild boar, a prized source of meat among the people of Tan Adü and a symbol of great strength.”

Everyone digested this information, thinking of an appropriate comment of admiration.

“Wait, you named your son ‘pig bristles’?” said an incredulous Rin. Then he whooped and laughed.

“I’m proud of my old profession!” said an irked Mün. “I want to be sure my son remembers his roots. Naro said it was okay, so I don’t care what the rest of you think!” Naro patted him on his towel-covered buttocks for support.

A draft blew through the room and made the lamps and candles flicker. Mün shivered. Naro took off his robe and draped it around Mün like a cape. “I don’t want you to catch a chill.” Mün wrapped an arm around Naro’s waist in response. His face relaxed.

“Look at you two,” teased Puma Yemu. “Still acting like newlyweds!”

“Why don’t you do stuff like that more often for me?” said Than Carucono, looking at Lady Péingo.

“I’d be happy to lend you one of my dresses if you’re cold,” said Lady Péingo. “Do you prefer the one with the pearl clasp or the one with the scarlet peonies? They both might be a bit tight on you, but I’m not judging. They could certainly emphasize the curves around that beer gut in a pleasing manner.”

Than looked at Mün and Naro with a mock-wounded expression. “See, this is what I get at home. All day.”

“Only when you behave,” said Lady Péingo. Than and she looked at each other, grinning, their eyes glowing as softly as the moon outside.

“Naro and Mün certainly know the secret of long-lasting romance,” said a smiling Cogo Yelu. “You would compare favorably to Idi and Moth of old. ‘Weary wakeful weakness!’ as the poets would say.”

Everyone stopped drinking and there was an awkward silence. Cogo looked around. “What?”

“Why do you insult an old friend by calling him weak?” asked Théca Kimo, Duke of Arulugi, who had been quiet until now.

“I said nothing of the kind!” said a confused Cogo.

Luan broke in, “I believe Cogo was alluding to an old story. Centuries ago, King Idi of Amu was so enamored of his lover, a man by the name of Mothota, that when Mothota fell asleep in his arms and the king had to go to court, Idi ordered his courtiers to carry the bed with him and Mothota in it to the audience hall so as to avoid waking up his lover. The poets of Amu used the phrase ‘wakeful weakness’ as a kenning for romantic love.”

“What’s a kenning?” asked Mün.

“It’s a poetic… Cogo just meant to pay a compliment to your affections for each other, that is all.”

Mün looked pleased, and Théca, embarrassed, apologized to Cogo.

But Gin Mazoti, Marshal of Dara, now spoke up. “Have you spent so much time in the College of Advocates and the Grand Examination Hall that you’ve forgotten how to talk to your old comrades, Cogo?”

Luan was surprised at the harshness in Gin’s tone, but she refused to meet his eyes.

“That’s quite a question, Gin,” said Cogo.

But the rather cold expressions of the generals made it clear that Gin was saying something they all thought.

“We know swords and horses,” Gin said. “But even if you put Mün and Puma and Than and Théca and me all together, you wouldn’t find more than half a book in our heads.” Though Gin’s tone was self-deprecating, there was definitely an edge to it. “So we’d appreciate it if you stick to drinking tea instead of spewing ink every chance you get.”

“I sincerely apologize, Gin,” said a humble Cogo. “I have, as you say, been spending too much time with the bookish and arrogant and not nearly enough time with old friends.”

Gin nodded and said no more.

Luan tried to relieve the suddenly chill atmosphere in the room. “How about a game, everyone?”

“What do you want to play?” asked Mün.

“How about… Fool’s Mirror?” This was a game in which participants took turns to compare themselves to specimens of a category—plants, animals, minerals, furniture, farm implements—and drank depending on whether the other participants judged the comparison apt.

Mün, Than, and Rin looked at each other and laughed.

“What’s so funny?” asked Naro. Lady Péingo looked equally puzzled.

“Years ago, it was at a game of Fool’s Mirror that the duke—er, the emperor—agreed to introduce me to you,” said Mün to Naro.

“I’ve always wondered how you managed to get up the courage to get your boss to come to me! I see you had to get drunk first.”

“I wasn’t drunk! I was only… wakefully weak.”

Naro laughed and gave Mün a peck on the cheek. The others in the dining hall chortled and guffawed.

“I think you need to stick to swords and horses,” said Than. “You were not meant for poetry. Shall we use flowers and plants as the theme again and see how everyone has changed?”

Everyone assented.

“I’ll start,” said Mün. “I was once the prickly cactus, but now I think I’m a thorned pear.” He looked lovingly at the baby in Naro’s arms. “A child changes you, fills you with sweetness and light from the inside. It was a good thing the emperor recruited me before I was a father, or I would never have agreed to become a rebel.”

The guests picked up their cups, ready to drink.

“No, no, no,” said Than. “I cannot agree to this comparison unless you’re an overripe pear—so sweet that it’s sickening.”

Mün glared at Than while others chuckled, but Naro came to his rescue. “I’ll go next. I’m the morning glory whose vine has found the support of my one and true sturdy oak.” He tightened his arm around Mün. “Sweet words are easy, but it isn’t easy to find a love that lasts beyond the first blush of infatuation, and I know I’m lucky.”

Mün turned to him and his face softened. “As am I.”

Everyone drank without saying another word. Than Carucono drew Lady Péingo to him, and she sat blushing in his lap. Luan and Gin locked gazes for a moment, and Luan felt his face grow warm. But Gin’s calm face was unreadable.

“It will be hard to follow up our loving hosts,” said Puma Yemu. “But I’ll try. I wasn’t at that game years ago, but I’ve served the emperor for just about as long as the rest of you. I am the jumping bean of the Sonaru Desert. I may look no different from ordinary bushes in the wild, but when grazing animals come near, a thousand beans snap into action and make a noise that would frighten away an elephant!”

“I don’t know about frightening away an elephant,” teased Than Carucono. “But you certainly swear loudly enough when we play drinking games that the dogs in the city bark all night.”

“That’s because you cheat—” growled Puma Yemu.

“I think it’s a lovely comparison,” interrupted Lady Péingo. “I don’t know much about war, but it paints such a vivid picture.”

“It’s very apt,” said Gin. “Your surprise raiding tactics should be taught to every soldier of Dara.”

There was no more commentary. Everyone drank.

Luan sipped his tea happily, but he was struck by the oddness of the moment. Given that Mün and Naro were the hosts, ordinarily they should have been the ones to give the definitive opinion of a participant’s comparison. However, since Naro wasn’t an official and Mün wasn’t good at making speeches, it naturally fell to Cogo and Gin, the two highest-ranking officials present, to play the role of substitute opinion makers. Yet Gin had apparently assumed she would be the one in charge without even consulting Cogo.

“I’ll go next,” said Rin. He stood up and paced around the table. “I was once the night-blooming cereus, as I served the emperor in the dark, gathering underground intelli—er, nourishment. But now I think I’m rather more like the undergrowth in a forest of tall trees.”

The silence that followed made it clear that others were rather befuddled by this comparison.

“Um…,” Mün tentatively said. “Are you also quoting from the Ano Classics or something? I know you went to school—”

Rin laughed and slapped him on the back. “I meant only that I get to enjoy the shade while the rest of you are exposed to the fiery sun and punishing rain! I’ve been lucky, I know that. I haven’t had to risk my life or work as hard as the rest of you, and I’m thankful to be among your company.”

“A gracious comparison,” said Gin. “But not apt. You’re a pillar of the House of Dandelion as much as the rest of us. You must drink.”

Pleased, Rin drank.

Luan frowned. Rin might have made it seem like a joke, but there was a hint of insecure bitterness to his comparison. He was looking for reassurance from Gin.

“How about we hear from Luan next?” said Gin, interrupting his reverie.

“Hmmm.” Luan stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I think I’m the pelagic anemone. I drift over the sea, riding on waves and drinking wind. All I need is a bit of sunlight, and I need not compete with the Hundred Flowers in color or fragrance.”

“Sounds a little lonely,” said Naro wistfully. Then he bowed to Luan quickly. “I meant no offense.”

“Sounds like the ideal life for a man who has refused all titles at court,” said a smiling Cogo. “I’ll drink to that.”

“You prefer to have no attachment?” asked Gin.

Luan looked at her. What is she really asking? “I prefer to live a life independent of the gardener’s judgment.”

Gin gazed at him steadily for a few moments, nodded, and drank. The other guests followed suit.

“I’ll go next,” said Théca Kimo. “I came to serve the emperor later than most of you, but I think I’ve done my share. I certainly have the scars to prove it.” He got up on his knees and straightened his back to make himself look taller. “These days, I suppose I feel like that old apple tree in the courtyard that no longer bears fruit. My use, if any, is to be chopped down for firewood.”

Like the hounds that are leashed after all the rabbits have been caught, and like the bows that are packed away after all the wild geese have been bagged. Luan recalled his conversation with Gin years ago. He looked over at the marshal, expecting a reprimand for these near-treasonous words.

The other generals looked at Gin as well, their cups a few inches from their lips. Luan noticed that most of them seemed to hold looks of sympathy rather than shock.

“I won’t agree with that,” said Gin.

And Luan let out a held breath.

But Gin went on, “That old apple tree was here before Mün built his house, and it will be here probably after the house is gone. Your loyalty is written in your scars, which are more lasting than any wax logogram carved by the busy bureaucrats. The emperor has not forgotten your service or the need for sword and armor to defend this precious peace. You will not be chopped down as long as I’m the Marshal of Dara.”

Luan closed his eyes. What are you doing, Gin?

Théca bowed gratefully. “But Marshal, have you not heard rumors of the empress acting against the hereditary nobles, even those who founded the dynasty with the emperor himself? Several barons have already had their fiefs confiscated on pretextual charges of treason or disobedience. I fear—”

He wasn’t able to finish his sentence, however. The steward of the house came into the dining room then and announced, “Her Highness, the Imperial Consort Risana, has arrived!”

Risana swooped in with a retinue of porters and maids bearing gifts for the new baby and the happy couple: carved jade horses so that the young boy could play soldiers and rebels; bolts of high-quality silk for clothes and the nursery; delicacies shipped in from all corners of Dara by airship, including some that were ordinarily reserved for the Imperial household….

She cooed over the baby held in Naro’s arms and assured Mün that it was perfectly fine for him to be dressed only in a towel and a loosely draped robe.

“Don’t forget I was in the camps with you during the wars!” she said, and to show that she meant it, took off her own formal robe so that she was dressed only in a simple underdress.

She moved around the room like a graceful spring swallow, nodding and smiling. “Théca! How’s the fishing back on Arulugi? You must stay longer this time and go fishing on Lake Tututika with me. Puma! You haven’t changed one bit. Phyro was just asking me the other day about visiting you for riding lessons. Both of you need to bring your families to the capital more often. Than! How are the children? Péingo! You need to come to visit me at the palace….”

She stopped in front of Gin, who was already standing up. The two embraced warmly.

“Sometimes I miss the days we were at war,” said Risana. “We got to see a lot more of each other.”

“We did, Lady Risana. We did.”

Finally, she came to Luan, and bowed to him deeply in jiri. Luan bowed back.

“You haven’t changed one bit since the last time I saw you,” said Risana, as she looked Luan up and down, a grin on her face. “I think you’ve discovered the secret of eternal youth!”

Luan chuckled. “Your Highness is far too kind.” He did not pay her a compliment, though her beauty had only changed, but not diminished, over the years. Instinctively, he wanted to keep his distance.

“Actually, there is something…. I think you’ve found a new puzzle to solve.”

Luan was only slightly surprised. Risana’s talent was to intuit what people really desired, though it didn’t work on everyone. “I have indeed found something that occupies my mind.”

He took out a small piece of irregularly shaped white material. “What do you think this is?”

Risana examined the piece carefully. It seemed to be bone or ivory, and the design of a strange long-necked beast with two feet and a pair of wings was carved into it. “I remember seeing something like this a long time ago, when we were in Dasu. It washed onshore, didn’t it?”

Luan nodded. “I’ve been collecting pieces like it—I bought this one in the markets of Pan. Though I can’t be sure of their origin, every confirmed sighting seems to suggest that they are found on the northern shores of the Islands. I think there’s a mystery up north worth investigating. It’s part of the reason I’ve come to the capital, to speak to the emperor.”

“You never want to stop learning, do you?”

As Luan and Risana conversed further, Luan realized how much he was enjoying the conversation. That was Risana’s talent as well: She had a way of paying attention to people that made them feel as though they were the only one in the room. People liked her before they even knew it.

While Risana was catching up with everyone, her retinue set out incense burners and portable silk screens. Then Risana clapped her hands. “To celebrate Mün and Naro’s new baby, I’ve brought some entertainment!”

The incense burners were lit, and lights erected behind the screens. Risana began to dance and sing to the accompaniment of the coconut lute and the nine-stringed zither:

She leapt; she twirled; she bent and flexed and her long, loose hair spun gracefully through the air like the tip of a writing brush being wielded by a master calligrapher. As Risana’s shadow flickered over the silk screens, her sleeves stirred the smoke from the incense burners into semisolid shapes: ships emerging from roiling waves and thick clouds; clashing armies on a dark plain; dueling heroes slashing at each other in the air; fleets of massive machines at war in air and under the sea.

The assembled guests were mesmerized by the show, and when Luan stole glances around at the others, he saw more than a few faces wet from this tribute to the martial splendor of Dara.

Even the longest celebration must come to an end. The guests said their good-byes to the hosts as the early morning stars rose in the east.

“Are things really as bad as I fear, old friend?” asked Luan. He had deliberately waited to leave with Cogo.

Ever cautious, Cogo waited until they were in the carriage. “It depends on what you mean.” He relaxed into the seat and sighed contentedly.

“For example, I noticed that you’ve kept your family away from the Harmonious City.”

“Not everyone is interested in politics,” said Cogo. “Or good at it.”

“I sense fear and uncertainty among Kuni’s old generals.”

“Thinking that the empress is intent on taking your fief and command away from you can certainly lead to some paranoia.”

“Is it paranoia? I never spent much time with the empress.”

Cogo gazed at Luan. “It is said that Consort Risana fears the empress because she cannot tell what the empress wants. It is the same with the rest of us. She has done much to promote the careers of scholars and bureaucrats, but whether that’s just part of the emperor’s need to shift from a time of war to a time of peace or a plot of her own design, no one knows.”

“And what’s going on with Gin? That was a strange lecture she gave you. She might not have attended a private academy, but she studied the Ano Classics on her own. We all know she’s no unlettered soldier.”

“Gin leads all of the emperor’s old generals. I don’t blame her for playing to her crowd.”

“Does she resent the empress?”

“Gin keeps her own counsel, as you well know. But I do know that during the first year of the Reign of Four Placid Seas, the empress made an effort to befriend Gin. I believe that effort was rebuffed because Gin wanted to be loyal to Consort Risana, who she thought of—and still does—as a comrade.”

Luan closed his eyes and sighed. Gin, you’re always so rash. I told you to keep yourself out of palace intrigue.

“I notice that it was Consort Risana, but not the empress or the emperor, who came tonight.”

“You are not the only one.”

Does the emperor’s absence indicate his support for the empress?

As if he had guessed Luan’s unvoiced question, Cogo said, “The emperor is said to lean on Consort Risana’s counsel more of late. He visits her often to discuss affairs of state, and it is said that he relies on Risana’s judgment of character, as she can evaluate the sincerity of those who advocate passionately for a position. Yet the empress is not disfavored; she simply exercises her influence a different way.

“While Consort Risana is friendly with the wives of Kuni’s old generals, several of Empress Jia’s ladies-in-waiting have married high-ranking ministers and scholars or have become trusted housekeepers in their households.”

“Weren’t some of Jia’s ladies-in-waiting young girls she had rescued from the streets of Çaruza during the time she was the Hegemon’s hostage?” asked Luan.

“Indeed,” said Cogo. “Jia has been like a mother to them. They’re very resilient, resourceful, and—” He hesitated, searching for the right word.

“—extraordinarily loyal to Jia,” said Luan. “Perhaps with more zeal than would make others comfortable.”

Cogo chuckled. “The Imperial household is both harmonious and… not so.”

Luan nodded. It is very like Kuni to be comfortable with dissonant voices.

“You never got the chance to compare yourself to a flower tonight,” he said.

Cogo laughed. “The last time we played this game, I called myself a patient snapping flytrap, but the emperor insisted on comparing me to a stout bamboo for holding up his civil service. I’d rather not deviate from the emperor’s metaphor. I suppose I feel more like a strained bamboo these days, bent so far that I fear I might snap.”

“The empress must favor you, given her estrangement from the military commanders.”

“It’s hardly an easy thing to be ‘favored’ by the powerful,” said Cogo. “You, who refused all titles to be a floating anemone, ought to know that.”

“I’m sorry,” said Luan. He wanted to have nothing more to do with courtly factions and warring Imperial consorts, but he could not help caring about the fate of his friends and lover. “Who do you really serve, old friend?”

“I have always served the people of Dara,” said Cogo in a placid tone.

And the two rode on through the dark streets of Pan, each thinking his own thoughts.

By the time Consort Risana’s retinue had packed up everything and left Mün Çakri’s house, everyone was too tired to realize that two members were missing.

In the inner courtyard of the house, Naro kept a garden and a cottage that he sometimes used as a study. Two individuals dressed in the attire of Risana’s dancers stood here now, admiring the carp swimming in the fish tank kept here for the winter. The fish—coral red, sunbeam gold, pearly white, jade green—surfaced from time to time from the dark water to display their shiny scales in the faint flickering light of an oil lamp, like thoughts glimpsed in a dream.

“So your student wants to go away again,” said the woman, who was golden-haired and azure-eyed. Even the lovely carp seemed to dive deeper after they’d glimpsed her, embarrassed that they could not rival her in beauty.

“That does appear to be the case,” said the man, whose wrinkled dark skin and stocky figure brought to mind a fisherman rather than a dancer.

“Don’t you want to encourage him to help Kuni? There’s a storm brewing; our brothers and sisters are eager to be involved. Tazu is already at it.”

“Tazu will always be involved, and he makes life interesting for us all. But Little Sister, the more Luan learns, the less he needs my guidance. That is as it should be. A teacher can only lead the student down a path he already has chosen.”

“That is rather… Fluxist of you, Lutho. I’m a little surprised.”

The old man chuckled. “I don’t think we need to disdain the philosophies of the mortals when they have something to teach us. It is the Flow of the world that children and students must grow up, and parents and teachers must let go. The gods have been retreating from the sphere of mortals over the eons as the mortals’ knowledge has grown. They used to pray to Kiji for rain until they learned to divert rivers and streams for irrigation; they used to pray to Rufizo for every cure until they learned to use herbs and make medicine; they used to pray to me for knowledge of the future until they grew confident that they could make their future.”

“But they still pray.”

“Some do; but the temples are no longer as powerful as they were during the Diaspora Wars, and I suspect even those who pray know that the gods are more distant than before.”

“You don’t sound sad about it at all.”

“When we made the pact that we would only intervene in the lives of the mortals though guidance and teaching, we all knew this was the inevitable result: They will grow up.”

Tututika sighed. “And yet I cannot stop caring. I want them to do well.”

“Of course we can’t stop caring. It is the curse of parents and teachers everywhere, mortal or immortal.”

And the two gods watched the ghostly carp in the tank, as though seeking the future in the murky, dark sea.

^{CHAPTER NINE} PALACE EXAMINATION

The carriage bringing King Kado and Lady Tete to the Imperial palace was late.

“What’s the matter?” Tete stuck her head out and asked the driver.

“There’s a crowd of angry cashima blocking the road, Mistress.”

Indeed, about a hundred cashima milled about in the road, and passing carriages had to carefully thread their way between them. One of the cashima was standing on an upturned box for packing fruits and shouting at the crowd.

“Out of a hundred firoa, more than fifty come from Haan and only a single one comes from the old lands of Xana. How can that possibly be fair?”

“But the emperor himself began his rise in Dasu,” said one of the cashima in the crowd. “And King Kado is the emperor’s brother. Surely the judges would have taken that into account in scoring.”

“He might have become a king in Dasu, but the emperor listens to his advisers. You all know how much sway Luan Zya, a nobleman of Haan, has at the court.”

“Luan Zya hasn’t even been in court since the funeral for the emperor’s father!”

“All the better to whisper things into the emperor’s ear in secrecy. We should march to the palace and demand an investigation! Release all the essays and let all of us judge together if those deemed well-matched to the fate of Dara are deserving and if the emperor’s test administrators are worthy of his trust!”

The other cashima in the crowd shouted their approval.

Since the impassioned scholars were no longer talking about her husband, Tete ducked back into the carriage. “I think they’re complaining about the results of the Grand Examination.”

“Of course they are,” said Kado. “If you didn’t score high enough to place among the firoa so as to be guaranteed a plum position in the Imperial bureaucracy, complaining about the scoring is about all you can do.”

“Do you know if the judges were really fair?” asked Tete. “Did any examinees from Dasu place?”

“What do I know of what the emperor and his advisers do in private council?” Kado smiled bitterly. “You know as well as I do that Kuni gave me this title only because our father begged him to do something for me before his death. I’m hardly a Tiro king of old.”

Tete was embarrassed by this outburst—she knew what her husband said was true, but it was still hard to hear. Kuni still resented her and Kado for the way they’d treated him when he was a young man. Who could have guessed how things would turn out for Kado’s idle little brother, who’d strutted through the streets of Zudi like a common gangster?

“Is Kuni satisfied these days?” Tete cautiously asked.

She meant whether Kuni was happy with Kado, but Kado took it to be a question broader in scope. “I don’t know the details of what goes on at court, but it is said that Kuni’s delay in naming a crown prince has caused factions to rise. The generals and nobles prefer Phyro, while the ministers and the College of Advocates prefer Timu—and of course the empress and Consort Risana are involved. Both sides have done some ugly things.”

“Inheritance disputes plague everyone, from the smallest shopkeepers to the Emperor of Dara. Are you going to offer to mediate?”

Kado shook his head vigorously. “The smart thing for us to do is to take the allowance Kuni pays us and stay out of his sight. We’ll have our pleasures; let him run things the way he wants to. Ra Olu, my ‘regent’ in Dasu, is the real governor of the island, and he reports directly to Kuni. I know nothing, and I prefer it that way.”

“Then why are we even going to the palace?”

“Some occasions require my presence as a decorative sign,” said Kado, waving the sheaf of blank extra passes the regent of Dasu had sent him. “The people of the Harmonious City want to see the Imperial household enact harmony, and so we must play our bit parts. Let’s just turn these in and nod and smile at whatever Kuni decides during the Palace Examination.”

Although the top one hundred scoring examinees were given the rank of firoa and all could theoretically participate in the Palace Examination, only the top ten, honored with the designation of pana méji, were actually given the chance to do so. The rest would be assigned to a civil service pool where they would be matched with ministers and generals in need of junior staff, and these assignments would hopefully launch them into a glorious career in government service.

The pana méji now sat in two rows before the raised dais for the Imperial family at one end of the Grand Audience Hall; the emperor was about to question them directly.

On top of the eight-foot-tall dais, Emperor Ragin sat in his full court regalia: bright red Imperial robes adorned with hundreds of golden crubens playing with dandelions and exquisite embroidery depicting rearing waves and various lesser creatures of the sea; the flat-top crown with a curtain of seven strands of cowrie shells dangling from the front, obscuring his facial expressions from the viewer; and another curtain of seven strands of corals hanging in the back for balance. He knelt up in the formal position of mipa rari on the throne, a gilt ironwood sitting board overlaid with cushions stuffed with lavender, mint, and other mind-clearing spices formulated by the empress, the most well-known herbalist of the empire.

Speaking of whom—Empress Jia sat to the left of Kuni Garu, and Consort Risana sat to his right, both also dressed in formal court robes and crowns. Their robes were made of thick red silk because red was the color of Dasu, the island from which Kuni Garu had begun his journey to the Throne of Dara, though the robes of Jia and Risana were a shade lighter than the emperor’s. Jia’s robe was decorated with dandelion-mouthing dyrans, the rainbow-tailed flying fish that symbolized femininity, while Risana’s robe was decorated with carp-derived motifs in honor of her home island of Arulugi. At the foot of Risana’s cushioned seat was a small bronze censer topped by the figure of a leaping carp, and faint smoke issued from its open mouth. It was said that Consort Risana’s health required her to partake of the fumes of certain herbs, and such censers often accompanied her.

Below the dais and flanking the two rows of pana méji scholars, the most powerful lords of the empire arranged themselves in a pattern that was meant to echo their relative influences in decisions of the state. Since Emperor Ragin’s coronation years ago, it was rare for governors of the far-flung provinces and the enfeoffed nobles in their disparate fiefs to gather in the capital. This was a very special occasion, and the highest levels of courtly etiquette were on display.

Thus, to the Emperor’s left, on the west side of the audience hall, the civil ministers and provincial governors who were in the capital knelt in a long column arranged by rank facing the center in mipa rari. Their gray-blue ceremonial formal robes, made of heavy damask water silk, were decorated with figures either symbolic of the province the governor was from: shoals of icefish for Rui in the north, towering oaks for ring-wooded Rima, cloud-fleeced flocks for northern Faça, sheaves of ripening sorghum and clusters of chrysanthemum-swords for central Cocru, and so on—or the sphere of responsibility of each minister—thousands of stylized eyes for Farsight Secretary Rin Coda, scrolls and codices for the Imperial Archivist, a scale for the Chief Tax Collector, trumpets for the First Herald, writing knives for the head of the Imperial Scribes, and so forth.

By rank, Prime Minister Cogo Yelu was the foremost among all the ministers and governors, and that meant that he usually sat closest to the throne. But today, the man closest to the throne was Luan Zya, who was dressed in a water-silk robe decorated with tiny remoras. Although he had no duties at the court and held no official position—in fact, he rarely visited Pan—Cogo had insisted that his old friend be given the position of honor as Emperor Ragin’s most trusted adviser.

To the emperor’s right, on the east side of the audience hall, the column of generals and enfeoffed nobles knelt, also in formal mipa rari. In contrast to the ministers and governors, these individuals, who obtained their positions mainly through wartime service, were dressed in ceremonial armor made of lacquered wood and wore decorative swords on their belts made of coral, perfumed paper, or fine porcelain. After all, other than the palace guards, no one was allowed to bring a functioning weapon into the palace, much less the Grand Audience Hall.

Queen Gin of Géjira, Marshal of Dara, leader of all the emperor’s armed forces, sat conspicuously at the head of the column of generals and nobles. Next to her was Kado Garu, the emperor’s brother, who looked ill at ease in the ceremonial armor that seemed too tight on his bloated body. Beyond him were the other men who had fought with the emperor during the rebellion and the Chrysanthemum-Dandelion War: Duke Théca Kimo of Arulugi; Marquess Puma Yemu of Porin; Mün Çakri, First General of the Infantry; Than Carucono, First General of the Cavalry and First Admiral of the Navy…

The two hierarchies were harmoniously woven together into a balanced whole. And above them, spouses and assistants of the Lords of Dara sat on balconies, where they would be able to observe the Palace Examination but have no right to speak.

Gin Mazoti looked across the audience hall at Luan Zya and smiled.

She did not notice the slight frown on Empress Jia’s face as she glanced over at the nobles, her gaze lingering for a moment on Gin’s steel sword, prominently worn on her waist, the only chilly reminder of death in the otherwise harmonious hall.

The formality and order of the Imperial court was a far cry from the relaxed atmosphere that had prevailed at Kuni’s camp during the war years or the wild celebrations that had marked the empire’s early days, when Kuni’s followers had behaved more like friends than subordinates. As most of Kuni’s retinue had humble backgrounds, their uncouth manners often shocked the old nobles of the Seven States and those who had followed the Hegemon.

At Kuni’s coronation, for example, many of his old companions drank from bowls instead of the ritually correct flagons; grabbed food with their hands instead of using the correct eating sticks—one stick for dumplings and pot stickers; two for noodles and rice; three for fish and fruit and meat so that one could use two of them in one hand to hold the food while dividing it into smaller pieces with the last—and after they became inebriated, got up and danced with eating sticks and serving spoons as though they were swords, banging them loudly against the columns of the new palace.

Contemptuous whispers and titters among the old nobles and learned scholars grew in the capital, and so Cogo Yelu recommended that the emperor appoint a new Master of Rituals, explaining to Kuni that codes of courtly behavior, though tedious, were necessary now that the Islands were at peace.

“As Kon Fiji said, ‘Proper rituals channel proper thoughts,’ ” said Cogo.

“So we’re going to listen to Kon Fiji again?” asked Kuni. “I never liked him, even as a boy.”

“Different philosophers are appropriate for different times,” said a conciliatory Cogo. “The manners of a camp on the battlefield are not always the right etiquette for a court at peace. As the Ano sages said, Adi co cacru co pihua ki tuthiüri lothu cruben ma dicaro co cacru ki yegagilu acrutacaféthéta cathacaü crudogithédagén. The cruben who breaches freely in open sea may need to float gently in a harbor filled with many fishing boats.”

“You could have just quoted the old village saying: ‘Howl when you see a wolf, scratch your head when you see a monkey.’ That’s much more vivid than your flowery Classical Ano quotation—and you don’t have to translate for me. I did pay some attention in Master Loing’s class, you know.”

Rin Coda, who had known Kuni longer than anyone, and Jia, who was used to Kuni’s preference for the speech of the ordinary people, burst out in laughter. Cogo chuckled, his cheeks turning a shade of maroon.

Who should fill the new position of Master of Rituals? After more discussion, Cogo suggested Zato Ruthi.

“The deposed King of Rima?” asked the incredulous Kuni. “Gin did not like him at all.”

“He is also the most renowned contemporary Moralist philosopher,” said Cogo. “Rather than leaving him in his forest cabin, where he’s penning angry tracts denouncing you, it might be better to make use of his reputation and knowledge.”

“This will also send a signal to the scholars that you’re ready to start a new era, when the book will be valued more than the sword,” agreed Jia. “I know you like spearing two fish with one thrust.”

Kuni was not sure about this, but he always listened to counsel.

“A fusty old book might not be fun to read, but it’s good for propping a door open,” mused Kuni. The order was given to summon Zato Ruthi into Imperial service.

Zato Ruthi was pleased with his elevation: Coming up with the protocols for the new Imperial court, to him, seemed a task far more important than mere minutiae like running an army or devising tax policies, the sort of tasks better relegated to people like Gin Mazoti—whom he grudgingly accepted as a colleague—and Cogo Yelu. After all, the Imperial courtly protocols would be the model of proper behavior for lesser courts and the learned, who would be exemplars for the masses. In this way, he had a chance to sculpt the soul of the people of Dara in accordance with Moralist ideals.

He threw himself into his task with gusto. He consulted ancient histories and the etiquette manuals of every old Tiro state; he collected all the Classical Ano lyrical fragments describing the golden age before it became corrupted; he drafted voluminous notes and drew detailed plans.

When he finally presented his ideas to the emperor, Kuni thought he was back in Master Loing’s classroom again. Ruthi’s protocol manual was a scroll whose length stretched halfway down the Grand Audience Hall.

“Master Ruthi,” Kuni said, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice, “you have to create something that my generals can learn. This is so complicated that I can’t even keep all the ritual phrases and ceremonial walks and seating arrangements and numbers of bows straight.”

“You haven’t even tried, Rénga!”

“I thank you greatly for your diligence. But why don’t I take a stab at simplifying this?”

When Kuni presented his simplified plan—now a scroll only as long as he was tall—to Zato Ruthi, the latter almost fainted from the shock.

“This—this—this is barely a protocol at all! Where are the Classical Ano titles? Where are the model walks designed to cultivate the soul? Where are the quotations from the sages to guide debates? It’s like something taken out of a folk opera to please an audience snacking on sunflower seeds and candied monkeyberries!”

Kuni patiently explained that Master Ruthi had misunderstood. He had simply refined Master Ruthi’s ideas in a way that preserved their essence while remaining capable of being carried out by mere mortals. He did not explain that he had indeed taken much inspiration from the staging of folk operas, consulting Risana to gain her expertise. Thinking of the whole thing as a big play was the only way he could stomach working on it.

Back and forth the emperor and the Master of Rituals debated, trying to compromise on something that had enough formality to satisfy the desire for propriety by the old nobles and scholars and also contained enough fun to be accepted by the emperor and his wartime companions.

“Why am I the only one sitting?” asked Kuni, pointing at the latest illustration of formal court seating.

Ruthi explained that this was based on the protocols of the Xana Imperial court, which had been designed by the Imperial Scholar Lügo Crupo, a strict Incentivist. Emperor Mapidéré had preferred to sit in the extremely informal position of thakrido, with his legs stretched out in front of him, while all his ministers and generals stood at attention.

“Crupo believed that men were more efficient if they stood for meetings,” said Ruthi. “Though he was wrong about many things, I do think his reasoning is sound in this regard. Efficient administration is important, Rénga.”

“But I would look like some bandit king in council with his underlings! The ordinary people will view it as a play about despotism.”

“I’m not asking you to sit in thakrido!” said Ruthi, a bit outraged. “I am not a barbarian. You should sit in géüpa, which would be appropriate by reference to the poem written—”

“The point is for everyone to sit,” said the emperor.

“But Rénga, if you sit like everyone else in attendance, it will obscure the difference in your positions. Your person is a symbol of the state.”

“So are the ministers and generals who serve me—if I am the head of the state, they’re the arms and legs. It makes no sense to pamper the head and torment the body; formal court should model harmony among all the people of Dara. In this audience hall, we debate and decide the fate of the people as a whole, not just my personal preferences and dislikes.”

Ruthi was pleased by this speech, which held a hint of the Moralist ideal for the relationship between the ruler and the ruled. He was forming a new opinion of Kuni Garu, the emperor who had turned Dara upside down, brought women into the army, and swept away the Tiro states in his rise to power. Perhaps there was—he thought hopefully—a Moralist soul deep within that beer belly. He would try to be more flexible and serve this interesting lord.

And so Kuni and Ruthi worked together for weeks, designing courtly regalia (or as Kuni thought of them, “costumes and props”), formal speeches (“scripts”), and etiquette protocols (“blocking”)—they debated long into the night and used up reams of paper with rough sketches, frequently calling for midnight snacks and herbal drinks prepared by the empress that kept the mind alert—until the final result reflected Kuni’s vision without offending Moralist traditions too much.

Kuni was willing to suffer for his art. The formal robe and crown took time to put on—even with servants—and the regalia forced him to kneel stiffly in uncomfortable mipa rari. But the example set by the emperor ended any complaints from the unruly generals—everyone put on the stiff robes, ceremonial armor, and heavy official headgear and knelt up in mipa rari.

Viewed from the ceiling of the Grand Audience Hall, Kuni’s court resembled a cruben cruising at sea: The two columns of advisers along the walls outlined the scaled whale’s powerful body, resplendent and sumptuous; the dais at the end was the head of the cruben, with Empress Jia and Consort Risana as the two bright eyes; and Emperor Ragin, of course, was the proud horn at the center of the forehead, charging through a turbulent sea and mapping an interesting path.

The First Herald consulted the sundial mounted on the southern wall, behind the Imperial dais, and stood up.

All the murmurs and whispers in the hall ceased. Everyone, from the emperor to the palace guard standing by the grand entrance, straightened their backs.

“Mogi ça lodüapu ki gisgo giré, adi ça méüpha ki kédalo phia ki. Pindin ça racogilu üfiré, crudaügada ça phithoingnné gidalo phia ki. Ingluia ça philu jisén dothaéré, naüpin rari ça philu shanoa gathédalo phia ki.”

The herald chanted the words solemnly, sticking to the rhythm of the old meters of Diaspora-Era heroic sagas, as was deemed proper in Moralist treatises on the proper rituals for government. The Classical Ano words meant: May the sky-lights careen smoothly and the whale’s way sleep in tranquility. May the people be joyous and the gods pleased. May the king be well-counseled and the ministers well-led.

The First Herald sat down while echoes of his voice continued to reverberate around the hall.

Emperor Ragin cleared his throat and intoned the ceremonial words that began formal court, “Honored lords, loyal governors, able advisers, brave generals, we gather today to praise the gods and to comfort the people. What matters do you wish to bring to my attention?”

After a pause, Zato Ruthi, Imperial Tutor, stood up. “Rénga, on this auspicious day, I wish to present to you the pana méji of this session of the Grand Examination.”

Kuni Garu nodded, the cowrie strands hanging in front of his face clinking crisply. “I thank you and the other judges for your service. Having to carefully evaluate more than a thousand essays in such a brief period of time is no mean accomplishment. The examinees are fortunate to have their words weighed by minds as learned as yours.”

To the side, King Kado shifted imperceptibly on his knees and gazed at the Imperial Tutor. He was thinking of the complaining cashima he had run into on the way here. This old man may soon find out how much trouble he’s in.

Zato Ruthi bowed. “It was a pleasure to commune with so many supple and fresh minds.” He pointed to the left-most scholar in the first row, a dark-skinned young man with delicate and handsome features, and the examinee stood up. “This is Kita Thu, of Haan. His essay was composed in an exquisite hand—the calligraphy calls to mind the best works of the late King Cosugi. Though his passion is the study of mathematics, his essay proposed a reform of the schools of Dara to emphasize the works of Kon Fiji.”

Silence. Not a single murmur of admiration could be heard in the hall.

Kado frowned. That sounds like the most boring proposal for reform I can imagine. Either this young examinee knows how to weave a dazzling pattern out of plain threads like a skilled lace maker of Gan, or else Zato Ruthi just revealed even more evidence of bias by giving high marks to a kid who knows only how to recite musty books by the Moralists’ favorite sage.

But the emperor only gazed steadily at the young man, and the dangling cowrie strands obscured his face so that no one in the Grand Audience Hall could discern his feelings. As he spoke, his tone was perfectly tranquil, expressing neither pleasure nor displeasure. “Are you related to King Cosugi?”

Kado sat up straighter, as did the others in the hall. Interesting!

The young man bowed deeply. “Rénga, you speak the honored name of my grand-uncle.”

“He was a calm man in troubled times.”

Kita nodded noncommittally. The emperor’s words could be taken as either a compliment or criticism. Cosugi had generally been thought of as among the least effective of the Tiro kings during the rebellion against the Xana Empire, and his restored Haan had been the first state on the Big Island to fall to the armies of Emperor Ragin. It was best not to dwell on that history.

“I thought I recognized a regal soul in the gentle flowing outlines of the logograms!” said a pleased Ruthi. “You are truly skilled with the writing knife for someone so young.” Then he seemed to realize how he sounded and coughed to disguise his embarrassment. “Of course, we knew nothing of your background as we reviewed all the essays anonymously.”

Kado shook his head. If word of what Ruthi just said gets out, those cashima will have even more ammunition in their accusations of bias and favoritism.

“You observed in your essay that the current administration of Dara is impossible to sustain over the long term,” said Kuni. “Can you review the argument for me?”

Excited whispers passed up and down the two columns of officials.

Kado watched as Zato Ruthi surveyed the hall full of astonished officials, a satisfied smile on the Imperial Tutor’s face. Sly old fox! Of course he would state the argument of the essay in the most generic way possible, disguising its real bite. This way, he distances himself from Kita Thu in the event that the emperor is displeased with the argument, and that lavish praise of Thu’s handwriting just lays the groundwork for more deniability if necessary—he could always claim to have been overwhelmed by the form rather than the substance of what was written.

Once again Kado was glad that he stayed away from Kuni’s court as much as possible. The Grand Audience Hall was a deep pool whose tranquil surface hid powerful currents and countercurrents beneath, and a careless swimmer could be easily pulled in and never able to get out. He knelt up even straighter, keeping his shoulders hunched and his eyes focused on the tip of his nose.

Kita Thu gazed back at the emperor, his face a perfect mask of awe and respect. “Of course, Rénga. I eagerly await your criticisms of my foolish ideas.”

A heavy tapestry with a map of Dara hung behind the throne, and behind the tapestry was a small door leading to the emperor’s private changing room, where he and his wives got ready for court. Now that formal court was in session, the room should be empty.

The other door to the changing room, the one opening to the corridor that led to the Imperial family’s private quarters, opened slowly.

“Hurry! Get in there before someone sees us.”

Timu, Théra, and Phyro slipped into the room and shut the door quietly behind them. This latest bit of mischief had been Théra’s idea. Phyro wasn’t sure spying on an examination would be any fun (“I don’t even like taking my own exams!”), and Timu was worried about the wrath of their father and Master Ruthi if they were caught.

But Théra had painted a picture of thrills for Phyro (“Don’t you want to see Father intimidate one of these bookworms?”) and convinced Timu that he was going to get in trouble even if he didn’t participate (“Isn’t it the eldest brother’s duty to prevent younger siblings from ill-advised adventures? And isn’t he equally at fault with them should he fail in his duty?”). In the end, both boys—one eager, one reluctant—agreed to come with her.

The lamps in the changing room were still lit, and the children almost screamed with fright when they realized that it wasn’t empty. Lady Soto, the empress’s confidante and the caretaker for Timu and Théra when they were younger, glared at them from next to the door leading to the Grand Audience Hall.

“Don’t just stand there,” she hissed. “If you’re going to eavesdrop, come closer!”

^{CHAPTER TEN} A BALLOON RIDE

Curious Turtle drifted leisurely over the endless sea.

“Look! Look!” Zomi shouted, pointing to the southeast.

The gentle swells broke, and a massive, sleek, dark body leapt out of the water. Even at this distance, it was clearly many times the size of the hot-air balloon they were riding in. The colossal fish hung suspended for a moment in air, thousands of black scales scintillating in the sunlight like jewels, before falling ponderously back into the water. A moment later, the muffled splash reached their ears like distant thunder.

“That is a cruben,” said Luan Zya, “sovereign of the seas. They are often seen in the sea between Rui and Crescent Island. I think they like to dive down to the underwater volcanoes and linger in the heated water, much as the people of Faça enjoy hot spring baths near Rufizo Falls.”

“I never thought I’d see one! It is”—Zomi hesitated—“beautiful. No, that’s not right. It’s beautinificent, brilli-splen-sublimeful, magnidazzlelicious. I’m sorry, I don’t have the words. These are all the pretty phrases I know.”

“The world is grand and full of wonders.”

Luan smiled at the chattering girl, remembering the indescribable joy he had felt the first time he had seen a breaching cruben from the deck of a Haan trawler. He had been only ten, and his father, the chief augur of Haan, had stood by him to watch the leaping crubens, recounting the lore of the scaled whales while resting a hand gently on the boy’s shoulder.

How do you know so much about the world, Father?

By following curiosity, the quality that Lutho prizes above all.

Will I ever know as much as you?

You will know much more than I do, Lu-tika. It is the natural flow of the universe that sons should exceed their fathers, and students shall surpass their teachers.

“Can we get a closer look?” asked Zomi eagerly.

“Maybe,” Luan said. And he swallowed the lump in his throat and turned away to hide the fact that his eyes were wet. “Let’s see if luck is with us today.”

He leaned over the side of the gondola, uncapped his drinking gourd, and tipped it over carefully to let out a thin stream of red wine. The liquid line plunged straight down, but as it neared the sea, the stream twisted and pointed to the southeast, turning into a string of crimson pearls that scattered and fell into the waves.

“Good,” Luan said. “The wind is coming from the northwest near the surface. We can ride it.”

Reaching above his head, Luan twisted a dial about a foot across in diameter with both hands. The dial was connected through a system of gears and belts to the stove above them, filled with freeze-distilled liquor—meant for cleaning and stripping paint rather than drinking—and caused the thick flax wick to retract into the stove. The flame that roared overhead quieted and grew smaller, and the balloon began to descend.

“So we’re entirely at the mercy of the winds?” asked Zomi. The balloon continued to fall until the northwesterly breeze caught it. “What if you can’t find a wind headed in the direction you want to go?”

Luan reached up and twisted the dial the other way. The wick extended, the flame roared back to life, and the balloon stopped falling and drifted to the northeast.

“Then we’ll have to go somewhere else,” said Luan. “Ballooning is not for those too set on their destinations. Curious Turtle may not always find a way to get to where you want to go, but it will always take you somewhere interesting.”

They reached the spot in the sea where the cruben had breached earlier, and Luan turned up the flames again to raise the balloon out of the breeze so that they hovered above the swell. The water parted again, and Zomi leaned eagerly over the side of the gondola, hoping to see another acrobatic breach up close. But this time, the cruben only poked its head above the water, its gigantic horn like the mast of a ship, and exhaled through the blowhole, shooting a fountain of mist high into the air near the balloon. Zomi cried out in joy and turned to face Luan.

“He was laughing at me!” Her face was bright with a smile and wet with the spray from the cruben.

Luan felt at once very old and also very young as he laughed along with Zomi.

As she slept, Zomi dreamed of home.

“I don’t know how long I will be away,” said Mimi.

Aki nodded. She was packing a stack of sorghum meal cakes soaked in honey and a small jar of salted caterpillars in a cloth. She spoke without turning to look at Mimi. “If you miss home, have a cake to remind you of the sweetness of our summers. If you are sad, eat a caterpillar to remind you of my cooking.”

“Mistress Kidosu,” said Luan, “I promise to take good care of your daughter. She is extraordinarily talented, but she cannot learn what I want to teach her without seeing the world.”

“Thank you,” said Aki. “I’ve always wanted Mimi to stay by my side and live a life like mine, but that’s a selfish desire, driven by the fact that the gods have already taken so many I love from me. Yet I’ve always known that she’s special, and it surprises me not one whit that you’ve found her.”

“I will learn the secrets of the world and come back to give us all a better life,” said Mimi. She had so much she wanted to say, but she wasn’t sure her voice would not crack, and so she simply said, “You’ll eat white rice every day.”

“Study hard, Mimi-tika,” said Aki. “And do not think about me too much. You’re my daughter, but you do not belong to me. The only duty any child owes to her parent is to live a life that is true to her nature.”

Zomi woke up.

Overhead, the flame roared softly as Curious Turtle continued to ride the wind. All around her, she could see the stars, bright pinpricks of light like the glowing sea jellies that she was familiar with from swimming in the bay during the brief summers when the water was warm enough. She liked swimming: The water freed her from the bondage of her disobedient left leg, and she felt graceful, complete, not lame or crippled.

She liked flying in the balloon at night. It was like drifting through an empyrean sea.

Yee-ee-squeak, yee-ee-squeak…

The strange sound caught her attention. She turned and saw Luan sitting at the other side of the gondola with his legs stretched out in front of him. He had some contraption made of sticks and bundles of ox sinew wrapped around his right calf, and as he flexed his leg, the contraption made the rhythmic noise she had heard.

“What’s that, Teacher?”

Startled, Luan stopped flexing his leg and looked over at Zomi. “Oh, nothing,” he said. “Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you up to steer the balloon in a few hours.”

Zomi was going to ask more, but Luan draped a blanket over his leg and opened the thick book that he always carried with him, which Zomi had learned was called Gitré Üthu, which meant “know thyself” in Classical Ano. It was a companion that her teacher seemed to love more than anything else, or anyone—he never spoke of a woman, or a child, or parents. What would make an adviser who had helped a king build an empire prefer the company of unlettered children and wild seas? There were so many things about him that she didn’t know.

As the stars spun overhead and the gondola rocked her, Zomi fell back asleep.

While Luan steered the balloon, Zomi practiced her zyndari letters on a slate with a piece of chalk. The breeze was steady and strong, scented with the clean smell of the open sea.

“How much longer until we reach Crescent Island?” asked Zomi. She stopped writing and yawned.

“If the wind holds steady, probably another two days, but the wind never is steady,” said Luan. He looked at Zomi affectionately. “Already tired? You’ve only been writing for a quarter of an hour.”

“I’m bored! I memorized all the letters and their sounds two days ago, and you’re just making me write the same thing over and over again. When will you teach me the Ano logograms? Will it take more than five days?”

Luan laughed. “You’ll have to learn Classical Ano along with the logograms, and it would take you many years to master them.”

“Years! Then we’d better start right away.”

“Don’t be so impatient. I can’t teach you how to carve wax in the gondola—the knife can be dangerous with the balloon swinging around like this.”

“Come to think of it, I don’t even know if I want to waste my time learning the Ano logograms. Isn’t it enough to learn one way of writing?”

Luan had never encountered any student who thought it might be all right not to learn the Ano logograms, but then again, Zomi was not like the students who could afford private tutors or academics. “We’ll talk about the logograms another time. For now, you still need more practice writing the Hundred Names with zyndari letters. Your handwriting is terrible.”

“It’s hard to fit the letters inside the small squares you’ve drawn! And why do I have to put them in the squares anyway?”

“The zyndari letters were invented long after the Ano logograms. We arrange them into word squares in imitation of the shapes of the logograms so that if they’re used together, as sometimes happens when you need to gloss an obscure or new logogram, their shapes harmonize. It is not enough that one can write, one must also write with beauty.”

“Why does beauty matter?” asked Zomi, an edge in her voice. “Isn’t it enough that my meaning comes through?”

Luan looked at the scar on her face and the walking stick on the floor of the gondola next to her legs and realized that he had struck a sore point. “There are many kinds of beauty in the world, some of which are the province of gods, and some of which are the province of mankind. Beauty of expression when writing is within the control of the writer, and elegant calligraphy prepares the mind to be persuaded.”

“Sounds like you’re saying that the well-dressed will be listened to more,” muttered Zomi.

Luan sighed. “That’s not what I meant, but I can see why you feel that way. Since you’ve asked me to be your teacher, you must do as I say on this. Practice forming the letters within the squares in pleasing proportions; no matter how much you hate it, it’s a vital skill.”

Reluctantly, Zomi went back to writing. But after a few moments of silence, she piped up again. “This reminds me of carving the lucky cakes for the High-Autumn Festival. Mama always said I was too impatient to make the pretty patterns in the pastry before baking, but at least there you get something delicious at the end.”

“Are you suggesting that I get you some sticky rice flour so that you can make edible word squares?” Luan asked sarcastically.

Zomi looked up. “Oh, that would be great! Teacher, can we? Can we? If we get some honey, I’ll make a cone out of paper and cut off the tip so that I can write the zyndari letters using the dripping honey. And we can get some lotus seeds and coconut shavings—”

“If you put as much energy into practicing your letters as you do into dreaming up new foods, you’d have mastered proper handwriting by now!”

Zomi glared at him for a moment, lowered her eyes, and went back to writing. Her hand moved across the slate very, very slowly.

Luan sighed again. Not every mind learns the same way. A knife needs to be sharpened against stone, but a pearl needs to be polished with soft cloth. I found infinite joy and comfort in the solitude of repetitious drilling and practice, but perhaps a different method is needed for this one.

“Do you want to learn to fly the balloon instead?”

Zomi dropped the slate and climbed up to stand next to him in an instant.

“First, you have to find out where the winds are,” said Luan. “Remember, a balloon has no way of propelling itself. It must ride the winds.”

“Why do you ride around in a balloon instead of an airship?”

Luan laughed. “Airships require the special lift gas from Mount Kiji. They’re reserved for the Imperial air force and government business.”

“Maybe there are other gases that will do just as well.”

“Maybe. But I don’t know of any such gases. Besides, I like balloons. Airships are about getting from one place to another, and one worries constantly about propulsion. Flying in a balloon, on the other hand, is… more relaxing.”

Zomi picked up Luan’s drinking gourd, uncapped it, and turned it upside down over the side of the gondola. Luan leapt to grab the calabash.

“Easy! Easy! You just need a little bit to test the wind! Don’t waste all the wine. This is all I have until we get to Ingça on Crescent Island.”

“You drink too much anyway.” But this time Zomi took care to tip the gourd over gently and watched as the thin stream went straight down into the sea. “No wind below us.”

“No wind in a direction different from the one we’re heading in,” corrected Luan.

“How do you find out where the winds are above us?” asked Zomi. She squinted at the sky above them. A few wispy clouds dotted the empty blueness. “We can’t pour wine upward—oh, how I wish I were a cruben, and then I could spray water up through my blowhole and see the winds!”

Luan rummaged in the footlocker at the bottom of the gondola and retrieved something that looked like a stack of paper. He pulled on a ring at the top and the stack of paper sprang up into a cube-shaped lantern with pleated paper sides and an internal bamboo skeleton that had been folded into a compressed shape. The bottom was open with a wire crosspiece that held a candle inside the paper lantern.

“That’s really neat!” said Zomi.

“It’s my invention,” said Luan, pride in his voice. “These floating lanterns were known since time immemorial, but I came up with the collapsible bamboo skeleton that would allow them to be easily transported.”

Luan attached a thin silk string to the bottom of the lantern, handed the string to Zomi, and lit the candle. As the air inside the lantern grew heated, the balloon began to float.

“Lean out the side of the gondola,” Luan instructed. “Let the string out. This is a kite-balloon, and you can use it to sense the direction of the winds above us.”

As Zomi guided the kite-balloon’s flight and told Luan her observations of the direction of the winds at various heights, Luan noted them down on the slate. When Luan decided that they had taken enough readings, he asked Zomi to pull the kite-balloon back and extinguish the candle.

“Now, tell me: If I want to go in that direction”—Luan pointed to the southwest—“how would I do it?”

Zomi looked at the slate, upon which Luan had drawn a neat table of heights and wind directions based on her readings. “There’s a strong northeastern wind if we go up… three hundred feet?”

Luan nodded. “You have just made Na Moji proud.”

“Remind me who he was again?”

“Na Moji was the founder of the Patternist school of philosophy. He lived centuries ago, when Xana was a land far more primitive than the other Tiro states. He tied silk ribbons to wild geese and proved that the birds migrated south for winter and returned north for the spring. He was also the first to devise a kite with two strings so that they could be guided to trace out dizzying patterns in the sky.

“Na Moji believed that nature was a book whose language was mathematics. By careful observation and testing, we can plumb its depths and map out its patterns. Even the gods are subject to the patterns of nature, though they are able to read more of it than we can.

“You have created a map of winds with the kite-balloon, and now you’re ready to fly wherever you wish. A balloon, of course, is at home in air, the natural element of Patternism.”

Zomi looked around at the sky and the sea, but now instead of emptiness she seemed to see gusts of wind as broad, three-dimensional avenues and streets in an invisible city. A big smile broke out on her face. “I like Patternism! More! Teach me more!”

Luan chuckled. “Well, the next task you have to accomplish is to actually raise Curious Turtle into the wind, and that requires a different school of philosophy.”

With Luan’s help, Zomi grasped the dial overhead and twisted it. The flame shot roaring up out of the liquor stove, and with a jerk, the balloon began to rise.

“Gentle! You’re trying to guide the flame, not wrestle it!”

Zomi twisted the dial back slowly and the flame quieted down a bit, slowing the ascent.

Luan continued, “The flame heats the air inside the balloon, which expands. The excess air escapes the balloon, causing the hot air inside to be less dense than the cold air outside. And in this way, the balloon gains altitude like the Imperial airships. Heated air acts a bit like the lift gas from Lake Dako on Mount Kiji.”

The breeze picked up, and the balloon began to drift southwest. Zomi continued to twist the dial slowly, lowering and raising the flame by turns until the balloon leveled off.

“What you have just practiced is an illustration of the Incentivist school of philosophy,” said Luan. “As the name indicates, its natural element is fire.”

“I don’t understand,” said Zomi. “The Incentivists believe in burning things? Oh! Like the way Emperor Mapidéré burned books!”

“What in the world gave you—never mind. No, the Incentivist school was founded by Gi Anji, the youngest of the great sages. He’s a modern, not an ancient Ano. Gi Anji believed that people are by nature lazy and resist change, and it is the duty of the wise ruler to incentivize them with proper rewards and punishments.”

“My ma used to have a much simpler way of saying that: ‘Get out of bed or I’ll throw a burning lump of coal in the blankets.’ So these Incentivists do like burning things.”

Luan chortled. “I suppose that is one way of looking at it. What Gi Anji meant was that the stress the Moralists placed on cultivating virtue was misplaced. Most people are irredeemably selfish, and it is sufficient for the ruler to adjust the laws to encourage the right behavior. For example, if you increase taxes on farms but lower them for pastures—”

“What do you have against farmers?”

“Nothing! I was using an illustrative example.”

“Can’t you use another example? I don’t like taxes. The tax collectors are always so mean to my mother and me.”

“All right.” Luan thought of his old friend Cogo Yelu, who could talk about taxes for hours, and smiled. “Suppose you want to encourage the arts and letters. Rather than exhorting the people to be more studious, it’s better to make learning a requirement for positions of power.”

“That doesn’t sound very fair. You have to have money to go to school—”

“The point is: It’s possible to think of the laws as a complicated machine, and by adjusting the right levers and dials, you can make people do anything, just as dialing up the heat on the stove drives air out, causing the balloon to rise, and dialing down the flame creates a vacuum for the cold air to fill, causing the balloon to fall.”

“This philosophy sounds very… harsh.”

“It can be. The greatest Incentivist was actually Lügo Crupo, Emperor Mapidéré’s Imperial Scholar and later Emperor Erishi’s regent. He carried Gi Anji’s ideas to extremes and enacted harsh laws that finally led to the rebellion of the Scroll in the Fish.”

“Like a pot boiling over if you set the heat too high.”

“Exactly. But Incentivism is not, by itself, evil. It’s just a tool to understand the world. There’s a quote from Lügo Crupo, Mirotiro ma thiéfi ro üradi gicru ki giséfi ga gé caü féno, gothé ma péü né ma calu, goco philutoa rari ma ri wi rénroa ki cruéthu philutoa co crusé né othu, which means ‘Men are only motivated by profit and pain, but that is no sin, for all such desires are the shadow of the desire to transform earth into heaven.’ ”

While Luan Zya lectured on, Zomi noticed a seagull, who had been flying right in front of the balloon, suddenly drop off before catching itself by flapping its wings vigorously. A tiny smile crept onto her face as she braced herself against the wall of the gondola.

“…in fact, another of Gi Anji’s students, Tan Féüji, managed to extend Incentivism with Moralist—”

The balloon lurched as the crosswind that had blown the seagull off course struck, and Luan Zya stumbled and grabbed onto the side of the gondola, his lecture cut off.

“You should have seen your face!” Zomi’s laughter was as wild as the wind. “I saw a pattern, and I used it.”

Luan Zya shook his head, but Zomi’s joy was infectious. “You’ve been introduced to two schools of philosophy. Bored yet?”

“Are you kidding? This is fun! Teach me more philosophy about how to fly the balloon!”

“You see, you enjoyed my lectures on the Incentivists and the Patternists because I dressed them up as lessons on how to fly a balloon. A good idea is more easily absorbed if it is given the right expression, and that is why even when you have the right answers, you’ll convince more people when you present them with good handwriting and proper sentence construction.”

Zomi sighed. “Does this mean I need to practice more handwriting?”

“If you finish writing the Hundred Names fifty more times—to my satisfaction—we will look for more crubens.”

Zomi sat back down, picked up her slate, and eagerly began to write.

“Wait—” She stopped, looked up at the smirking Luan Zya, and stuck out her tongue. “I do not like it when you practice Incentivism!”

The banter between teacher and student was interrupted by laughter from time to time as the balloon continued to head for Crescent Island, the sun dappling the gentle waves below them.

^{CHAPTER ELEVEN} THE CRUBEN-WOLF

Instead of launching into an impassioned speech, Kita Thu turned around and clapped his hands together. “Quick! Go, go!”

And a group of servants who had been sitting behind the two rows of pana méji got up and started to unpack the trunks they had taken into the Grand Audience Hall. Swarming into the empty space between Kita Thu and the throne dais, they put on costumes, set out props, assembled elaborate paper-and-bamboo sculptures, put together intricate machines…

They were trying to put on a play for the emperor.

The Lords of Dara watched the proceeding with great interest while Kita Thu strode around, giving orders like a stage manager.

Since many of Kuni’s most trusted generals had been men of little learning, many of the pana méji had figured—correctly—that a flowery speech that recited the points made in their essays would be of little interest. Given that the emperor himself was said to have little patience for scholastic rhetoric, it was crucial that the Palace Examination presentations by the candidates take a more dynamic format.

And they had only had less than a month to prepare the presentations.

Once his servants had completed the preparations, Kita nodded and gave them the signal to begin.

The Lords of Dara and Emperor Ragin were then treated to a spectacle both amusing and horrifying.

Two servants stretched out a piece of shimmery blue water silk to represent the sea. As the waves parted, a monster rose out of the depths—portrayed by two players wearing a costume. The front half of the monster was a cruben, while the back half was a wolf. The monster lurched and struggled, as its legs could hardly propel the beast forward in the water. From time to time, the player in the front lifted the cruben-head out of the silk sea and sprayed fragrant rosewater into the air to simulate the gasping of the monster. The pleasing aroma gradually suffused the hall.

Titters could be heard around the hall and in the balconies. Even the empress and Consort Risana were charmed by the display.

Two more players came forward and placed a low platform laden with model mountains and valleys next to the silk sea to represent land. The cruben-wolf launched itself onto the platform, where the wolf legs finally found purchase. But now the heavy front half of the monster, no longer buoyed by the water, became a burden, and the monster still could not move effectively, as its fins flapped uselessly against the land and the wolf legs pushed the monster forward slowly, like an inchworm.

Kita whistled to indicate that a new scene should start. And the players rushed around to change costumes and props. The Lords of Dara were treated successively to the spectacle of a falcon-carp, a stag-worm, a turtle-elephant—the trunk and legs could not retract into the tiny shell—and most amusing of all, a mushroom-shark that floundered in the sea, unable to eat.

“Emperor Mapidéré had divided all the Islands of Dara into provinces and ruled them directly through a bureaucracy loyal only to himself. Before his conquest, the Tiro kings had relied on enfeoffed hereditary nobles to handle the duties of administration. You took a path different from both of those systems. Half of your lands have been given to the nobles, who maintain some measure of independence, and the other half you administer directly through your governors. In this way, you have gained the disadvantages of both, and the advantages of neither.”

As his servants cleaned up and packed everything back into trunks, Kita strode back and forth before the emperor, gesticulating passionately as he made his speech.

“If an Imperial edict announces a new tax, a governor must implement it while a neighboring duke or king might choose to ignore it. This leads to nonuniformity of laws and rewards the cleverly unscrupulous, who take advantage of such disparities to profit.

“You have created a monster that is neither fish nor fowl, and at home nowhere.”

“A most impressive—and, I might add, entertaining—presentation. I don’t fully agree, but do you have a solution?” asked Kuni. “Let the assembled Lords of Dara hear it.”

Kita Thu took a deep breath and spoke deliberately, making sure that his voice carried throughout the hall. “Rénga, I propose that you restore the Tiro system in full.”

The children had been mesmerized by the show put on by Kita Thu. The door to the changing room was to the side of the throne dais, and the seam in the door lined up with a few holes in the tapestry. By putting their eyes against the peepholes, the children could observe what was happening in the Grand Audience Hall without being seen.

“I want to try to play the cruben-wolf,” whispered Phyro. “Will you do it with me, Rata-tika?”

“Only if I get to be the cruben part,” said Théra.

“You always get the best part—”

“This Kita brought up the most complicated problem right away,” interrupted Soto with a whisper. “That’s a mathematician’s mind-set all right.”

“What do you mean?” asked Phyro.

“The nobles and the governors have been complaining about each other for years,” said Soto. “The latest gossip is all about how several barons have had their fiefs taken away from them due to slight acts of insubordination that the scholars blew out of proportion. Have you been so busy playing that you haven’t paid any attention?”

Théra came to the rescue of the embarrassed Phyro. “I’ve overheard Mother complaining about Imperial edicts not being obeyed. She thinks Father was too generous in awarding so much land to those who followed him and in giving them too much authority.”

Soto nodded. “Your father was in a difficult position. Men and women who risked their lives for him needed to be rewarded, but having so many semiautonomous nobles makes it difficult to push uniform policies.”

“But there’s also possibly an advantage,” offered Théra. “If an order from the Harmonious City is wrong, at least the lords of the fiefs could adapt it for the conditions of their realm or refuse to carry it out. Dara is large and varied, and maybe it’s better to leave some room for the nobles to experiment in their own domains.”

“I had not thought of such a justification….” Soto looked at Théra with admiration. “But it is possible your father meant the parallel system to serve the purpose of counteracting against too much centralization, as you suggest.”

“But surely he wouldn’t approve of restoring the Tiro kings of old!” said Phyro.

Soto chuckled. “No, that he would not. But the fallen House of Haan has only one tune. I knew Kita’s grand-uncle, Cosugi, and he was the same way. All he ever wanted was to be back on the throne in Ginpen. It seems that his dream lives on in a new generation.”

“The Tiro states should be revived, and men from noble lineages installed as kings,” Kita continued. “However, the Tiro kings should acknowledge you as the sovereign and honor you as is your due, though they will administer each kingdom fully autonomously.”

“How does this benefit Dara?” asked the emperor, his expression hidden by the dangling cowrie veil.

“In a thousand ways, big and small. While the bureaucrats, as men who serve at your pleasure, are inevitably motivated by thoughts of personal gain and will deceive you by exaggerating their accomplishments and hiding their errors, the Tiro kings will be men of noble character motivated by superior moral considerations. As they will not depend on your pleasure to maintain their hereditary positions, they will be motivated solely by honor and the good opinions of their fellows.”

“Am I supposed to be content as a mere figurehead?”

“Not at all. Freed from the minutiae of administration, Rénga, you will roam from Tiro state to Tiro state and act as the conscience of the realm. With more time to devote to the contemplation of virtue, you will elevate the level of ethical thinking across the Islands. The Tiro kings will seek to emulate you, and their nobles will seek to emulate them, and so on down the line to the meanest peasant, who will wish to imitate the behavior demonstrated by his lord. With time, we may yet return to the golden age spoken of by the Ano sages in the sunken land in the western oceans, when people slept at night without locking their doors and those who lost goods in the streets might still expect to find them there untouched in the morning.

“The greatest rulers should be philosophers, not mere bureaucrats.”

“This is an exceedingly pleasing vision,” said Kuni, his tone still serene.

Practically everyone was now staring at Gin Mazoti to see her reaction to this proposal. Gin was no friend of the old nobles of the Seven States, but she was also known for pushing the boundaries of her own authority the furthest of all of Kuni’s new nobles. But Gin sat still, her face betraying no hint of her emotions.

“You have explicated the essence of Moralism,” said Zato Ruthi with a sigh. “Even Kon Fiji could not have envisioned a better future.”

“No, he could not have,” said Kuni, and those closest to him could hear a hint of a smile in the voice. “But I do have a question for you, Kita. Who is in charge of the army in your proposal?”

“Each Tiro king will be in charge of the defense of his state, of course. And should rebellion against your person arise, all the Tiro kings will come to your aid.”

“I will have no army of my own?”

“A moral ruler should not resort to arms.”

The emperor turned to his right to look at Consort Risana, who was staring at Kita intently. Carelessly, she waved her hands, as though to dissipate the faint haze of the smoke from the censer at her foot. Then she raised her right hand to gently touch the tiny red coral carp dangling from her earlobe.

Kuni turned back to Kita, his posture relaxing slightly, and nodded. “Thank you. The sincerity of your belief is commendable.”

“I have come to this conclusion after much reading and thinking,” said Kita, who straightened his back proudly.

“I have just the right post for you, I think. Your moral rectitude, mathematical aptitude, and affinity for coordination and management—that was a thrilling show you put on!—will make you an excellent fit for the administration of the Imperial laboratories in Ginpen.”

Kita looked at the emperor, stunned. The post was of high rank, but far from the center of Imperial power.

The dream of every firoa was to be appointed to the College of Advocates, a new creation of the emperor. Composed of junior scholars who did not have specific areas of responsibility—and thus vested interests—the College of Advocates was charged with evaluating new policy proposals by the emperor’s ministers and criticize them—all of them—by offering an opposite opinion.

The emperor had described it as a way to prevent ossification of ideas and practices in the bureaucracy by encouraging debate. Though the ministers had opposed the idea at first—having young people with no experience criticizing the policy suggestions of their elders seemed fundamentally wrong—the empress had persuaded Zato Ruthi and the other scholars that the College of Advocates was actually a way to implement the concept of the philosopher-king, and now a position in the College was deemed the best assignment.

But Kita’s conversation with the emperor had not earned him the honor he craved. Time passed as he stood rooted in place, trying to process this assignment.

Zato Ruthi stepped forward and broke the uncomfortable silence. “Thank the emperor!”

Embarrassed, Kita bowed. At least I will be close to family back in Ginpen. But he wasn’t sure whether they would view this outcome as a success. He gritted his teeth and tried one last time before stepping back to sit among the ranks of the pana méji. “Rénga, I hope you will give my proposal due consideration.”

“I will discuss it with my daughter Fara when I put her to bed tonight.”

Scattered laughter from the assembled ministers and generals echoed around the hall.

“This Kita is an exceedingly silly man,” whispered Théra.

“What makes you think he has failed?” asked Soto.

“It’s such a ridiculous suggestion! Father just compared it to a fairy tale!” Théra said.

Phyro agreed. “This is his chance to impress the emperor, and he completely botched it. Everyone knows how much attention my father pays to the army—”

“And now he’s ruined this one precious opportunity that he got after years of study, something that others who have worked equally hard will never get!” finished Théra.

“I thought what he said was reasonable,” said Timu hesitantly. “Master Ruthi’s glosses on Kon Fiji’s Morality said—”

“You do remember that Father used to call the One True Sage the One True Sap, don’t you?” said Théra. Phyro started to laugh and had to cover his mouth with his hands until his face turned red from the effort to be quiet.

“A dutiful child does not repeat the opinions of a parent given after an evening of drink and revelry,” said Timu, his tone rather cold. “The emperor also said—”

But Soto cut in. “Do you think any of the pana méji are the children of simple peasants?”

Timu, Théra, and Phyro peeked through the seam in the door at the ten figures sitting at the center of the Grand Audience Hall. All of them were young, good-looking, and dressed in fine silks—except for the young woman kneeling at the end of the last row, who was dressed in a plain hempen robe dotted with patches like a map of Dara.

“Hey, that’s Zomi!” Phyro whispered.

“Yes! I knew we were right to help her!” said Théra, her face flushed with joy.

“Except for her,” Soto said, “all the rest of them come from big, important clans, families with power and money and the best tutors, families that could count on many future pana méji among their ranks. They’re playing the long game. When these examinees speak, you can’t interpret what they’re saying as the words of an individual.”

“Why don’t they just deliver a petition to the governor or noble in their region if they have something to say to Da?” asked Phyro.

“Because… they already know how Father will react to the message,” said Théra. “Don’t they? It’s more about the forum.”

Soto nodded approvingly. “How often does anyone get a chance to voice an opinion directly to the emperor as well as all the Lords of Dara? The Palace Examination is a rare opportunity for these families. You’ve just heard what some of the deposed old nobles of the Tiro states think of your father’s reign.”

Théra nodded. It was as if a veil had been lifted from her eyes. “So that fairy tale from Kita was really a threat. A threat of treason.”

Timu looked at her, shocked. “Théra! If that were true, the emperor would have had the guards seize him instead of making a joke. How can you say such outrageous things?”

Soto sighed inwardly. Not all of Kuni’s children had the same natural instinct for politics as their father. Patiently, she explained, “The emperor’s joke was not directed at Kita. It was certainly not the spoiled princeling’s reaction that your father cared about.”

“What do you mean?” Timu asked, his expression still one of bafflement.

Soto tried again. “When your father sits down to share a meal with one of his advisers, do you think they’re really interested in the food? When your mother invites Consort Risana to attend an opera, do you think they are really interested in the performance? Sometimes the show that is on the stage is only an excuse for a conversation among the audience that would be too awkward without the distraction.”

Théra peeked through the seam in the door again. While most of the ministers and governors on the west side of the Grand Audience Hall chuckled, only a few of the generals and nobles on the east side were laughing. Some of the nobles even looked… tense.

“Do you think many of the newly enfeoffed nobles are growing restless? Would they ally with the old nobles of the Seven States against my father?” asked Théra. The idea seemed so far-fetched. Queen Gin and Duke Kimo and Marquess Yemu… they are all friends with Father, aren’t they?

“Or perhaps your father thinks they are growing restless, which is and isn’t the same thing,” said Soto. “It’s no secret that the empress sides with the governors and the bureaucracy and suspects the nobles and generals. Your father respects her opinion. The joke was the real test.”

“I don’t understand—” began Timu.

“Or”—Théra bit her bottom lip, deep in thought—“perhaps some of the nobles think that my father suspects them of ambition, and they are testing my father by laughing or not laughing.”

“Argh!” Phyro wrapped his arms around his head dramatically. “You’re making my head hurt. Why do you have to make everything so complicated, Rata-tika? If anybody really dared to rebel, Da would just ride out with his army and fix it, the same way he fought the Hegemon. Auntie Gin will teach them a lesson they won’t forget!”

Soto smiled. “It’s possible to be too clever. In any case, nobody knows the truth in the hearts of these nobles, but that is what everyone is trying to find out. The message delivered by Kita Thu is a stone tossed into a pond, and now everyone in the Grand Audience Hall is trying to read the ripples.”

“I don’t think we should be discussing such things,” said Timu. He looked distinctly uncomfortable.

Soto looked at him pityingly. “What if the emperor makes you crown prince? Then it would be your job to think about such things.”

^{CHAPTER TWELVE} CRESCENT ISLAND

CRESCENT ISLAND: THE FIRST YEAR IN THE REIGN OF FOUR PLACID SEAS (FIVE YEARS BEFORE THE FIRST GRAND EXAMINATION).

Except for a few coastal towns and trading ports, Crescent Island was largely unsettled.

The landscape was a patchwork of shield volcanoes with miles and miles of frozen, ropy lava flow on which barely anything grew—as though the gods had carved ruts into a muddy road with massive carriages—and dense forests divided by rugged mountains, where the fauna and flora between neighboring valleys were as different as two islands divided by the open ocean.

In the days of the Tiro kings, the southern part of the island was administered by Amu, and the kings of Amu used it as a royal hunting preserve, though foreign kings and nobles from all over Dara were sometimes given license to hunt there as a reward or gesture of friendship. Mountain deer, lava fowl, white-cap monkeys, and parrots with bright plumage were all favored quarry, though the most prized game of all was the boar, which seemed to develop tusks of different shapes and sizes and coloration in each of the hundreds of valleys on Crescent Island. Some of the kings of old Amu became obsessed with collecting them all and spent more time hunting than administering in Müning, and the Amu poet Nakipo, who was also renowned as a lady of fashion at the Müning court, once wrote:

The policy of keeping Crescent Island largely wild was maintained under Emperor Mapidéré, and then later, under Emperor Ragin. Initially, Kuni had tried to settle some of the veterans from his wars on new land claimed from the wilderness, but the soil turned out to be mostly poor, and few wanted to be so far away from the rest of civilization. The scattering of coastal settlements were populated with families who found employment as guides and porters for the trophy-hunting parties of the nobles, supplementing their income by fishing in other seasons.

Small garrisons were maintained to keep the island from becoming a haven for pirates, though there were also small villages scattered in the interior of the island populated by descendants of the princes and princesses who had founded tiny principalities on the island during the Diaspora Wars. They paid no taxes to the Imperial Treasury and did not heed the Imperial edicts, and traveling storytellers and court poets attributed to them wild customs and improbable beliefs.

“There!” Zomi shouted, pointing to the southwest. At the foot of a towering cliff was a small clearing with about a dozen tiny thatched-roof houses huddled in a circle.

“That’s right, we’ll have lunch there and then hike up into the mountains. You can land in the clearing in the middle of the hamlet. The people here recognize my balloon.”

Zomi moved away from the dial overhead. “Teacher, I think you should land this.”

“Nonsense. Curious Turtle is in your hands,” said Luan. “Everyone has trouble with their first landing, but the real test is whether you view that as a failure or just a lesson.”

Zomi’s face flushed, remembering how her first attempt to land the balloon in the coastal settlement of Ingça had resulted in a hard bump against the earth, causing the gondola to tip over, spilling both her and Luan Zya onto the ground like two flopping fish.

She reached up and twisted the dial deliberately, reminding herself to go slow. The breeze was gentle and the balloon was drifting slowly, and as the flame overhead quieted, it lost altitude slowly.

“Keep your eye on the landing spot,” instructed Luan. “Envision the line of descent and follow it. Think of yourself as sliding down a slope.”

Zomi tried to imagine herself as part of the balloon, reacting to the nudges and bumps of the air currents with minute adjustments to the dial. She was not going to fail and disappoint her teacher.

As the balloon skimmed low over the ground, about fifty feet up, Zomi struggled to lift the anchor—a heavy metal claw attached to a length of silk rope—over the side of the gondola. Her bad leg made it hard for her to get leverage, but Luan did not come forward to help her, knowing that she preferred to do everything on her own.

The anchor dropped, and Curious Turtle jerked up suddenly with the loss of weight. But Zomi was prepared and held on to the side of the gondola. The claw of the anchor smashed into the grassy ground with a muffled thump and skipped over the grass a few yards, throwing up clumps of earth until it caught, and the anchor line stretched taut for a moment before drooping gently like a kite line. The balloon was held fast.

“Well done!” said Luan.

As Zomi worked the winch to bring the balloon down to the ground, a few villagers came out of the houses and gazed up at the billowing balloon coming out of the sky like a jellyfish. Zomi noticed their curious clothing: rough hempen robes cut in strange styles, with belts and waist-purses made from animal hide.

“They look like folk opera players dressed in costumes from the Diaspora Wars,” whispered Zomi.

“Their ancestors came from Arulugi a long time ago,” said Luan. “After generations of living away from the ever-changing fashion on the other islands, they’re like a still pool by the side of a rushing river, a world unto themselves.”

“You sound like you almost envy them.”

“Hmm?”

“Do you want to live like that? Away from everyone else?”

Luan pondered this. “When I’ve been away from the bustle of the great cities of Dara, I miss their noise and color. When I’ve spent too much time in them, I miss the clarity and solitude of nature.”

“Sounds like you’re never satisfied.”

Luan smiled. “I suppose that is true. It’s complicated.”

Finally, the gondola settled on the ground. Zomi extinguished the flame overhead, and the balloon began to lose air and billow in the breeze. Zomi climbed out of the gondola, connected several bamboo segments into a long pole, and pushed against the sagging balloon so that it would fall neatly along the ground and not become tangled.

An old man with a flowing white beard came forward to greet the visitors. Luan climbed out of the gondola as well.

“Weal be hale, all’vry-choon,” said the elder.

“Goad ’orrow, Comi,” replied Luan. “Hale thu weal.”

They bowed to each other deeply, and Elder Comi swept his sleeves across the ground between them three times—just like hosts in folk operas about ancient heroes did to greet their guests—and both sat down in géüpa.

“What dialect are you speaking?” whispered Zomi as she scampered to sit next to Luan.

“It’s the vernacular of Amu.”

“It doesn’t sound like how the Amu merchants I’ve met in the markets talk—wait, is this how they talked thirty generations ago?”

“Not exactly. The way we speak changes quickly—have you not noticed how even elders in your village do not speak the exact same way you do? I’m sure the speech of Elder Comi’s people has changed over time as well. But because they are isolated, they’ve managed to retain some pronunciations and vocabulary from the past that others on Amu have lost. I know how to say a few phrases and can understand a few more, but I have not spent enough time to really learn the language.”

“So how will you talk?” Zomi asked.

“Watch.”

A boy and a girl, both younger than Zomi, came to them from one of the houses. The boy was holding a tray filled with some gray, mud-like substance, and the girl was holding a tray with a crude ceramic teakettle, four cups, and a few dishes of snacks. The children set the trays down between Elder Comi and Luan Zya, bowed, and left.

Elder Comi poured tea for everyone—including a fourth cup for the gods—and gestured for them to taste. Zomi sipped the tea: The infusion was cold, with a floral flavor that was pleasant but unfamiliar.

The elder rolled up his sleeves and picked up a knife on the side of the tray. The edge of the knife was so dull that it resembled a small spatula. He used the knife to carve a grid of squares into the gray substance as though he was slicing a cake. Then he put down the knife and began to sculpt the gray, gooey material in each square with his hands.

“It’s clay,” said Luan.

Zomi watched, fascinated. The elder sculpted the clay squares into little mounds and pyramids, and then began to carve with the knife.

“Is he writing?” whispered Zomi. “These are Ano logograms, aren’t they?”

Luan nodded. “Since the zyndari letters simply represent the sounds of speech, I can no more read his writing than understand his speech if he wrote with letters. The Ano logograms, on the other hand, are not tied to the everyday speech of the people, but are frozen along with the departed language of the Ano, which we both know.”

“So he’s writing the exact same way the first Ano did?” Zomi felt awed at the prospect of seeing someone writing in the same manner as ghosts of people dead for millennia. It seemed like a kind of magic.

“Not exactly. Though Classical Ano is no longer used for daily speech, it is the language of poetry and scholarship, and so it has changed over time to accommodate new words and new ideas invented since the coming of the Ano to these islands. But because Classical Ano is seldom spoken now—and then only by the learned—it is tied to the logograms, which evolve much more slowly than fickle common speech. Even at the time of Mapidéré’s Unification, the logograms used by the Seven States were sufficiently similar to each other that it was easy to master another state’s logograms if you were properly educated and good at seeing patterns. His logograms are slightly different from the ones I learned, but it is not difficult for me to figure them out. We can converse via clay and knife.”

Zomi watched as Elder Comi and Luan Zya took turns shaping the clay and carving them into speech. Elder Comi’s sight was failing, and so he read Luan’s replies by caressing the logograms gently, using his fingers as eyes.

“What does that first logogram you wrote say?” whispered Zomi.

“What does it look like?” asked Luan, taking a sip from his teacup. “Oh, this plum-morning-orchid infusion is wonderful. I’ve missed it.”

The logogram was simple: a squat cone with three peaks poking up at the top. “A small mountain?” said Zomi, her voice betraying some trepidation.

“That’s right; that’s the logogram for mountain, which is read as yeda in Ano. What about the next one?”

Encouraged by the success, Zomi looked at the next square in the tray with more confidence. This logogram was more complicated: It appeared to depict a little person on the side of a slope.

“Person-on-the-side-of-a-mountain?”

“Which way is the person facing?”

Zomi crouched down to get a closer look. The head of the person was triangular, and the tip pointed to the top of the slope.

“The little guy is heading up the slope, I think.” Zomi pondered this. “Climb?”

“Good! Very good! It’s read as cotothu in Ano.” Luan took a bite from a piece of pastry he held with a pair of eating sticks. “You should try this, Mimi-tika.”

Zomi struggled with the eating sticks for a while, gave up, and picked up a piece of pastry with her hand despite the glare from Luan. It was really good!—sticky rice cake with coconut shavings, and the inside was filled with something that tasted like papaya and yet wasn’t papaya.

Still chewing, she managed to say between bites, “So you’re talking to the elder about climbing the mountain behind the village?”

Luan Zya smiled. “Good guessing. These are among the first logograms I learned as a child.”

“Are all the logograms just sculptures of what they say? These are easy to figure out! Why would you need years of schooling to learn them?”

Elder Comi had finished reading Luan’s question. He began to sculpt a response in the remaining squares in the writing tray.

“If you think it’s that easy, why don’t you tell me what Elder Comi is saying?”

Zomi examined the logograms as Elder Comi’s hands and carving knife shaped the clay, one square after another.

“That looks like a… scallop shell? But it’s in the same square as these two other things… Is that a really fat winter melon? And is that a banana leaf?”

Luan coughed and almost dropped his teacup. As he shielded his mouth with his sleeve, his face turned red as he laughed with his eyes until tears came out.

Zomi gave him a wounded look. “Kon Fiji said that it is not proper to laugh at those seeking knowledge.”

“Oh, so you can remember quotes from the One True Sage when you think they might be useful against your teacher.”

“Come on! Explain!”

“All right, all right. Ano logograms are much more than just sculptures of objects. How would you distinguish a hill from a mountain? How would you refer to anything complicated like a new type of waterwheel if you had to give an exact portrait of the thing you’re talking about? How would you say anything abstract like ‘honor’ or ‘courage’?”

Elder Comi put down the writing knife and made a please gesture at Luan.

Luan flattened the first logograms he had made and began to carve a response while continuing his explanation for Zomi.

“The ‘fat winter melon’ is actually a closed fist, and the ‘banana leaf’ is an open palm. A lot of Ano logograms incorporate stylized representations that are easy to carve but aren’t very close to the original anymore.”

“What does Elder Comi mean when he put a scallop shell next to a closed fist and an open palm?”

“The secret of the Ano logograms is the art of combinations… let me think—you like building things, so I’ll try to explain this to you the way an engineer would. Tell me, what is a machine?”

Having never given this question much thought—isn’t it obvious what a machine is?—Zomi struggled to formulate a response. “A machine is a… thing with gears and levers and other stuff.” It’s really hard to put into words what should be obvious. “Oh, they make work easier, like the ox-drawn plow is better and faster than a hoe.”

“Not bad! The great engineer Na Moji defined a machine in The Mechanical Art this way: A machine is an assembly of components put together to accomplish a purpose. But what are components?”

Zomi scrunched up her face in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“Think back to the sun-measuring scope you built. You put together two poles, a banana leaf stretched across a bamboo hoop, and a handheld mirror. What are each of those? Do they each have a purpose?”

Zomi thought about this. The two poles formed a cross for support; the bamboo hoop and the banana leaf, modeled on an embroidery hoop and cloth, provided a surface for recording; the mirror, made of a wooden handle attached to a bronze plate, was for reflecting light and casting a clear image. “They are each also… machines, made from their own components.”

“Exactly! A machine is made from sub-machines, each with its own purpose, and the machine orchestrates all these purposes together to accomplish a new purpose. And you can imagine that your sun-scope can be made into a component of an even larger machine—say, a device for tracing the reflection of an original image onto a new piece of paper: a copying machine.”

Luan put down the knife and gestured for Elder Comi to respond.

Zomi’s head was reeling. She pictured her crude sun-scope refined and enlarged, attached to a sitting board and an artist’s easel and systems of mirrors and lights and supporting struts so that a painting could be copied with exactitude. “That’s… amaze-licious and wonder-utiful.”

“When you constructed your sun-scope, you borrowed a mirror’s ability to reflect light, the bamboo poles’ resilience and flexibility, and the banana leaf’s smooth surface and combined them to do something that had never been done before. Engineering is the art of solving problems by combining existing machines into new machines, and harnessing the effects of the sub-machines to accomplish a novel effect. This is true whether you’re a fisherman weaving nets out of ropes and weights, a blacksmith hammering and shaping a plow on an anvil, or a cooper making a barrel from staves and hoops.”

Zomi sat there, slack-jawed. She had never heard of the idea of making things described this way. It sounded like art, like the poems sung by the traveling folk opera troupes, like… glimpsing the truth of the gods.

“It is possible, Na Moji said, to think of engineering as a kind of poetry. A poet assembles words into phrases, phrases into lines, lines into stanzas, and stanzas into poems. The engineer assembles raw components like nails and planks and ropes and gears into stock components, stock components into contraptions, contraptions into machines, and machines into systems. A poet marshals the words and phrases and stanzas for the purpose of moving the listener’s heart; an engineer marshals components and devices and effects for the purpose of changing the world.”

Zomi’s heart sang.

“The ancient sagas tell us that Man is the word-hungry animal, but I rather like to think of us as the idea-hungry animal. The Ano logograms are the most sophisticated machines ever devised for working with ideas.”

Elder Comi set the writing knife down one more time and straightened his back, a smile on his face. “Well’en. Gramersie.”

“Gramersie,” said Luan Zya.

He turned to Zomi, who was still staring at the clay logograms and turning over Luan’s words in her head. “Mimi-tika, Elder Comi and I have reached an agreement. We will lunch here first, and then he will send a few villagers to act as our guides as we climb the mountain to survey the flora and fauna. Can you help me get the trading goods from the gondola?”

Still a bit dazed, Zomi followed Luan to carry back baskets of goods. Some of them had been brought from Dasu, and others had been bought at the port of Ingça: cast-iron cooking pots, large knives for cleaving meat and chopping vegetables, bolts of hemp cloth, packets of spices, sugar, and salt. She handed them to the boy and the girl, who had come to gather the tea service and used dishes.

Elder Comi stood up and grinned, revealing his surprisingly healthy and strong teeth. “Hale repast.” He bent to pick up the writing tray.

“Wait!” Zomi shouted.

Luan and Elder Comi both turned to look at her.

“Please leave the writing tray.” Zomi gestured at Elder Comi to make herself understood. She turned to Luan. “Can you teach me the logograms?”

Luan chuckled. “I thought you weren’t interested in them.”

“You didn’t tell me earlier they were for engineering ideas!”

Being rather far inland, the hamlet didn’t offer the fresh fish that Zomi was used to consuming for main meals; instead, lunch consisted of dried fish, small nodules of steamed bread, and rice noodles in a soup of wild greens and melons.

“You never explained how to interpret the logogram with the scallop shell and the two hands,” said Zomi, as she sipped the soup.

“Remember to use two eating sticks for the noodles instead of your hands,” said Luan. “Kon Fiji said that—”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Zomi. “One eating stick for dumplings and pot stickers; two for noodles and rice; three for fish and fruit and meat so that you can use two of them in one hand to hold the food while dividing it into smaller pieces with the last. And as a woman, I have to take care to always leave my eating sticks on the table so that they lay chastely next to each other when not in use. You’ve been telling me these rules at every meal! I have been listening.”

“I know you think these rules are silly, but proper manners, like good handwriting, will soothe the minds of others so that they are more receptive to your ideas.”

Zomi picked up two eating sticks and halfheartedly stuffed some noodles into her mouth. Since she couldn’t talk with her mouth full—more lessons on manners—she pointed at the logogram impatiently.

Luan laughed, shaking his head. “You truly are hungry for knowledge. All right, think of each Ano logogram as a small machine, made up from components with distinct effects. The scallop shell is a semantic root, which designates the overall semantic domain of the logogram. Since the ancient Ano used shells as their first currency, the scallop shell references all things having to do with trade, finance, and wealth. There are hundreds of these semantic roots that you must learn to master the logograms.”

Zomi swallowed the noodles in her mouth. “What about the hands?”

“Chew the food, child! Chew! The hands are more complicated. They are motive modifiers, which means that they narrow and refine the semantic root to point to a more specific meaning. The combination of the open hand and the closed fist is a standard way to represent change or transformation. Putting them all together tells you that this logogram means ‘trade,’ or ingcrun in Classical Ano.”

“And that’s what you and Elder Comi were discussing!” Zomi said. “You were talking about climbing the mountain, and he proposed a trade.”

“That’s right. But take a look at this pair of logograms down here.” Luan used his eating sticks to point to two other logograms in the writing tray.

Zomi stared at them and muttered to herself. “Hmm… both of these seem to have smaller versions of the logogram for ‘trade’ in them… And they both have a flat slablike thing on top… are these supposed to be fish fillets?”—Luan almost choked on a mouthful of pastry as she said this—“They look the same, Teacher.”

“Do they really?”

Zomi crouched down again, examining the logograms from every angle. “Oh, I see what you mean. The flat fish fillet thing has different symbols carved into them: This one has a semicircle with a line in the middle that ends in a swirl; that one has a semicircle with a line poking between a pair of triangles.”

“That’s right. The ‘fish fillet’—why do you always have food on your mind? Haven’t you eaten enough? The ‘fish fillet’ is called a phonetic adapter. The first logogram is the Ano word crua, which means ‘to buy,’ and the second logogram is the Ano word athu, which means ‘to sell.’ The phonetic adapter is marked with symbols that give you a hint of how the logograms are supposed to be pronounced—in this case, whether the tongue is rolled or positioned between the teeth. Phonetic adapters allow words that are semantically closely related to be distinguished. Indeed, the phonetic adapters inspired our ancestors to invent the zyndari letters. But you still haven’t discovered all the details. Examine the ‘trade’ component some more.”

Zomi reached out to explore the logograms with her hands, trying to detect details that were hard to see given the uniform gray of the logograms. “I can see there are other marks and patterns carved into the side of the shell—the semantic root. Do these mean anything?”

“Those are called inflection glyphs, and they mark the conjugation of verbs and declension of nouns, adjectives, and pronouns. In formal writing, they’re usually colored to make them easier to see—and also for aesthetics—but in calligraphy, they’re often omitted for a more elegant outline. Also, by changing the height or angle of the logograms, a writer can indicate tone, emphasis, and—but we’re now probably getting too advanced. You’ll pick these up in time.”

“So you make complicated logograms out of simpler ones, just like you build a new machine out of machines you already have.”

“Exactly!” Luan was finished with his meal and pushed the rest of the dish of pastries at Zomi. “Let’s start with a simple example: Take the logogram for ‘mountain’ and combine it with the logogram for ‘fire’ ”—he quickly sculpted the merged logogram with a few well-placed motions of the knife—“what do you get?”

“A… volcano?”

“Yes! All right, let’s try something a little more complicated. If you take the logogram for ‘volcano’ and add the motive modifier for ‘blossom,’ what do you have?”

Zomi pondered this. “A volcanic flower?”

“You’re thinking too literally. Remember how the mirror can be used not just for seeing yourself, but also for projecting an image onto another surface? Think metaphorically.”

Zomi imagined a flower blooming… and she sped it up in her mind. “A volcanic eruption.”

Luan’s face exploded into a wide grin. “Yet one more example. What do you get if you use the logogram for a volcanic eruption as a motive modifier, and place it next to the semantic root of air-over-heart, which means ‘mind’ because the ancient Ano believed that thoughts originated in the heart, not the brain?”

Zomi stared at the new logogram Luan sculpted. The sub-logogram of air-over-heart was formed from a small pear-shaped nodule decorated with three wavy ridges, which rather reminded her of a chicken’s brain. “Explosion… mind… fury?”

Luan laughed out loud. “You’re indeed quick! That is why the Amu poet Nakipo’s famous poem ‘Fury’ is written like this.”

He sculpted the poem in the tray: the elaborate logogram for “fury” at the top, and then two lines of four logograms each below it.

Zomi parsed the logograms one by one:

“I don’t understand. What sort of silly poem is this?”

“You don’t recognize all the inflection glyphs or phonetic adapters yet, so let me read it and then translate for you.”

“Lovely, isn’t it? Nakipo wrote it after an argument with one of her closest friends, and this is deemed one of the finest examples of the imagistic school of poetry popular in old Amu. Each of the poem’s two lines is written with variations of the five sub-logograms found in the single logogram in the poem’s title, combined in various ways to give rise to new meaning. The poem is a finely crafted machine, as carefully designed as an Imperial airship or a jeweled water clock.”

Two young women came toward them from the hamlet. They wore large wicker baskets strapped to their backs and nodded at Luan and Zomi.

“Our guides are here,” said Luan.

Zomi seemed to not hear him; she continued to caress the logograms in the writing tray, the unfinished pastry forgotten to the side.

^{CHAPTER THIRTEEN} MERCHANTS AND FARMERS

One by one, the other pana méji were introduced, and they presented their ideas with various degrees of panache. Some put on skits like Kita Thu; some unveiled models or illustrations. One had his servants run around the Grand Audience Hall trying to fly some kites that were supposed to illustrate the elevated tone of his arguments—the lines got tangled and the kites crashed into the balconies, leading to much embarrassment and jokes about the “tangled skein” of his logic. Another chose to engage the Lords of Dara by making them participants in a mini-opera where they’d sing the chorus—that experiment fared about as well as one might expect.

Emperor Ragin quizzed each, jumping from their essays onto new subjects that seemed to interest him more. Now clued in to the true nature of the event, Théra was more appreciative of the stiff, odd answers given by the examinees as well as the subtle flow of power in the Grand Audience Room. It was as if the emperor, the pana méji, and all the attendees at court were playing some elaborate game in which a conversation happened beneath the conversation.

The next examinee, Naroca Huza, was from Géjira, Queen Gin’s realm. He spoke with the crisp, bright vowels of Gan, and the jade hairpins he wore in his triple scroll-bun gleamed in the slanting rays of sunlight.

“Rénga, I will open my presentation with a marvel to honor your wisdom and the diligence of Prime Minister Cogo Yelu.”

Naroca’s servants unpacked their trunks and began to assemble a massive machine in the middle of the Grand Audience Hall. It consisted of two large vertical spokes on either side, and a massive scroll of paper was installed on the right and spooled onto the spoke on the left. The audience could see that the scroll was divided into large rectangles, within each of which was painted a picture.

In front of the spokes was erected a rectangular frame whose size matched the size of the pictures on the scroll. The top and bottom of the frame were each an axle that turned freely. A pair of flat boards was attached to each axle, like a water mill wheel with only two vanes. These flaps were designed so that the vanes in the top and bottom wheels met just in the middle of the frame. As the wheels spun in synchrony, they acted as two rotating doors alternately blocking the view of the scroll behind them—when the flaps met in the middle—and revealing the scroll—when the flaps were parallel to the ground.

An intricate series of gears and belts connected the spools and vaned wheels to a set of foot pedals connected to cranked wheels to the side. The servants sat down on seats located above the pedals and readied themselves.

Everyone in the hall held their breath, waiting to see what sort of magical feat this strange contraption would perform.

Naroca looked around the hall, satisfied that all attention was directed at him. “You may begin!” He waved his hand forcefully.

The servants began to pedal at a steady pace. The gears and belts transferred their motion to the vaned wheels so that they began to flap open and closed, letting light through in rapid succession. At the same time, the massive scroll of paper began to rotate, spooling the paper from the right to the left.

Everyone in the hall gasped.

The images on the scroll seemed to come to life. A ship appeared to be sailing through a tumultuous sea, laden with bags of grain, bolts of silk, and boxes of other goods. Bravely, the ship made it through rain and lightning to arrive at a dock, where a cheering crowd welcomed the sailors.

Then came a map of the Islands of Dara, and the goods of each region appeared on the map one after another as though drawn there by an unseen hand: the prized fish and crabs of Zathin Gulf; the heavy red sorghum and glistening white rice of Cocru; corals and pearls from the coast of Wolf’s Paw; taro and animal pelts from Tan Adü; thick stacks of lumber from Rima; fruits and wines and wool from Faça; incense and silk made in Géjira…

And tiny ships appeared on the map, sailing from one region of Dara to another, leaving trails behind like strands of spider silk. Gradually, the Islands of Dara were woven into a whole, connected by the shining trails of the ships that plied its seas. The ships flickered and grew brighter, as though they were meteors leaving brilliant trails in a dark sky.

Abruptly, the animated images stopped. The entire massive scroll of paper had been unspooled from the right to the left, and the loose end of the paper flapped rhythmically against the machine. The servants slowed down and then stopped pedaling.

The Lords of Dara were unwilling to believe that the marvel had come to an end. It was simply too magical.

Luan smiled knowingly. Though the demonstration was impressive, he understood its principle right away. The animated image had been produced in a similar fashion as the rotating lanterns made by folk artists at the Lantern Festival or schoolboy drawings done in the corners of thick codices. Each successive image differed only slightly from the previous one, and when they were moved with sufficient speed behind a flickering shutter, persistence of vision produced the illusion of motion.

“…if merchants were given the recognition they deserve and the protections they require, then Dara’s prosperity would surely follow.”

“You’re protesting the Imperial edict raising port imposts?” asked Kuni.

“Among other policies,” said Naroca.

“I find the suggestion intriguing,” said Kuni Garu. “Old Gan, of course, was renowned for its trade ships, but it was the view of Kon Fiji that while farmers, weavers, craftsmen, smiths, and similar tradesmen made things, traders simply moved things around and profited from the needs, deprivations, and hungers of others. Your presentation, while marvelous, was sparse on justification. Can you elaborate?”

“That is the best demonstration ever,” said Phyro. “I wish we could make moving pictures like that.”

“I don’t think you’d have the patience,” said Théra. “Hundreds of artists must have worked nonstop since the Grand Examination to make that. Naroca’s family is very wealthy, and this isn’t a very subtle display. Father isn’t going to like that.”

“I thought Da liked traders,” whispered Phyro. “He’s always going on about how much he did to protect them back when he was the Duke of Zudi.”

“Remember that sometimes the emperor must ask questions that aren’t his,” said Soto, “and sometimes the answers he elicits are meant for other ears.”

“The Moralists have much to teach us, Rénga,” said Naroca, “but the One True Sage lived during a different time, when villages were small and inhabitants never traveled more than ten miles from home. Different times require different wisdom.”

“Some truths are eternal verities,” said Empress Jia. Her voice was not loud, but it carried crisply across the hall.

Although no one said anything or made a sudden move, Théra could feel the mood in the Grand Audience Hall shift as everyone perked up their ears.

It was rare for the empress to appear at court, and even rarer for her to speak. The courtly protocols originally designed by Zato Ruthi had adhered to the customs of the Seven States by excluding the participation of the emperor’s family from formal court. But Kuni had insisted on including seats for his wives next to his throne, to the protests and consternation of Moralist scholars. It was Empress Jia who proposed the compromise of voluntarily limiting her and Risana’s appearance to special occasions, at which she and Risana mostly remained silent.

Naroca bowed to the empress in acknowledgment. “That is true, Your Imperial Majesty. Yet the Moralists do not have a monopoly on truth. The great-spirited Ra Oji once said that the ebb and flow of the sea were at the heart of every search for happiness.”

“What does that Fluxist adage have to do with the jangling of coins and bargaining for advantage?” asked Jia.

“The essence of the tides is movement and change. It is the constant flow that prevents stagnation and refreshes life. To say that merchants produce nothing is a misunderstanding. We bring goods from places of abundance to where they’re wanted, so that excess may make up for shortage. The tide of commerce fulfills desires and spreads new ideas.”

“That is a pretty speech,” said Jia. “But coming from the son of Géjira’s wealthiest merchant, who is no doubt unhappy with the Imperial edict to raise port duties so as to lower farmers’ taxes, one rather suspects its sincerity.”

For a moment, it seemed as if Naroca was cowed. But he soon rallied. “All men and women are driven by self-interest. Merchants are simply more honest about this fact. Without profit and trade, fields will lie fallow and mines abandoned—”

“I think the farmers and miners who labor for their food will be very surprised to hear that you claim to be the purpose of their life.” The empress did not relent. “Emperor Ragin had settled veterans from the rebellion and the Chrysanthemum-Dandelion War on small plots of land in the hope that they would become self-sufficient farmers leading stable lives. But unscrupulous merchants bought up these plots with promises of quick pay—which many of the veterans quickly frittered away in gambling parlors—and now the former landowners have to scrape for a living as tenant farmers or laborers. Raising the taxes on trade was a way to stop this trend.”

“But small family farms are not as efficient as large farms—”

“Oh, do not lecture to me about efficiency! I know well the tricks you employ. Once you’ve bought up enough plots of land, you turn them into sugarcane fields or silk plantations to make more profit, instead of growing rice and sorghum and vegetables. There are entire regions of Géjira where food has to be imported, a truly bizarre situation for some of the best land in Dara. Staking the lives of entire provinces on the fate of a single crop makes Dara more unstable, and when the crop fails, the unemployed laborers have to resort to banditry. We should heed the lessons taught by the ancient Tiro states of Diyo and Keos well, for Keos fell due to being dependent on Diyo grain shipments.”

“Regional self-sufficiency is not desirable, Your Imperial Majesty. You speak of ancient Diyo and Keos, but the patterns of more recent history support my view. Rima declined because it strove for self-sufficiency and achieved only stagnation. Emperor Ragin’s Dasu, on the other hand, rose in part because of the pursuit of commerce.”

At this, Emperor Ragin chuckled. “Cogo, do you still remember those ‘Authentic Dasu Cooks’ you trained?”

Prime Minister Cogo Yelu smiled and inclined his head.

Empress Jia ignored this side exchange. “Your arguments dance from Fluxism to Incentivism, and then to Patternism. Yet at its heart, trade is exploitation. When the harvest is good in Géfica, you lower the prices you offer so that the farmers barely make more than they do in other years; when locusts strike Tunoa, you raise the prices you demand so that families must choose between going into debt or starvation. The very word ‘trade’ is a misnomer—you prey upon misery! Why is it that the farmers of Cocru who till the fields still go hungry while the merchants of Gan dress in silk and eat meat at every meal?”

“That is but the natural consequence—”

“Silence! Who recommended you for the Grand Examination?”

The arrogant grin on Naroca’s face froze.

“Why is Mother so outraged?” whispered Timu. “This isn’t like her at all.”

“Watch,” said Soto. “Sometimes you kick the dog because you’re aiming for the master.”

“I did,” Queen Gin of Géjira intoned coolly—the old Tiro state of Gan had covered both Géjira and Wolf’s Paw, though now Wolf’s Paw was an Imperial province while Géjira was Gin’s charge. “He might be a bit arrogant, but I thought he showed signs of brilliance in his Provincial Examination answers.”

“He argues like a paid litigator, with no integrity or steadfastness of principle.”

“Lady Jia,” Queen Gin of Géjira said, “I apologize for the rash way this young man from my fief spoke.” Her tone, on the other hand, suggested no regret at all. “However, is it not the custom at Palace Examinations dating back to the time of the Seven States for the examinee to speak frankly without fear of offense?”

Luan Zya frowned while the other ministers and generals kept their eyes focused on the ends of their noses, not even daring to take a deep breath.

“Lady Jia?” the empress repeated, dumbfounded.

“Forgive me, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Queen Gin, pronouncing the honorific stiffly. “Sometimes it’s hard to change old habits. My mind still acts as it did in the days of old, when the emperor was just Lord Garu and I his marshal.” Still seated, she bowed to the empress, though not very deeply, as her stiff ceremonial armor allowed her only a soldier’s greeting.

The sheathed sword on her waist clanged against the stone floor, and the sound reverberated in the Grand Audience Hall.

Soto shook her head and muttered, “Foolish.”

Timu and Phyro looked at her, uncomprehending.

But Théra was thinking, Is she talking about Mother or Queen Gin?

“Gin, Jia, please,” said Kuni.

Jia turned her eyes away from Gin and looked straight ahead.

Gin straightened her back, her sword gently scraping against the floor.

“I hear that you canceled the plan to renovate the palace in Nokida this year, Gin,” said the empress, her voice as calm as the stone pool in the garden for the birds to bathe in. “Is the treasury of Géjira in need of assistance?”

“I thank Your Imperial Majesty for being so solicitous of me,” replied Gin. “But Géjira is doing just fine. I follow the example of the emperor: A fine palace for me is not as important as the welfare of the people.”

“Then you’re to be commended for upping your contribution to the Imperial Treasury this year without increasing the burden on the people,” said the empress, now a trace of mockery creeping into her voice.

“I know my duty,” said Gin evenly.

Though it was impossible to see the expression on Emperor Ragin’s face, the way the crown’s dangling cowrie strands suddenly clinked against each other was audible to those closest to him. Ever sensitive to her husband’s moods, Risana turned to Kuni and almost reached out to hold his hand, but then she remembered where she was and stopped herself at the last moment.

Luan Zya looked at Gin, the grimace on his face growing more pronounced.

“What was that exchange about?” asked Phyro.

“If the emperor has issued an edict to increase port duties, wouldn’t you expect the taxes collected in Géjira, filled with wealthy merchants, to go up?” Soto asked.

The children nodded.

“And the portion of the taxes turned over to the Imperial Treasury from Géjira would also go up,” said Soto.

“Prime Minister Cogo Yelu is wise to have designed a taxation scheme that harmonizes the needs of the emperor with the needs of the provinces and fiefs,” said Timu. “This is just as it should be.”

Soto looked at him. “And you’ve heard nothing in that exchange that you find odd?”

Timu looked back at her, his face confused. “I do not like riddles, Lady Soto.”

Soto sighed inwardly again. Jia has a difficult task in front of her with this child.

Théra jumped in. “Why would Queen Gin have to put off plans to renovate her palace if the tax revenues were up?”

Soto turned to her and smiled. “A very good question.”

Timu struggled to make sense of this. “Are… you accusing Queen Gin of refusing to implement the Imperial edict and paying the expected increase in the portion that is due to the Imperial Treasury out of her own pocket?”

“Your mother did say ‘without increasing the burden on the people,’ remember?”

“But why would she do that?”

I can only explain so much, thought Soto. I can’t hold your hand every step of the way.

But Théra came to her brother’s rescue. “Because she feels the Imperial edict is wrong or because she wants her people to like her—even more than they like Father. Either way, Mother… doesn’t like it.”

“Perhaps we should speak to the next scholar.” Consort Risana broke the silence.

Kindly, she gestured for Naroca Huza—who had been forgotten by everyone—to return to his seat. The young merchant’s son, relieved that his ordeal was over, rushed back to his place among the other pana méji and sat down.

Kuni looked at Risana, who raised her right hand casually and touched the red coral carp earring. The emperor nodded and turned back.

“You may join the College of Advocates,” intoned Kuni. “I suspect your perspective will be of great use to everyone at court.”

This was certainly not the result Naroca had expected. He stood up and bowed deeply to the emperor and sat back down.

Empress Jia resolutely refused to look at him.

Zato Ruthi, stunned by the heated exchange between the empress and Queen Gin, recovered. “Uh… yes. Of course. Next is Zomi Kidosu, of Dasu. Her essay was written in a rough and indelicate hand, yet there was something powerful in the carved logograms that reminded me of the finest stone calligraphers of Xana from centuries ago, who worked with a difficult material in an uncultivated land. I was surprised to find that… that…”

Gin Mazoti looked at him, amused. Back when Zato Ruthi had been the King of Rima, he had repeatedly declared his disapproval of Kuni Garu’s choice of a woman as the Marshal of Dasu, citing Moralist adages about the proper relation between the sexes. However, after the emperor made it clear that he intended to open up the examinations to women and that as Imperial Tutor, he was to teach all the princes and princesses the same curriculum, he had managed to discover new support in Kon Fiji’s writings that suggested at least highborn women were sometimes suitable for scholarship. Ancient texts were apparently as malleable in the hands of a master scholar as lumps of warm wax, able to bear any construction.

Still, old habits died hard. He must have been pretty surprised to find out that one of the ten pana méji selected by him and the other judges was a woman.

“Ahem.” Ruthi cleared his throat and went on. “Her essay was bold and original, harmonizing the Fluxists with the Moralists in a way I have never seen before. I think her proposal for reviving the simpler rituals of the Ano sages of old is well worth listening to.”

Zomi stood up from the back row of seated scholars.

Whispers and murmurs passed among the assembled ministers and generals. Consort Risana looked puzzled while the empress frowned.

The most surprised of all, however, were Luan Zya and Kado Garu.

She made it! Luan suppressed the urge to jump up and shout in joy.

Who is she? Kado thought over the list of names he had been sent….

When she had been kneeling, the sad state of Zomi’s attire had been hidden, but now that she was standing and the center of attention, the shabbiness of her clothing was on full display. The hem of her plain hempen robe was frayed, and her leggings showed through a rip. Bits of a harness around her left leg also peeked out, which explained her limping gait.

Luan Zya looked over at her and offered an encouraging smile. She smiled back.

“Why are you dressed so poorly?” asked Emperor Ragin.

“Because I am poor,” said Zomi.

Zato Ruthi glared at the officials behind the kneeling scholars, who were supposed to be in charge of teaching the pana méji court protocol for today.

“We offered to buy her a formal dress for today,” said one of them in a trembling voice, “but she refused.”

“A piece of jade wrapped in a dust rag remains a piece of jade,” said Zomi. “But dog turds wrapped in silk will still stink up the room.”

After a stunned moment of silence, Consort Risana’s laughter rang out in the Grand Audience Hall. The other pana méji, finally realizing that they had been insulted, turned to stare at Zomi angrily.

Smiling behind the curtain of cowrie strands, Kuni leaned forward and said, “Why don’t you share with all of us your proposal for reforming Dara?”

The door leading to the corridor banged open. The four eavesdroppers in the changing room turned around and saw little Fara, four years old, standing wide-eyed in the door.

“Are you playing hide-and-seek?” she asked. Then her face broke into a big smile as she jumped and shouted. “Hide-and-seek! Hide-and-seek!”

Her shouting was so loud that it was certain that the people in the Grand Audience Hall heard.

The children looked at each other.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” said Timu. “The emperor and the empress are going to be furious!” Then his face looked even sadder as he muttered, “Master Ruthi is going to assign a dozen essays for this, and probably double that amount for me, for not stopping you.”

A maid stood in the doorway leading into the corridor, her body quaking with fright. “Lady Soto! I’m sorry! Princess Fara ran away when I went to prepare her snack, and she was too fast for me to catch up.”

Soto waved her away. She was just about to tell the children to run off and she would face the emperor’s wrath by herself when Théra pulled Fara to her and said, calmly, “That’s right. We’re playing hide-and-seek, and we just found you.”

“But I found you!”

“It’s opposites day. Play along with me.” She gestured for Phyro and Timu to leave.

Then Théra pulled the door leading into the Grand Audience Room open, took a deep breath, and shouted. “There you are, Ada-tika! What a nice hiding spot you’ve found! I’m sure I wouldn’t have found you if you hadn’t cried out. Now, where does this door lead to?”

^{CHAPTER FOURTEEN} THE HIKE UP THE MOUNTAIN

What had appeared from the distance as a sheer cliff turned out to have a winding path carved into its face. By pulling on vines and protruding stones, the sure-footed guides, Képulu and Séji, made their way up the mountain.

The two women were sisters, and they kept up a constant stream of chatter as they climbed up the mountain. Though Luan and Zomi couldn’t understand what they said, occasional glimpses of their expressive faces and comically exaggerated gestures as they paused from time to time made the teacher and student chuckle. The sisters were excited to go up the mountain for the first time after a long winter: Springtime was good for collecting herbs, wild greens and shoots, and useful insects with medicinal properties.

The path was simply too steep for Zomi’s leg, and so Luan strapped her to his back as he followed closely behind the guides, copying their steps and holding on to the same handholds. All four were connected to each other by rope for safety. The necessity for her teacher to carry her dampened Zomi’s joy, and bored, she made the mistake of looking down the side of the path once, which made her wrap her arms around Luan’s neck and hang on for dear life.

“If you wanted to go up the mountain, why didn’t we just fly up there in the balloon?”

“The forest up top is too dense for the balloon to land,” said Luan. He tugged on the rope gently to signal to the guides that they needed to stop until Zomi felt calmer. “And it’s impossible to get a close look at the things we came to see if we only survey it from air.”

After a while, Zomi’s breathing returned to normal, and she nodded for the party to keep on climbing.

From time to time, Képulu and Séji paused to collect leaves, berries, lichen, insects, and mushrooms found by the side of the path and store them in the baskets they carried on their backs. Luan would occasionally ask the women to stop and hand him a specimen, which he carefully pressed between the leaves of Gitré Üthu—though if the object in question was too thick, he would try to sketch it in the book with a piece of charcoal.

“Why are you so interested in getting up there?” asked Zomi. She was beginning to enjoy the climb. They were high enough that the mist obscured the long drop down, and riding on Luan’s back made her feel as though she was floating among clouds.

“Treasure.”

“Treasure?” Zomi’s heart sped up. Now this is exciting. “From pirates?”

“Er… not exactly. Though I’ve been here twice before, this year is different. Over the winter there was a volcanic eruption atop the mountain, and I’ve never had a chance to observe how nature repairs itself after such a disturbance. Did you notice how dry things were down in the village? I expect that’s related to the eruption too.” He patted the book in his hand affectionately. “This book may be big, but it is but a pale copy of the book of nature, the greatest treasure of them all.”

“You gave up a life in the palace just to travel all over Dara collecting plants and sketching animals?”

“Some like to hunt trophies; I like to gather knowledge.”

Zomi thought of her own long walks along the beach and the days she spent wandering through the fields and woods of home, noting the patterns of racing clouds and blooming flowers and murmuring winds, hoping to understand the voices of the gods—yes, odd as her teacher was, Luan was a kindred spirit.

She sensed from Luan’s breathing that he was getting tired, and as they were at a relatively flat section of the trail that widened into a small ledge, she pointed to a small bush growing at the side of the path. “What’s that?”

“Hmm… I’m not sure.” Luan pulled on the rope again to ask the guides to stop. “Let me examine it more closely.”

“Put me down first so you can climb up to it,” said Zomi. Luan gently let her down and made sure she lodged her good foot securely between two rocks and grabbed onto secure handholds.

While Luan studied the plant, Képulu and Séji untied themselves from the safety rope—having made sure to secure it first to the cliff for Luan’s protection—and climbed up the dangling vines to reach otherwise inaccessible spots on the cliff face, where they gathered bird eggs, dug out tubers, and sniffed at the succulent leaves of various plants before stuffing handfuls into their baskets. Zomi admired the way they moved about the cliff face as securely as spiders traversing a web. For a moment she was jealous of their perfect, balanced limbs, their powerful muscles and limber sinews—then she pushed the thoughts away. That way lay madness. The choices of the gods could not be questioned.

“This is fascinating,” muttered Luan Zya. He took out a knife and started cutting branches from the small bush.

Zomi couldn’t see what was so fascinating about it at all. It looked just like the common clinging birch that grew on steep slopes back home in Dasu. She had asked the question only in the hope of eliciting some botanical lecture about a plant she was already familiar with so that Luan would get a longer break from having to carry her, but her teacher treated it like some exotic species that had never been seen.

“What is so special about it?”

“Look at how strong and flexible these are.”

Luan now had in his hands a bundle of cut branches, each of which was about a foot long and about the thickness of a finger. He flexed them to gauge their resilience and test for weak spots. Satisfied, he shortened the safety rope and tied it to a rocky outcrop, braced his feet in two depressions in the cliff face, took out some lengths of rope and ox sinew from the sack attached to his waist, and tied the branches together into a framework.

“What are you building?” asked Zomi, curious.

“I’ve come up with an idea that will help you, but you have to trust me. Can you sit over here, hold on to the vines, and give me your leg?”

Zomi looked at him suspiciously. She did not like it when people paid attention to her weak leg, much less when another person touch it.

“Are you scared?” Luan said, a teasing smile at the corners of his mouth as he held up the strange contraption he had built.

That settled it. Zomi crawled near him, wrapped the vines around her own arms, and held out her left leg with some effort so that it rested in Luan’s lap. “I’m afraid of nothing.”

“Of course not,” said Luan, and he wrapped the framework around Zomi’s leg. Once the branches were braced around her calf, he tightened the ox sinew so that the branches dug into Zomi’s skin.

“Ouch!” Zomi cried out. But then she immediately bit her lip to stifle the cries.

Luan slowed down so that his movements were more deliberate and gentler. Zomi closed her eyes and gritted her teeth as he flexed and bent her leg in ways that caused her skin and nerves to tingle as though a thousand ants were crawling up her leg.

“While your body is getting used to this, I might as well teach you about the third and fourth schools of philosophy, Fluxism and Moralism.”

“You can’t even let a single idle moment slide by?” Though her tone was petulant, Zomi was grateful for the distraction.

“Life is short, but knowledge grows ever more abundant. The founding sage of the Fluxists is Ra Oji, the ancient Ano epigrammatist. ‘Dothathiloro ma dinca ça noco phia ki inganoa lothu ingroa wi igiéré néfithu miro né othu, pigin wi copofidalo,’ he once said, or ‘A Moralist is someone who can tell you how everyone ought to behave except himself.’ ”

Zomi laughed. “I like him.”

Luan took off Zomi’s left shoe, placed another set of branches right under Zomi’s foot, going from the ball to the heel, and wrapped lengths of sinew around her ankle and foot to hold them in place. He tightened the sinew by twisting another short branch and locked it into the framework wrapped around Zomi’s calf.

“Yes, Ra Oji was quite a character. We don’t know much about his life except that he was about a generation younger than Kon Fiji. He must have come from a very learned family, as his knowledge of ancient Ano traditions from before their coming to the Islands of Dara was extensive. Many Ano books lost during the Diaspora Wars are known to us now only as fragments that have survived in his poems and parables, and he wrote a lively, moving biography of Aruano, the great lawgiver who created the Tiro states.

“But those accomplishments came later. As a young man, Ra Oji made his name by debating Kon Fiji.”

“He debated the One True Sage? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Oh, I think the Moralists don’t like to be reminded of how their great teacher could also be challenged.”

Luan bent the branches in the brace this way and that, notching some of them with a knife. Then he started to carve two thicker branches, peeling off the bark to reveal the smooth wood below.

“What was the debate about?”

“Kon Fiji came to the court of the King of Cocru to advocate a return to the funeral rites of the ancient past, as practiced on the sunken continent in the west that was the ancestral homeland for the Ano. The rites were rigidly defined for different classes, and involved lengthy mourning periods for the deceased. For instance, a king’s death mandated mourning by all subjects in the realm for three years; a duke, one year; a count or marquess, six months; an earl, three months; a viscount, a month; and a baron, fifteen days. The commoners had a different set of rules based on their professions—merchants were at the bottom, and farmers were at the top because Kon Fiji viewed merchants as exploiters who produced nothing. There were also rules about the sizes of the mausoleums, the types of clothing to be worn at the funerals, the number of pallbearers, and so on and so forth.”

“These sound about as useful as his rules for how many eating sticks should be used to eat noodles.”

“I can tell you’ll get along fabulously with the Moralists at the emperor’s court.”

“Let me guess, Kon Fiji probably also had different rules for men and women.”

“Ah, you’re thinking like a Patternist—and you’d be right.”

“It figures.”

Luan fitted the two longer, thicker sticks into the notches in the branches sticking out beyond Zomi’s heel, and then connected the other ends to the brace around her calf with strong hoops of sinew.

“The King of Cocru was as skeptical as you. Kon Fiji argued that the rites were important because they enacted and embodied the respect due to each rank. Ranks are made real—the technical term in Moralism is reified—through practice. Abstract principles are given life through performance. Just as applying the same rules to friends and foes alike gives meaning to honor, giving away possessions supplies content to charity, and reducing punishments and taxes provides significance to mercy, the adherence to seemingly arbitrary codes of behavior can reify a structure for society that leads to stability.”

Zomi pondered this. “But there is no soul to such performances. All that everyone would be doing is acting out roles dictated by Kon Fiji. It wouldn’t be real honor or mercy or charity if all the king is doing is following rules.”

“The One True Sage would say that just as intent drives action, action can also drive intent. By acting morally, one becomes moral.”

“This all sounds terribly stiff and inflexible.”

“That is why the element of the Moralists is the earth, the stable foundation for statecraft.”

“What did Ra Oji say?”

“Well, he began his debate by saying nothing.”

“What?”

“You have to realize that Ra Oji was a very striking young man, and it was said that when he came into the court of the King of Cocru on that day, all the men and women just gawked.”

“Because he was very handsome?” asked Zomi, slightly disappointed. She had been thinking of this Ra Oji, who debated the stuffy old Kon Fiji, as a hero of sorts. That he was handsome seemed to… detract from the vision. “Wait, there were women at the court too?”

“Ah, this was in the early days of the Tiro states, when noblewomen were often in formal court to give their opinions. It wasn’t until later that the scholars convinced most of the kings that women shouldn’t meddle in politics. But to answer your first question: No, it was because he came in riding on the back of a water buffalo.”

“A… buffalo?”

“That’s right, a water buffalo that you’d find wallowing in the rice paddies of a Cocru peasant next to the Liru. In fact, its legs were still caked with mud. Ra Oji sat on its back in géüpa, happy as you please.”

Zomi laughed out loud at this, wholly forgetting the Moralist prescription to cover her mouth. Luan smiled and did not correct her. He continued to make adjustments to the harness around her leg, and Zomi was growing so used to it that she no longer paid much attention to it.

“The King of Cocru asked in consternation, ‘How can you come into the palace on the back of a muddy water buffalo, Ra Oji? Have you no respect for your king?’

“ ‘I am not in control of the buffalo, Your Majesty,’ said Ra Oji. ‘When our ancestors came to these islands, they let the flow of the ocean’s currents carry them wherever the ocean pleased, and likewise, I let the buffalo wander wherever he will. Life is much more enjoyable when I ride the Flow instead of worrying about how many times to brush the ground with my sleeves or how deeply to bow.’

“At this, the King of Cocru realized that Ra Oji was challenging Kon Fiji. So he stroked his beard and asked, ‘Then how do you answer Master Kon Fiji’s advocacy for a return to ancient rites to achieve a more moral society where each knows his duty?’

“ ‘Simple: Our ancestors came from a continent where the earth dominated everything, and stability of life in small villages was paramount. But we now live in these islands, where the shifting currents of the ocean determine all. Our people must contend with migrating shoals of fish, unpredictable typhoons and tsunamis, and volcanoes that erupt and release rivers of fire—and even the ground trembles at these moments. We’ve had to invent new logograms to describe new sights, and the only certainty of life is that it’s uncertain. With new circumstances come new philosophies, and it is flexibility and resilience, not rigid adherence to tradition, that will serve us well.’

“ ‘How can you say such things?!’ demanded Kon Fiji. ‘Our lives may have changed, but death has not. Respect for the elderly and honor given for a life well lived connect us to the accumulated wisdom of the past. When you die, do you wish to be buried as a common peasant instead of as a great scholar worthy of admiration?’

“ ‘In a hundred years, Master Kon Fiji, you and I will both be dust, and even the worms and birds who feast on our flesh will also have traveled through multiple revolutions of the wheel of life. Our lives are finite, but the universe is infinite. We are but flashes of lightning bugs on a summer night against the eternal stars. When I die, I wish to be laid out in the open so that the Big Island will act as my coffin, and the River of Heavenly Pearls my shroud; the cicadas will play my funeral procession, and the blooming flowers will be my incense burners; my flesh will feed ten thousand lives, and my bones will enrich the soil. I will return to the great Flow of the universe. Such honor can never be matched by mortal rites enacted by those obeying dead words copied out of a book.’ ”

Zomi cheered and stood up, shaking a fist.

Luan looked at her, his face breaking into a smile.

Zomi looked down and realized that her left leg was supporting her weight. Incredulous, she gingerly shifted her weight and tested her leg by flexing it. The complicated framework of supple branches and tough sinew flexed as well, lending her strength and support as though magnifying the movement of her atrophied muscles.

“How did you do this?” Zomi asked, awe and wonder in her voice.

“When I used to work with Marshal Gin Mazoti in the emperor’s army, we had many veterans who had lost limbs in battle or from working on Emperor Mapidéré’s projects. The marshal and I devised artificial limbs to help these soldiers recover some of their lost abilities. I was inspired to adapt one of them for your condition.” Luan leaned down and showed Zomi how the sinews and supple branches cleverly stored and magnified the energy from her muscles. “It’s acting a bit like a skeleton, but on the outside of your legs instead of inside, giving you both support and mobility.”

“You’re a magician!” Zomi was getting the hang of it, and she moved around in delight. She felt as though she was swimming in air; she had not been able to move about so effortlessly since the night she was struck by lightning. Though she would still need some help to make her way up the mountain, she should be able to move around on flat ground as though her leg were almost perfect.

She looked back at the kind face of Luan and remembered the secret contraption he had been working on in the balloon. This was clearly not something invented at a moment’s notice. How long had he been thinking and working on a prototype in secret? He knew how sensitive she was about her leg, and he hadn’t wanted to embarrass her by drawing attention to it until he had figured out a solution.

Spontaneously, she ran up to Luan and gave him a great big hug.

Luan hugged her back.

The guides, who had been quietly observing the construction and testing of the brace, cheered and clapped.

Zomi didn’t dare to speak because something seemed to be stuck in her throat and she didn’t want to croak like a frog.

Finally, the four of them climbed through the sea of mist and emerged at the top of the cliff. A great, dense forest spread around them, though most of the trees crawled along the ground and were no more than the height of a person due to strong winds at the top of the peak.

They picked their way through this forest. As the guides stopped from time to time to add to the collections in their baskets, Luan hurried over to ask them for explanations of the uses of the plants and fungi, the three conversing by carving logograms in the soil and humus.

Zomi took advantage of her new freedom by wandering around on her own. She particularly loved the birds flitting about on the branches, half-hidden behind the leaves and singing a hundred different songs.

“What’s that bird called?” asked Zomi, pointing at a mottled green-blue bird.

“The fluted thrush.”

“And that one?”

“Scarlet siskin.”

“And that one there with the bright yellow tail?”

“Sun-through-clouds.”

As he told her each name, he sketched for her the logograms.

“Some of these birds seemed similar to the birds the Ano knew in their homeland, and so they gave them the same names; others were new, and new words and logograms had to be invented. But see, all the names of the birds have the bird semantic root, and so even if you didn’t know what the logogram meant, you could guess that it was the name of a bird. This is one of the ways that the Ano logograms can give you hints about knowledge of the world. They are machines that transform the book of nature into models in our minds.”

Zomi thought about this, and then asked for the names of various flowers and mushrooms. Luan patiently told her the names and sketched out the logograms on the ground. He loved how curious she was. It made him feel young again.

“Why is the flower semantic root in the logogram for this mushroom?” asked Zomi.

“A matter of history. Back when the earliest logograms were devised, the ancient Ano thought of mushrooms as a kind of plant. It was only much later that scholars and herbalists decided that the fungi were distinct from the vegetable kingdom.”

“Yet the error in classification persists in the logograms.”

“Knowledge is a vehicle that progresses through errors and blind alleys. It is the nature of history that the ruts left by earlier events persist down the centuries. The wide paved roads in Kriphi follow the course of earlier dirt paths when it was but an Ano fortress, and those roads, in turn, followed the trails of the wandering sheep flocks when it was but a hamlet. The Ano logograms are a record of our climb up the mountain of knowledge.”

“But why study the record of errors? Why force generations of students to make the same mistakes?”

Luan was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“When the Ano came to these islands, they saw new animals and new plants, and yet they persisted in naming and classifying them using outdated machinery, with a system of logograms that was full of accumulated mistakes. They learned that the seat of thought is in the head, yet ‘mind’ is still written as air-over-heart. Why not start something entirely new?”

“You ask a very good question, Mimi-tika. But I would caution that the desire for perfection, for a fresh start, is very close to a philosophical tyranny that disregards the wisdom of the past.

“In the debate between Kon Fiji and Ra Oji, it is not clear-cut that Kon Fiji had the worse argument. True, things are different in the Islands from the Ano homeland, but the hearts of people—with all their ideals, passions, greedy covetousness displayed side by side with high honor, selfish interest driving noble sacrifice—are not. Kon Fiji was not wrong to say that respect for the wisdom of the past, for paths carved out by generations of lived experience, should not be disregarded overnight.”

“Hmmm.”

“I’ve never seen you at a loss for words before,” said a grinning Luan.

“You’re actually making Kon Fiji sound like… a true sage.”

Luan laughed. “I haven’t always given you the fairest presentation of the Moralists, I suppose, and that is my fault. But just as the four major schools of philosophy and the Hundred Schools of minor branches of learning all have something to teach us, it is a balance between the new and the old that we must strive for.”

“I thought we’re striving for Truth.”

“We’re not gods; we can’t always tell truth from error, and so it’s better to be cautious.”

Zomi looked at the logograms Luan had carved on the ground, unconvinced.

Hidden by the misty woods, Képulu and Séji shouted excitedly from some distance ahead. Luan and Zomi hurried to follow the voices, and the air around them was filled with the acrid smell of smoke and fire.

Growing worried, Luan wanted to stop and assess the situation, and he called out for Zomi to slow down. Still a bit uncoordinated, she stumbled ahead on her brace but refused to heed Luan’s admonitions. Luan had no choice but to rush to follow behind.

They emerged into a narrow clearing like a scar in the forest.

And a scar it was. The volcanic eruption had carved a burnt tongue into the green flesh of the mountain. The thick, ropy solidified lava, like the mythical River-on-Which-Nothing-Floats, should have been devoid of life and vegetation. It would take years before life would recover in this inhospitable landscape.

But instead of a black surface filled with folds and twists like the shell of a giant walnut, the lava flow was bright red, as though it was still fresh from the depth of the earth. The smell of smoke and burning was overwhelming.

Startled, Luan reached out to pull Zomi back from danger before noticing that Képulu and Séji were dancing in the middle of the burning lava.

“Those are flowers!” said Zomi, and she pulled free of Luan and danced onto the bright red lava flow.

Luan looked again and realized that indeed, the entire surface of the lava flow was filled with a carpet of bright red plants. Each plant was about a foot high, and shaped like spikes of hyacinth. The leaves, stems, and flowers were all fiery crimson, with bunches of scarlet berries dangling from spikes where the flowers had wilted.

Luan plucked some of the berries and found them to have a hard finish, almost like lacquered beads. The flowers exuded a strong fragrance that was spicy and smoky, as though the plants were burning. The smell from the berries was fainter, but still strong. The entire plant was like a miniature flame.

“Careful of the fumes,” said Luan. “Don’t breathe in too deeply. I’m no expert herbalist, but such strong and unusual smells generally indicate poison or mind-altering capabilities.”

Képulu and Séji carefully gathered some of the plants for their collection. Luan looked at the specimens they showed him and saw that the roots, also a faint red, spread out like strands of spider silk and clung to the inhospitable rocky surface. Only with a faint pop did the roots detach from the rocky surface. This was a tenacious plant that made its home where no other flower dared to tread, a floral pioneer.

“What are these called?” asked Zomi.

“The eruption occurred sometime last fall, and our guides say that they have never seen this plant before. It is a brand-new discovery!”

Képulu and Séji chattered excitedly at Luan, and then made a please gesture. Seeing the confusion on his face, they quickly sculpted some logograms on the ground. Luan grinned.

“They’ve asked me to give this plant a name. That’s a high honor.”

“What will you name it then?” Zomi asked.

Luan pondered the plant and smiled. “Since this fiery plant is so impatient to explore lands where others fear to tread, why don’t we name it zomi, for Pearl of Fire?”

Zomi laughed, delighted, and gathered more of the berries to stuff into her pocket. “I will make a necklace of these to wear.”

Luan stood up, thinking that he would ask the guides to gather more of the plants for study back at the hamlet, but the faces of the women, frozen in shock, made him pause. He turned to look in the direction of their gazes and saw thick columns of smoke rising in the direction they had come from.

^{CHAPTER FIFTEEN} A REBELLION OF SCHOLARS

Kuni turned around on the throne and called out, “Théra? Is Timu with you too?”

A moment later, a quivering male voice replied, “Rénga, your faithful servant is here. I am terribly sor—ARGH—mmf—”

The muffled gurgles—as though a hand had been clamped over his mouth—played a bass line to the whispering voices of other children engaged in urgent debate, with occasional phrases loud enough to be heard by the assembled Lords of Dara.

“…shut up… the plan…”

“…I’m not leaving…”

“…obey!… Big Sister… trust me…”

“…better together… no essays… my fingers will fall off…”

And a four-year-old’s girlish giggles punctuated it all.

The atmosphere in the Grand Audience Hall now resembled that of a children’s playroom. Jia and Risana looked mortified; the ministers and generals and nobles struggled to maintain serious miens, their bodies shaking with suppressed laughter.

Zato Ruthi trembled with rage as he stood up and headed for the changing room behind the throne dais with long strides, his hands fumbling through the folds of his robe for the ferule that he usually kept with him—though regretfully he had left it in his room today because it interfered with the clean outline of his formal court attire.

But Kuni gestured for him to sit back down.

“You might as well all come in,” the emperor called out. The urgent whispering of the children ceased. “This is a formal occasion where the presence of children is usually unwelcome, but I think Timu, at least, is old enough now to be exposed to more affairs of state.”

The heavy curtains behind the throne parted, and the children streamed out with Lady Soto at the end.

“Children go where they will,” said Soto, as though that explained everything.

Kuni nodded. “They do have quick feet. Perhaps the gods led them here today for a reason.” After a pause, he added, a hint of a smile in his voice, “A child who takes no risks is not going to lead an interesting life.”

“I’m so sorry, Father,” said Théra. “Fara is too young to know better, and I was too caught up in the game to realize she was hiding in a room she wasn’t supposed to be in.”

Fara took in the large number of people in the hall and then buried her cute, innocent face in the skirt of the dress of her big sister, who put her arms around her in comfort.

“So many people here, Da,” said Phyro. “We had no idea!” He also looked around, hamming it up by opening his eyes as wide as saucers.

Kuni pushed the strands of cowries dangling in front of his face aside and smiled at Phyro. “The Lords of Dara are here to celebrate scholarship. You should be inspired by their example and be more diligent!”

“Rénga,” said Timu, bowing deeply. He was very nervous—as he always was—in front of his father, and though his lips kept on moving, no more sound would emerge.

“You’re here,” said Kuni. It was hard to tell by his tone if it was a simple observation, an encouragement, or a lament. After a moment, he let the cowrie veil fall back in place. “All of you, sit at the base of the dais and observe.”

Jia frowned. Of course the silly performance by the children did not for a minute fool her into thinking they hadn’t been deliberately eavesdropping—Timu was always terrible at lying, a personality trait that had both benefits as well as drawbacks. But at least Théra’s explanation offered everyone a way to avoid losing face. She resolved to speak later to Soto and Dafiro Miro, Captain of the Palace Guards, about better security procedures within the palace.

Kuni turned back and was just about to pick up the conversation with Zomi when a loud clang came from somewhere far away. It sounded like hundreds of gongs were being struck. The Grand Audience Hall quieted, and now the assembled lords could hear the faint sounds of a crowd shouting in the distance.

“What’s happening?” asked Risana. Color drained from her face.

Kuni glanced at Dafiro Miro, who was standing to the side. The Captain of the Palace Guards nodded and beckoned to one of the guards, who left the Grand Audience Hall in a jog.

“Let’s continue with the examination,” said Kuni, whose voice revealed no anxiety. He turned back to the almost-forgotten pana méji standing before him. “Zomi Kidosu, you have the floor.”

Everyone’s attention was drawn back. Given the poor state of Zomi’s dress, no one expected a spectacular presentation. A few of the generals stifled yawns as they prepared themselves for a long speech.

“I have already begun my presentation,” said Zomi.

“You have?”

“The best of the best in Dara are rioting in the streets. That is my presentation.”

The Lords of Dara perked up their ears. Now this was getting interesting.

“The cashima who failed to place in the ranks of the firoa are assembling in Cruben Square in front of the palace to protest,” Zomi said. “Judging by the noise, they have drawn many onlookers, some of whom may take advantage of the situation to engage in a bit of looting under the theory that the law cannot punish a mob.”

“You started this riot?” asked Kuni, his tone severe.

“I may have been the spark that began the fire,” said Zomi. “But trust me, I was not responsible for the dangerous accumulation of fuel.”

Kuni glanced again at Dafiro Miro, who started to head for the exit to the Grand Audience Hall.

“Captain,” said the empress, “you may need to summon the city garrison. A riot in the streets must be swiftly put down.”

“No!” Kuni said.

Dafiro Miro halted and turned back to look at Kuni and Jia.

“They are just students,” said Kuni. “Whatever happens, do not harm them.”

Jia narrowed her eyes, but she said nothing.

Dafiro nodded, turned around, and left.

Kuni turned back to Zomi Kidosu. “Since you call yourself a spark, what, exactly, is their grievance?”

“They think the Grand Examination has not been fairly administered.”

“What?” Zato Ruthi sputtered.

“I’m simply repeating the whispered complaints among the examinees,” said Zomi. She looked at the other pana méji in the hall. “My colleagues can confirm.”

Ruthi looked to the seated examinees; they nodded reluctantly.

Still kneeling, Ruthi shuffled around to face the emperor and bowed so deeply that his forehead touched the ground. “Rénga, I and the other judges are willing to have all our records re-examined. I assure you there has been no favoritism.”

“Sit up,” said Kuni. “I’m not going to doubt your work because of a few hotheaded students who can’t bear the thought that they’re not as intelligent as they think.”

“But this is a serious charge, Rénga! I cannot have my good name sullied in this manner. I demand that you order a full audit of the process we used and a rejudging of the Grand Examination essays. You will find that we followed the most exacting procedures to ensure fairness—”

“There’s no need for that,” said Kuni.

But a red-faced Zato Ruthi went on, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth as his sentences piled into each other. “Prime Minister Cogo Yelu and I came up with the most scrupulous, careful process. We ordered the clerks who collected the essays to examine each one to be sure that the students followed the rules and left no identifying marks—any violators were immediately disqualified. Only the anonymous essays were brought to the judging panel.

“Each essay was assigned a random number in the judging queue so that the order in which the essays were read would bear no relationship to the stall assignments of the examinees, further preventing judges who were present at the examination hall from being able to guess the author. The seven judges on the panel and I read all the essays and independently assigned each one a score between one and ten. The final score was determined by tossing out the highest and the lowest scores for each essay and summing up the rest. I am utterly confident that there is no basis to sustain a charge of bias.”

“I know that,” said an impatient Kuni. “Master Ruthi, you’re fair to a fault. Even back when you faced Queen Gin on the battlefield, you would not attack her until she had rested her troops and arranged them into formation. Of course I give no credence to the charges of these sore losers.”

“That is fairness only in the method, not substance,” said Zomi.

Everyone stared at the young woman, stunned, but she gazed fearlessly at the emperor.

“You—you—” Ruthi was shaking so much that he had trouble getting the words out. “Wh-what are you saying? This has nothing to do with your essay!”

“My essay was merely a pastiche of your old ideas—the best way to please a judge is to regurgitate his own ideas back at him in new clothing—of course I won’t present that to the emperor.”

Ruthi’s eyes bulged, as did the eyes of practically everyone else in the hall. This young woman was either beyond bold or insane.

But she went on as though she hadn’t said anything surprising. “Master Ruthi, can you tell us how many of the cashima examinees who entered the Grand Examination were from Haan?”

Ruthi shouted at the palace guards, who scrambled to follow his orders. A few minutes later, a young palace guard brought Ruthi a thick ledger. The elderly scholar flipped through the pages until he found the list of examinees by region of origin and counted. “Seventy-three.”

“And how many were from Wolf’s Paw?”

“A hundred and sixty-one.”

“From Rui?”

“Ninety-six.”

Zomi nodded. “That’s about what you’d expect based on their respective populations. But out of the hundred cashima who achieved the rank of firoa, how many are from Haan?”

Ruthi flipped to another page in his ledger. “Fifty-one.”

“From Wolf’s Paw?”

“Ten.”

“From Rui?”

“There were no cashima from Rui who achieved the rank of firoa this year.”

Zomi nodded again. Then she looked at the nine other pana méji seated near her. “Can you tell me where you’re from?”

“Haan.”

“Géjira.”

“Haan.”

“Wolf’s Paw.”

“Haan.”

“Haan.”

“Arulugi.”

“Faça.”

“East Cocru.”

Zomi looked around the Grand Audience Hall, her eyes flashing. “I am, of course, a daughter of Dasu. Master Ruthi, you’re from Rima, and the Prime Minister is from Cocru, but where are the other six judges on your panel from?”

“One is a learned scholar from Arulugi, and the others are all famous teachers in Haan.”

Zomi gazed at the emperor. “I think the numbers speak for themselves.”

“What do you think you’ve proven by this recital?” sputtered the fuming Zato Ruthi. “I’m a man of Rima. If I were as unscrupulous as you intimate, wouldn’t I have elevated at least one scholar from Rima into your exalted rank?”

While Ruthi’s voice grew louder like a raging storm, Zomi kept her voice as calm as a glacial pool. “Master Ruthi, I do not impeach your integrity. But an honest man may still administer an unfair examination.”

“What does it matter where the judges are from when we couldn’t tell who wrote each essay?”

“Can you not see how the results appear in the eyes of the people of Dara? When the distribution of honors is so lopsided, one must presume a flaw in the process. It is substance that matters, not procedure.”

Ruthi was so angry that he started to laugh. “You speak like that fool in Kon Fiji’s fable who lamented that copper was not valued as much as gold. Far from indicating bias, the numbers you point to actually prove that the panel did their job!

“It is well known that the people of Haan are dedicated to learning and scholarship, and the Ano Classics are taught to children as young as two. Rui, on the other hand, has few academies of renown, and the rulers of old Xana were never as devoted to the pursuit of wisdom. This was why Mapidéré had to recruit Lügo Crupo from Cocru and why even Emperor Ragin, when he was King of Dasu, had to scour the rest of Dara for talent.

“The cashima represent the best minds of each province, but when they are gathered in one place, it is natural that the cashima of Haan would excel the cashima of Rui or Dasu. Do you complain that the apples in the orchards of Faça are bigger than those from Cocru? Or that the crabs caught in the Zathin Gulf are tastier than those caught off the shore of Ogé?

“I’d think something had gone horribly wrong if not as many Haan scholars had achieved the top rank.”

“Is Haan all of Dara? Are the people of the other provinces of Dara of less worth?”

Ruthi slammed his ledger onto the floor and gesticulated wildly with his arms. He was beyond caring about decorum and appearances. “The emperor’s charge to me is to seek men—and women—of talent. I have faithfully carried out my duty. Your presence here is proof that the method is sound. Though you’re from a humble land of illiterate peasants, yet today the emperor and all the Lords of Dara have lent you their ears!”

“ ‘Talent’ is a loaded word,” said Zomi. “Is it truly talent that the examination measures or mere habits of mind?”

Ruthi laughed. “I’m familiar with that criticism of the examinations. Indeed, as a young man, I disdained the civil service examinations of Rima for the same reasons. Rima’s exams required students to regurgitate obscure epigrams from Ra Oji or fill in less-known dialogues by Kon Fiji. The only skill that truly mattered was memorization, and the narrowness of focus disgusted me.

“That is why I have redesigned the Imperial examinations to reward creativity, insight, boldness of thought, and refinement in expression. Do you think it’s possible to do well on the exams without a mind as sharp as the writing knife or as supple as heated wax? To know how to craft an argument, to support it with clever allusions from the Classics and well-drawn examples from life, to consider and anticipate opposing points of view—all while planning for the practicalities of fitting the logograms into a constrained space and making the most of limited resources under great pressure—this is a test of true talent.”

Zomi shook her head. “You see but the sun-dappled surface of the sea instead of the Hundred Fishes beneath. The examination prizes beauty of expression and fine calligraphy as well as sharpness of argument, but do you not see that these are judgments shaped by habit?

“For years, you and the other judges have studied together and read each other’s essays until you have formed a consensus of what is persuasive and what is pleasing. You have then taught these to your students, who in turn taught theirs, propagating a certain ideal. This ideal is most concentrated in the academies of Haan but thin elsewhere. What you call beauty and grace and suppleness in writing are nothing but the consensus of men who have grown used to hearing each other. When you judge an essay good, it is only because the words seem to you to echo your own thoughts. Even if you cannot see the faces behind the logograms, you pick men who are just like you! I am here because I learned to write as the image in the mirror you so love!”

Ruthi stared at Zomi, eyes bulging and breath labored. “You arrogant, disrespectful child—”

Before he could finish, Dafiro Miro entered the hall. “Rénga! I have urgent news.”

^{CHAPTER SIXTEEN} FIGHTING FIRE

By the time the four of them made their way down the tortuous cliff path back to the hamlet, the place was in chaos.

About a mile distant, a semicircle of gigantic, roaring tongues of flame licked the sky, and roiling columns of smoke drifted over the clearing, obscuring the houses and making it hard to breathe. Even at this distance, the heat was palpable.

A nobleman stood next to Curious Turtle with a retinue of about a dozen men dressed for the hunt. A few carried the tusked heads of boars, whose dead eyes stared at the world in a permanent grimace of rage.

“Get this balloon ready!” shouted the nobleman, who was coughing and gasping for breath. His men scrambled to obey, and it was evident that all of them had just run hard through the woods to get here.

A few yards from them, Elder Comi stood with the rest of the villagers, looking on mutely.

“Don’t just stand there!” shouted the nobleman. “Why don’t you organize the peasants to go fight the fire?”

The villagers looked at him, uncomprehending.

Fighting a forest fire like this is utterly preposterous, thought Zomi.

“Get shovels and buckets and whatever else you can find!” declared the nobleman. “If you concentrate your efforts, you may be able to delay the fire long enough for the balloon to take off.”

The villagers looked at each other, but no one moved.

“Oh, by Tututika’s blood! These savages don’t understand human speech.” He jumped up and down and mimed shoveling dirt onto fire and pouring buckets of water. He raised his voice, as though this would help the villagers understand him. “Go on! Go! I’m the Earl of Méricüso. Are you afraid to die? It’s an honor to die for the life of a great lord!”

Elder Comi turned away from him. He spoke to the villagers in a low but firm voice, and pointed at the cliffs. A few of the young women and men shouted at him and shook their heads. The elder smiled, pointed at his legs, and sat down with some difficulty on the ground in mipa rari. He bowed his head, pointed to the cliffs again, and spoke resolutely.

As Luan and the others ran to join the commotion, Zomi had the eerie feeling that she was watching a folk opera being performed. When she had first been exposed to the operas, she had found the lyrics, with their flowery language and complicated vocal decorations, hard to understand, and she had filled in what was happening by using the expressions of the players and their body language as clues. She could seize the strands of emotion in the air and color in the blanks.

Children, the village is doomed. Houses may be rebuilt and gardens replanted, but people cannot be replaced. Go and escape by the cliff route.

But Grandfather, you won’t be able to make it with your legs.

Do not trouble yourselves about me. Go on. Go!

Zomi felt her eyes grow warm and her throat constrict. She was thinking of her mother, and how she would behave if a fire approached and Zomi couldn’t get away because of her leg.

“You’ll never get the balloon up if you tangle it like that,” Luan calmly told the soldiers, who, being inexperienced with the workings of a hot-air balloon, were making a mess of things.

Glad to find someone whose speech he could actually understand, the nobleman immediately ran over and grabbed Luan by the lapels. “Is this your balloon? Excellent! Excellent! Quick, get it ready to fly.”

“What happened?”

“I came to this benighted valley because I heard that there were boars here with tusks in a pattern no one had captured. Since some of the boars were hiding deep in the woods, one of my followers had the clever idea to start fires to drive them out.”

“Don’t you know how dangerous that is with such a dry spring?”

“The idea worked! I got six excellent trophies. It’s not my fault that the wind shifts so quickly around here. We had to leave behind everything at our camp and barely managed to escape with our lives. Thank Tututika that you’re here!”

Luan shook his head. He and Zomi ran to straighten out the tangled balloon and to start the liquor-fueled stove. As the flame roared to life and the balloon began to fill, the nobleman and the soldiers cheered.

“It is best to start loading the gondola,” said Luan to the Earl of Méricüso.

“But this gondola is so small!”

“Toss out anything that is not necessary for flight. Get rid of the beds, the blankets, the food and water, and anything else you can free,” said Luan, exasperated.

“Right. Right. Good thinking!” said the earl.

As the soldiers scrambled to obey the earl and tore out everything that wasn’t bolted down in the gondola, Luan and Zomi continued to use the bamboo poles to straighten out the balloon so that it could be filled evenly with hot air.

“Mimi-tika,” whispered Luan. “Our first priority is to save Elder Comi’s life. He can’t climb the cliff to escape, so this balloon is his only chance. Later, no matter what I tell you to do, you have to obey, do you understand?”

“What are you thinking?” Zomi’s guard was up. Luan’s tone was too strange.

“Don’t argue! You’re the student. You must obey.”

“I won’t obey an order that is wrong!”

Luan laughed. “Now you sound like a Moralist. It was Kon Fiji himself who said that the duty to the Just and True supersedes all others, even a command from a teacher. I thought you didn’t like Kon Fiji.”

“Even an idiot can be right sometimes.”

“Ha! I dare say Kon Fiji never thought he’d be defended in these terms.”

The earl and his soldiers had finally succeeded in stripping the gondola of everything. They scrambled to pile in. Four of the soldiers sat on the bottom and crossed their arms to form a comfortable seat for the earl. The rest of the soldiers either climbed in and stepped on top of their comrades or hung on to the side of the gondola.

“Careful! Careful! Don’t damage the tusks!” shouted the earl as the boar’s heads were loaded in and carefully held up by the men around the earl. Luan shook his head at the ridiculous scene.

“Who told you that you get to fill the balloon with only your people?”

“The villagers can climb the cliff. That’s what they want to do anyway.”

“Why can’t you climb the cliff instead? You are fit and strong.”

The earl looked at Luan as if he were crazy. “Who knows how long I’ll be stranded on top of that mountain? These trophies won’t be properly preserved if I don’t get them to a taxidermist in time.”

Luan put a hand on Zomi’s shoulder to restrain her. “You have to make room for Elder Comi at least,” he said. The balloon was almost filled, and it strained against the tethering stake on the ground. “And Zomi and I have to be in there to pilot the balloon, unless one of you knows how to fly it. I warn you, fire can do strange things to air currents, and you need an experienced pilot.”

The earl looked at Luan and Zomi suspiciously. “This girl knows how to fly the balloon? I don’t want someone useless in here.”

Luan looked at the cringing flunkies holding up the earl’s muscular thighs and bit back a sarcastic remark. Instead, he simply said, “She’s young, but she’s an excellent pilot.”

The earl’s lips parted in a cold grin. “Then I won’t need you both, will I? Seize her!”

Several of the men hanging on to the side of the gondola hopped down to the ground, grabbed Zomi, and dragged her back to the gondola. Zomi screamed and kicked, but she was not strong enough to overcome the men. Luan rushed over to help, and one of the men unsheathed his hunting knife and slashed at Luan, who stumbled and fell to the ground.

The villagers rushed over. Without saying a word, Séji ripped open Luan’s leggings to reveal the sickening wound in his thigh. While she ripped strips from Luan’s robe to fashion a tourniquet to stop the bleeding, Képulu rummaged through her basket for leaves that she chewed into a poultice, applied it to the wound, and bandaged the leg.

Meanwhile, the earl’s men maneuvered the screaming Zomi into the gondola. The four “cushions” shifted to make space so that she was directly under the dials and levers for controlling the balloon’s stove, and then they squeezed in and held her legs so that she was trapped next to the earl and his pile of boar trophies.

“Let me go!” Zomi shouted. “I won’t fly the balloon for you.”

The angry villagers shouted and approached the balloon. The earl’s men unsheathed their hunting knives and brandished them threateningly.

“Stop!” Luan shouted to make himself heard above the commotion. There was such a natural authority in his tone that both sides halted. In a calmer tone, he continued, “Mimi-tika, listen, you have to fly the balloon without me.”

“Absolutely not! I’m not leaving here without you.”

“We must save Elder Comi! We can dangle a harness under the gondola to carry him to safety. The rest of us can make our way up the cliffs.”

“You can’t climb the cliffs with your leg like that!”

“Sure I can!” Luan got up. Séji reached out to support him, but he pushed her away, and stood as straight as a crane. “You managed to climb the cliff before with a brace, and I can do the same. Do not underestimate the medical arts of the villagers.”

Zomi still looked skeptical, but she was calming down. Maybe this was a solution after all.

“Hurry, hurry!” shouted the earl. “If you want that old peasant saved, do it now!”

As Luan explained what he wanted with gestures and roughly carved logograms on the ground, the villagers quickly fashioned a harness out of sticks and pelts to support Elder Comi and to tie it to the walls of the gondola.

The balloon was almost completely filled, and the earl’s men pulled in the anchor. The gondola wobbled on the ground, held only by a tethering line.

“Mimi-tika,” said Luan, “we don’t have much time. I have one more lesson for you.”

Zomi stared at Luan in disbelief. She couldn’t understand why her teacher was choosing this moment to engage in another philosophy discussion. And why is he just standing there?

“No matter what else you think of the Moralists, their core belief is right: Sometimes you must do the right thing even if it hurts you. Actions reify ideals. We must never stop striving to do good, to protect the weak and the powerless. This is the charge to all men of learning.”

Zomi nodded, but she continued to stare at the stiff figure of Luan. Having dealt with a weak leg all her life, she was sensitive to the way people distributed their weight on their legs.

“You’re a brilliant young woman, Mimi-tika. You have the curiosity to seek out the terra incognita beyond the bounds of dogma, and you have the quickness of mind to cut through a thicket of confusing questions. But you’re like a raw ball of wax, undisciplined, unshaped, unpurposed. You must apply yourself to the tedium of study, which is like the carving knife, to shape your mind into an intricate logogram for processing ideas. Do you understand?”

Zomi nodded, not really listening. Teacher really is standing like a crane, with all of his weight on one leg.

“Go, go, go!” shouted the earl.

The villagers had finished tying Elder Comi’s harness to the gondola. They backed away from the wobbling balloon, which was being buffeted by strong winds. The smoke had grown thicker and the fires closer. One of the earl’s men cut the tethering rope.

“Get your passengers to safety, and when the fire is burnt out, you can come and retrieve me on the other side of the mountain. Watch the wind currents carefully, and fly as high as you can!”

Zomi put her hands up to the dial and turned the stove output to maximum. As the fire roared overhead, the balloon struggled to lift off.

“Go, go!” Luan gestured at the villagers. When the villagers refused to move, he grabbed a carrying pole from one of them and began to write on the ground.

He’s not even bending down, thought Zomi.

The balloon’s ascent jerked to a stop. Elder Comi’s harness dragged along the ground, failing to lift off.

“There’s too much weight!” shouted the panicking earl. “Cut off the harness.”

“No!” Zomi said. “We have to save the elder. Why don’t you ask one of your men to jump off? They’re much heavier and they can climb the cliffs.”

“How dare”—but realizing that Zomi was necessary for them to get out of the maelstrom of scalding winds buffeting the balloon, the earl swallowed his curse—“you can’t possibly think a wild peasant’s life is worth more than one of my servants.”

“Then toss your boar’s heads out! The six of these must weigh more than the elder.”

“Absolutely not! They are the whole reason we came here.” The earl gave the men around him a meaningful look, and one of them swung his hunting knife quickly and severed the lines tying the harness to the gondola while the rest held on to Zomi to prevent her from doing anything.

“Damn you! I will ki—” One of the men slapped her hard to choke off any more outraged words. Zomi was momentarily stunned.

The gondola tumbled crazily as the balloon finally lifted off.

Zomi recovered and looked below through the tangle of arms and boar’s heads and the earl’s hateful face. Elder Comi struggled out of the remnants of the harness while some of the villagers ran over to help him. And Luan, still standing in the same place, continued to write on the ground with his pole as the rest of the villagers watched. The carrying pole’s awkward length meant that he had to carve the logogram in broad strokes, and even from the height of twenty feet, Zomi could see what he was writing.

It was a single logogram composed of three components:

A river flowing. A volcano. A stylized outline of a flame.

The Flow. The red volcano, the symbol of Lady Kana, goddess of fire, ash, cremation, and death. But skin-of-fire? What’s that?

“I have to pilot the balloon,” Zomi said to the earl, and then coughed uncontrollably. She sounded frightened. The smoke had grown so thick by now that it was hard to see the sky. The roiling columns twisted about in complicated patterns, marking the chaotic air currents that made the gondola swing about wildly so that all of the earl’s men had to hold on for dear life.

Thinking that the girl had finally come to her senses, the earl nodded for his men to let her go. Zomi adjusted the dial so that the flame was lower, slowing the ascent of the balloon.

“What are you doing?” the earl asked, alarmed.

“Wrestling a pig, of course.” Zomi grabbed one of the heads and slammed it into the earl’s face, aiming one of the tusks at his eyes. As the earl screamed and the men in the gondola scrambled to protect him, Zomi turned the dial all the way up, causing the gondola to jerk suddenly, tossing the men in the gondola into a jumbled heap. She scrambled over them and climbed over the side of the gondola and let go.

“Mimi!” Luan cried out.

Though she tried to roll as she made contact with the ground, she heard the bones in her left leg snap and felt the sharp stab of pain a moment later. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t even breathe.

Luan dropped his pole and tried to get to Zomi, but his leg collapsed, and he fell to the ground. Séji and Képulu rushed over, ripped the now useless harness from around her leg, and worked quickly to set the broken bones and stabilize the break with splints.

Zomi finally managed to recover enough from the fall to suck in a lungful of air. She screamed with the pain.

Overhead, the balloon continued to ascend as the men hanging on the outside of the gondola screamed, digging their fingers into the wicker with every ounce of strength. The earl’s curses came to them in a hailstorm that grew fainter as the balloon continued to rise, twisting about in the hot winds.

Luan crawled over to Zomi on his hands and one knee, dragging the useless leg behind him.

“How could you do such a stupid thing as to jump from the balloon? Why don’t you ever listen to me?”

“Because you lied!” Zomi screamed back. “You couldn’t even walk, but you told me to get in that balloon to fly that pig to safety. And he dropped Elder Comi anyway!” As Luan sat up and tried to cradle her, she slammed her fists against his chest, on his shoulders, at his arms.

“It is the duty of the learned—”

“You lied! You were going to send me away and die here! My father abandoned me for duty, but I will never abandon someone I love for duty, no matter what the Moralists say. I won’t.”

Luan made no effort to defend himself as her barrage continued. After a while, she wrapped her arms around his neck and wept.

“Mimi-tika, my stubborn child.” Luan stroked her back and sighed. “Remember what I taught you about the Fluxists. The Flow is the inexorable current of the universe. To live life gracefully is to accept it, and find joy within each passing moment. Every journey must have a final stop, and every life must come to an end. We’re like dyrans in the vast sea, silver streaks passing each other in the watery depths, and we should cherish the time we have been given.”

“I refuse to live life with such passivity!”

“Accepting the Flow is not passive. It’s to understand that there is a balance in the universe, an ultimate accounting.” Zomi looked up and saw that Luan’s face was somber. “There’s a time for Kana’s fiery call to arms, and a time for Rapa’s gentle call to slumber. I am meant to die here today, but you’re not.”

“Why? Why do you think you are meant to die?”

“I once advised a king to commit an act of betrayal that I thought was the right thing to do, and I’ve never been able to forget the lives lost because of me…. I’ve been trying to atone for it since. The signs tell me today is my day.”

“If you’re such a believer in the Fluxists, maybe we’re meant to end our journeys together.”

“But you’re so young! This cannot be right.”

“How can you claim to know the ways of the Flow?”

Luan chuckled. “I have never claimed to be a very good Fluxist, and I see that I cannot match you in debate.” He hugged Zomi tighter, and the child hugged him back.

By now the roaring of the fire was so loud that it seemed as if they were in the middle of a typhoon. The thickening smoke and searing heat made everything around them appear shimmery and hazy, like a dream.

But Zomi did not share Luan’s serenity; she refused to believe that the Flow, whatever that was, meant that they had to die. Certainly her teacher could think of something to do. “The act of betrayal by the earl may be a sign that we are not meant to die at all.”

“Oh?” For a moment Luan’s eyes, reflecting the approaching fire, lit up. “But what can we do?”

“You are supposed to know that!”

“Since neither of us can climb up the cliffs, we must urge the villagers to leave as soon as possible.”

But the villagers refused to abandon either Elder Comi or Luan and Zomi, and it appeared that everyone was going to die together in the oncoming conflagration. The flames were so close now that only a thin band of forest lay between them and the clearing for the hamlet.

The villagers and Elder Comi all sat down in mipa rari in a semicircle around Luan and Zomi. “Tiro, tiro,” said the elder, a peaceful smile on his face. “Tiro, tiro,” the other villagers repeated, and reached out to link their arms into a wall of flesh.

Since Luan and Zomi were guests, the villagers were carrying out the ancient duty of hosts to shield them, even if their sacrifice would only slow down the flames for but a second.

Luan and Zomi bowed their heads. “All men are fellows before the bleak, endless sea and the fiery, explosive volcanoes,” Luan said, reciting an old Moralist adage.

Once more, Zomi looked for and found Curious Turtle in the sky. Because it was so overladen, the rate of ascent was extremely slow even though the stove was working at full power. It was barely fifty feet up in the air, and it was accelerating toward the flames.

“I guess even Lord Kiji, bringer of winds, is not very pleased with the cruel earl and his lackeys,” said Zomi. “He’s pushing them toward the fire. They’ll never get high enough in time to escape being roasted.”

Luan squinted and shook his head. “It’s possible that Lord Kiji is angry at him, but I’ve learned over the years to attribute as little as possible to the gods. I’ve come to rely on the precept laid down by Na Moji: Since the will of the gods cannot be ascertained, it’s always simpler—and more likely correct—to explain things by verifiable patterns.”

“Aren’t you the son of an augur? That… almost sounds like the words of an atheist!”

“The best way to honor the gods is to blame them for less. They may guide and teach, when it suits them, but I prefer to think of the universe as knowable. The balloon’s drift is easily explained. As the fire heats the air above, it grows active and light, rising to leave behind a vacuum, and the cold and heavy air outside the fire is drawn toward it.”

“Like the hot-air balloon when we inflate it? When the cold air rushes in to make the flame stand straight up?”

Luan nodded and smiled. “Exactly.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted at the receding balloon, “Drop your anchor! You’ll never get high enough in time. You can still escape by the cliff route!”

But the men in the balloon did not respond.

“Maybe they’re too far,” mused Luan. “Can you shout at them? Your voice is higher pitched, and may be easier to hear over the roar of the flames.”

Zomi shook her head. “I will not do anything to save them.”

“That’s not the moral—”

“I don’t care! I only care about people close to me.”

Luan sighed and pulled her close again as powerful gusts of hot wind whipped around them. He hugged her and said nothing more as they watched the balloon disappear in the thick smoke over the roaring fire.

Perhaps there were screams, but the balloon was too far for them to be sure.

Suddenly, Zomi struggled and pulled away. “Teacher! I think there is a way!”

While Luan and Zomi remained where they were, the villagers ran into their houses and emerged with jars of cooking oil, medicinal liquor, rags, sheets, small tables, cradle beds.

Instead of sacrificing themselves for their guests, it looked like they were ready to escape with whatever possessions they could carry. Elder Comi stood in the middle of the hamlet, gesticulating and calling out orders.

But instead of heading for the cliffs, the villagers smashed the wooden furniture apart and wrapped oil-soaked rags around the ends of the pieces of lumber. Then they divided themselves into two groups. One group lit the makeshift torches and carried on their backs bundles of firewood and more jars of oil; another grabbed shovels and hoes. Both groups then headed for the raging flames advancing on the hamlet.

The heat was like an invisible wall. A few stumbled, fell, got up again, and pushed on. Rags soaked with an infusion made from herbs intended to reduce fever were wrapped around their noses and mouths so that they could breathe in the suffocating smoke. A few daring ones had chewed herbs that could fool the mind into believing anything. There is no fire. There is no danger, they muttered to themselves, and pressed on.

The running villagers in their ragged clothes flapping in the wind resembled a swarm of moths headed for the flame.

By the time the rising heat made it impossible to move forward another inch, the villagers had reached the shrubs and saplings at the edge of the woods. The forest fire, like a caged monster, was about to smash through this flimsy screen and emerge into the clearing for the final carnage.

Séji shouted the order, and the villagers went to work. Those with shovels and hoes started to dig a shallow ditch, ripping away the grass, fallen leaves, and surface soil. They worked quickly and efficiently, and carved out a shallow defensive moat at the edge of the forest—but what could such a small ditch do against the rampaging flames that they faced? The fire would easily be able to leap across it and devour the hamlet.

The other group, meanwhile, had spread apart and dropped bundles of firewood in an arc on the farther side of the shallow moat. They emptied bottles of oil and liquor over the firewood, and then they set the bundles alight.

In the face of fire, they added more fire.

An observer might well wonder if the desperation of their situation had driven them into the belief that it was better to die in flames started by their own hands.

The villagers continued their work, extending both the ditch and the arc of flames at either end. They seemed intent on surrounding the village with it.

The new fires grew stronger, brighter, louder. Soon, they were as high as a man, and then two men, three men. The crimson tongues extended to lick at the trees at the edge of the forest.

Strangely, instead of leaning over to jump over the shallow, apparently useless ditch, the new wall of flames leaned toward the greater fire in the forest, like a child yearning for a hug from its mother. The wind grew even stronger, whipping the new flames into a frenzy.

The trees at the edge of the forest caught, and the flaming arc roared in joy as it rushed for the embrace of the much greater fire on the other side, consuming anything that stood in its way: undergrowth, fallen logs, living trees, thick layers of half-rotten leaves. Branches snapped, green leaves curled and burst into bright sparks, columns of smoke merged and thickened.

The villagers, their hair singed and throats parched, stumbled back into the clearing. The wall of flames they had nursed had carved out a much wider swath of land on which nothing combustible remained.

Fire, driven by the hungry winds generated by the forest fire, had deprived itself of fuel.

“A bold move,” said Luan, his voice full of admiration.

“All thanks to your teaching, of course,” said Zomi, inflecting her voice as though she were an old man. “Combining the preference for fire from Incentivism and the understanding of wind from Patternism, it required but the confidence and grace of secure Fluxism to implement a Moralist plan.”

Luan stared at her, mouth agape. “I’m not sure that this interpretation, um…”

Zomi’s face twitched, and she broke down into peals of laughter.

Luan shook his head and sighed. “You are clever, Mimi-tika, but I’m afraid you are a ball of wax too slippery for me to carve.”

Zomi grabbed him by the arm and tried to get her giggles under control. “You have to admit, that was a pretty good impression of you.”

“Not a good impression at all! Have I been playing the zither to a stubborn calf?”

“All right, all right. I apologize for mocking you,” said Zomi. “But to tell the truth, you did give me the inspiration.”

“Oh?”

Zomi pointed to the logogram Luan had carved on the ground with the carrying pole.

A river flowing. A volcano. Skin-of-fire.

“This is a single-logogram epigram from Ra Oji,” said Luan. “It speaks of serenity in the face of all-consuming death, of letting go into the Flow.”

Zomi shook her head. “That is not how I read it.” She pointed at the components one by one, and intoned, “A flowing current. A mountainlike wall. Fire-on-the-outside.”

“But that is not how—”

Zomi wouldn’t let him finish. “I don’t care how it’s supposed to be read. I reorchestrated the components of your logogram into a new idea-machine to accomplish a new purpose: Instead of giving up in the face of death and feeding myself reasons, I sought to preserve life through an agent of destruction.”

“You are truly a Pearl of Fire,” said Luan. He rummaged through the baskets that Séji and Képulu had left by their side and retrieved the bright-red zomi berries. “It was fate that led us to these berries today, and may your mind ever stay as sharp as their scent and your will as strong as their shell.”

As the teacher and the student sat stringing the berry-beads on a string to make a necklace, the villagers approached with bowls of refreshing, cool well water. In the distance, the forest fire was already weakening and burning itself out, powerless to intrude upon this peaceful haven.

For years, the teacher and the student wandered the Islands of Dara.

Sometimes they traveled by balloon, sometimes on horseback. They spent summer evenings drifting over the Zathin Gulf in a small fishing boat, counting and classifying the fish and seaweed they hauled out of the water. They spent winter mornings gliding through the snowbound forests of Rima on sleds pulled by teams of dogs and hiking up the mirror-hard glaciers of Mount Fithowéo. Once, they soared through the skies over the hidden valleys in the Wisoti Mountains on two stringless kites, though the huntsmen who happened to be glancing up thought they were watching two eagles circling overhead.

While they studied the wonders of the book of nature in their travels, Luan also took care to give Zomi a classical education whose breadth and depth even the famed academies of Haan could not match. Luan taught her the surviving fragments of the dialogues of Aruano the law giver; the epic tales of the heroes Iluthan and Séraca during the Diaspora Wars; the treatises of Kon Fiji and the commentaries by other Moralist masters; the witty epigrams and fables of Ra Oji and his Fluxist disciples; the principles and best practices of engineering as laid out by Na Moji and the accumulated elaborations thereon by Patternist thinkers; the political and legal essays of Gi Anji and the differing Incentivist developments under Tan Féüji and Lügo Crupo; the lyrical poetry of the great Classical Ano poets like Nakipo and Lurusén; and even selected excerpts from the Hundred Schools like Pé Gonji’s military strategies, Huzo Tuan’s biting criticism, and Mitahu Piati’s memoirs of life in Rima during the early years of the Tiro period.

Gradually, the movements of Zomi’s carving knife and writing brush became more confident, more expressive. “The art of calligraphy is for the mind like the art of dance is for the body,” as Luan reminded her again and again.

She learned to carve logograms with sharp, simple surfaces in monochromatic wax, like the ancient Ano who had first come to the Islands and left their tales in stone steles scattered in ruins; she learned to write in the florid style of the Amu poets, where every edge or arris was chamfered, every corner rounded and polished, and liberal use of color for shades of meaning and emphasis was an art in itself; she learned to compose in the abstract, lyrical style of the Cocru scribes, full of abbreviations and simplified logograms whose clean lines and rough surfaces evoked the sword dance of Cocru soldiers; she learned to draft in the unique plain brushstrokes of Xana engineers, who combined zyndari letters with barely sketched flat projections of Ano logograms to create a script that eschewed the emotive qualities of language in favor of the precision and elegance of numbers. She learned the one thousand and one semantic roots, the fifty-one groups of motive modifiers, and all the phonetic adapters, inflection glyphs, and tone elevation techniques that allowed a scholar to wield the knife and the brush to marshal the Ano logograms into complicated idea-machines for purposes of persuasion, explication, exploration, and artistic pleasure.

From time to time, the two visited towns and villages to obtain supplies and to rest. They never stayed long, as Luan preferred the solitude of the wilderness to the bustle and complications of modern life. But one evening, as they walked along the beach outside a small town in Haan after a long trip down the Miru River in a flat-bottomed boat to study the construction of water mills, Luan and Zomi stopped to admire an astonishing sight.

Thousands of baby turtles were emerging from their nests. The hatchlings struggled out of the sand, and after some time spent stumbling about and observing their surroundings, they awkwardly headed for the white surf, where the rhythmic pounding of the waves promised them a watery, vast world where their flippers would give them the freedom to move through it with grace and ease, instead of the difficult, halting steps they were forced to take on land.

Luan glanced at the pier in the distance and realized where he was. He remembered the crisp morning, so many years ago, when he had dived from that pier into the ice-cold sea to retrieve an old fisherman’s shoes like a baby turtle’s first tumble into the sea.

Perhaps this is a sign.

Luan turned to look at Zomi thoughtfully. She was now as tall as he was, no longer a child.

“This is where my teacher met me and also said good-bye,” he said.

“Was it a long time ago?” asked Zomi.

“It was,” said Luan, and for a moment he looked wistful. “There comes a time when every hatchling is ready for the sea, and every student is ready to say good-bye to her teacher.”

Zomi looked confused. “But I still have so much to learn!”

“As do I. Do you not feel the call of the world, though, Mimi-tika? There will always be more books to read, but I think you’re ready to perform your own deeds that will be written about one day.”

“What about you? If I leave you, who will make your tea in the evenings? Who will argue with you at lunch? Who will ask you—”

“I will be all right, child.” Luan laughed. “Besides, I have been thinking of starting another adventure. There are intriguing pieces of wreckage we have seen in our travels that suggest new worlds beyond the sea.”

“Like the pieces you showed me with the strange winged and antlered beasts carved into them? I told you my mother and I found them when I was younger, too.”

Luan nodded. “I’d like to ask the emperor for help to find those new worlds. There has always been a restlessness in my soul that cannot be denied.”

“Then let me come with you!”

“I am content to drift through the world in a balloon or on a barge, letting the Flow take me where it will. But I’m an old leatherback; you, on the other hand, are not yet ready to embrace life as a Fluxist. As the waves pound the sand, so does the empire call for men and women of talent. The Grand Examination will be next year, and you’re ready to make your mark. You must enlarge your spirit and take up your duty.”

He reached out and caressed the necklace around Zomi’s neck. The berries had long since dried out, and over time, contact with skin and clothes had polished the surfaces to a smooth, shiny sheen, though the bright red hue had not faded one whit. “We will set out for Dasu in the morning so that you can attend the Town Examination, the first step in a long journey to the sea of power.”

“Teacher, I must ask you for a favor.”

“Anything.”

“Is it all right if I never mention that I am your student until after the examination?”

Luan was surprised. “Why?”

“If I succeed, I want it to be because of my talent, not because of your name—the way that clerk in Dasu once offered me such a good price for my grain. And if I fail, I do not want to sully your reputation and have people think that you were not a good teacher when the truth was that I was too stubborn to study well.”

“Ah, Mimi.” Luan was moved by her combination of pride and solicitousness. “Do as you will. But I know that I will never have another student as good as you. I eagerly wait for the day you soar to heights I can only aspire to.”

Zomi did not trust herself to speak, for suddenly her vision had grown blurry and her throat constricted. So instead of more words, Zomi bent down and started to sculpt logograms in the sand.

Air-over-heart. A man. A child.

Heart-in-man. Heart-in-child. Open-hand-closed-fist.

Water-over-heart.

The Ano word for “teacher” literally meant “father-of-the-mind,” and what was love but an exchange of hearts?

Luan hugged her, and both stood there until the wind had dried the heart-water on their faces and the silent music of the stars had soothed their souls.

Aki Kidosu made all of Mimi’s favorite dishes: scrambled eggs with dried caterpillars, fresh mushroom stew flavored with spring herbs and bitter melons, sticky rice cake filled with sweet green-bean-and-lotus paste. There was no money to afford pork, but the caterpillars were well seasoned and especially tasty.

Mimi ate heartily. “I have so missed this!” It was wonderful to be home after all these years. “The caterpillars have such a sweet fragrance. It reminds me of a poem:

“Is that from a folk opera?” her mother asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen it.”

“It’s… a poem by Princess Kikomi of Amu,” Mimi said, embarrassed. “It’s nothing.”

She and Luan Zya had liked to quote bits of poetry at each other. To make old lines say something new was a way to practice the mentality of an engineer who often needed to make old parts accomplish new purposes. But here, in this simple hovel where she had grown up, where the walls were cracked and the floor was bare dirt without a mat, it seemed wrong to quote the words of the dead princess of the Tiro state most dedicated to the ideal of elegance and refinement.

“Try the bitter melon! It’s from the garden.”

“Mmm, mmm!”

Between bites, Mimi noticed that the hair at her mother’s temples had grown white, that her spine had grown more curved, and Mimi’s heart ached to think of her struggling all by herself to maintain the farm and keep up the rent.

Then Mimi saw that her mother, who had been chewing contentedly on a piece of sticky rice cake held in her hands, had stopped and was staring at her.

Mimi stopped as well, the single eating stick held daintily in her hand with a piece of rice cake on the end suspended awkwardly a few inches from her mouth.

“You eat like the daughter of the magistrate,” said Aki. It was hard to tell whether her tone was admiring or regretful.

“It’s just a habit,” Mimi hurried to explain. “The teacher and I—we sometimes liked to discuss the intricacies of a particularly obscure logogram during meals, and it was easier if we kept our fingers free from grease… and Kon Fiji said that—”

She stopped, embarrassed by herself: She was reciting Amu poetry and quoting Kon Fiji at her mother. Resolutely, she pulled the rice cake off the end of the eating stick, careless of how it stuck to her fingers, and took a big bite from it. When she put down the eating stick, she deliberately set it down so that it crossed obscenely with its companions on the table.

Her mother nodded and went back to eating, but her motions were now awkward, uncertain, as though she was sitting with the daughters of Master Sécru Ikigégé, their landlord, at the symbolic New Year’s meal where the landlord was supposed to express thanks for the tenants, and the girls always sneered at the uncouth manners of the tenant farmers.

As she counted the new wrinkles on her mother’s face and the new patches on her dress, Mimi’s heart twitched.

How can I go to the Town Examination and think of leaving her here by herself? I will stay with Mama always.

She tried to continue the conversation. But after Aki politely dealt with her praise for the food (“Oh I’m sure you’ve had much better out there in the world”) and her inquiry after her mother’s health (“Still many more years left in this sack of bones!”), Mimi ran out of things to say. After years of chattering away at Luan Zya at meals about philosophy and engineering and politics and poetry and math, she had forgotten how to converse with her mother.

Mimi was utterly ashamed.

“Why don’t you take a nap after the meal?” her mother said, breaking the awkward silence. “I’ll flip over the sheets on the bed so that they’re clean.” The tone she used seemed to suggest that Mimi was a guest, the daughter of a magistrate or scholar.

“I don’t need to nap,” said Mimi. “I can help you around the farm or the house. What do you need?”

Her mother smiled. “Oh, this would bore you. I need to go over to Master Ikigégé’s house and help his oldest daughter cut paper butterflies for her wedding.”

“Isn’t she supposed to do that herself?”

“Well, she’s got fat fingers—though she’s trying to lose weight before the big day.”

Aki and Mimi giggled. For a moment it felt like the old days, but then Aki added, “I’m already late. If I don’t go over quickly, he’ll add another five coppers to my rent.”

Mimi’s face froze. “How can Ikigégé do that? The rent is fixed by the lease.”

Aki put the dishes into the sink and started to wash, her cracked fingers flitting through the water like scaly fish. “Master Ikigégé says that the regent has raised the taxes at Emperor Ragin’s orders. Since taxes are not discussed separately in the lease, all of his tenants have to bear a share of it.”

This made no sense to Mimi. Why was the emperor, who supposedly cared about the lives of the people, raising taxes on the poorest of the poor?

Wiping the dishes, Aki continued, “But Master Ikigégé is generous, and offered to reduce the share I have to pay if I do chores at his house. I work as a maid over there so that he doesn’t have to hire one, and at least this way I can afford the rent.”

The idea of her mother slaving away at her landlord’s beck and call sickened Mimi. “Ma, don’t go. I’m home now, and I’ll go in your place. I’m sorry I was away for so long, but you won’t have to suffer anymore.”

This is the right thing to do, isn’t it? I’m sure Kon Fiji would approve.

But Aki stacked the dishes and shook her head. “You have a new name now, Zomi Kidosu. You are no longer a simple farmer’s daughter.”

“What are you saying, Mama?”

Aki turned around and folded her hands against her lap. “Remember the story about how if a golden carp leaps over the Rufizo Falls, it turns into a rainbow-tailed dyran? You’ve leapt over the falls, Mimi-tika. You have a future, but it isn’t here. It isn’t with me.”

Mimi closed her eyes and remembered the time she and Luan had flown in stringless kites: After seeing the world from such a height, could she spend the rest of her life in this small one-room dwelling, within the bounds of a few acres of land and a thin sliver of beach? Could she bend and scrape for a few coppers from their landlord after having critiqued the philosophies of the Hundred Schools? Could she endure the tedium of this way of life after having been exposed to so much more?

“There’s a restlessness in your soul,” said Aki. “It’s always been there, but now it’s grown.”

Mama is right, Mimi thought. This is no longer home. I have to make a new home.

“I will make you proud, Mama. I will register for the Town Examination; I will bring you honor and wealth; I will make sure that you eat white rice every day and dress in silk and sleep on feather-filled mattresses at night.”

Aki came over and held Mimi, and she had to reach up to caress her daughter’s face. “All I care about, my child, is that you’re happy. You are setting out into the wide sea, my baby, and I’m sorry that Mama does not have the knowledge or skills to help you.”

What do I care about the duty of the learned? Mimi thought. Why should I try to make the lives of the Earl of Méricüso or Master Ikigégé better? All I care about are the people I love.

Mimi hugged her mother back. “I will give you a better life. I swear it.”

^{CHAPTER SEVENTEEN} THROUGH THE VEIL

“Zomi Kidosu was right,” Dafiro said. “The cashima who were not ranked among the firoa had formed a mob outside the palace gates. They were banging on gongs and singing songs, demanding that the Grand Examination essays be reviewed by a new panel of judges. Their antics attracted a large number of idlers and curious passersby.”

Kuni waved for everyone to be quiet. He listened. There were no sounds of banging gongs or singing students or shouting mobs, muffled or otherwise.

“I said were.” The captain’s tone was humble, but there was a hint of smugness to it. He waited as the silence lengthened, like a storyteller playing his audience.

Kuni parted the cowrie strands dangling from his crown impatiently so that Dafiro could see his face and what the emperor thought of the captain’s attempt at drama.

Dafiro bowed and hurried to explain. “I told the rioting cashima that you, Rénga, were interested in understanding their complaint, but as there were many voices among the students, you preferred to receive a single petition signed by the most insightful scholar among them. ‘Emperor Ragin will personally review the petition, bypassing Imperial Tutor Ruthi,’ I said—and I may have winked. ‘You may even get a private audience with the emperor himself.’ ”

Kuni let the cowrie strands fall back in place to hide his smile. “Clever, Daf.”

Dafiro’s eyes twinkled. “I have an excellent teacher, Rénga.”

Even the empress and Consort Risana couldn’t quite keep their faces straight at this, and a few of the generals and ministers who had followed Kuni the longest chuckled. Kuni’s reputation for shameless tricks as a young man was well known.

Dafiro bowed to Zato Ruthi. “I beg your pardon, Master Ruthi. I figured you would not want to meet with these spoiled children.” Ruthi waved his hands dismissively, indicating that he was not offended by Dafiro’s fib.

“Wait, wait!” Phyro jumped up from his place at the foot of the dais. “Da, how did what Captain Miro said stop the riot? I don’t understand.”

Kuni looked at him affectionately—though the boy couldn’t see his face—and then glanced at Timu, whose face was equally confused. Only Théra stood there grinning knowingly like the ministers and generals in the hall. The emperor sighed quietly to himself. “Daf, why don’t you explain for the benefit of the young prince?”

Dafiro nodded. “Prince Phyro, what do you think happened among the scholars after I told them about the petition and the private audience?”

Phyro spread his hands helplessly. “I have no idea.”

“Think, Phyro,” Kuni said, a hint of impatience in his voice. “You’re being lazy.”

Risana cut in gently. “Just imagine yourself in the scholars’ place. Remember what it was like when you and your friends played war? Who got to be the marshal?”

“I did,” Phyro said, looking even more confused.

Kuni shook his head almost imperceptibly. Phyro did often play with the children of ministers and nobles who were in Pan, but of course Phyro always got to pick the game and always got the best roles because he was the emperor’s son. He had too little experience of the dynamics of a group, of politics. This has to be remedied.

Dafiro smoothly came to the prince’s rescue. “Your Highness, the rioting cashima are ambitious scholars. Most of them are used to being the cleverest boy—or girl, in a few cases—out of everyone they know. When I mentioned that the emperor would accept a petition only from the best among them, it was natural that all of them would want to claim that title—and I added fuel to the fire by implying that one of them might get a private audience with the emperor, which is almost as good as being a pana méji.”

Phyro’s eyes glinted with the light of understanding. “So… they started fighting over who was ‘most insightful’?” He rubbed his hands together in glee, sorry to have missed an exciting fight.

Dafiro nodded. “But they’re scholars, Your Highness, so their fighting is… how should I put this… of a different quality than wrestling matches among the soldiers.”

“I bet they competed to see who could quote the most obscure passages from Kon Fiji,” said Phyro, chuckling. Timu gave him a reprimanding look and subtly pointed at Zato Ruthi, who pretended not to see any of this.

“There was some of that, yes,” said Dafiro. “And then they started pointing out each other’s grammar mistakes, and then the mistakes in the corrections, and then the mistakes in the corrections to the corrections. One started to sarcastically remark on the accents with which Ano epigrams were recited; another pointed to the anachronistic style of the declaimed speeches. I let them go on in this vein for a bit until they’d gotten red in the face and properly thirsty with all that oration, and I showed them how to get to the best pubs in Pan. They’ll be there arguing and debating for the rest of the day. The cashima took their gongs with them, and the rest of the crowd either followed to enjoy more free theater or dispersed.”

“This is why Ra Oji once said, Dogido çalusma co jhuakin ma dümon wi cruluféü lothéta, noaü lothu ro ma gankén do crucruthidalo,” added Kuni. “If ten scholars were to start a rebellion, it would take them three years of argument just to agree on a name for their faction.”

Phyro laughed so hard that he started to cough. “It sounds like—ahem—you’d fit right in with them, Toto-tika.”

Timu stood awkwardly, his face flushed a furious shade of red, unable to come up with a retort.

Théra noticed the embarrassed expressions on the faces of the other pana méji at this bout of jeering at their fellow examinees. She stopped grinning and turned to Dafiro. “Thank you for your quick thinking, Captain Miro. I’m sure Father is grateful that you diverted the momentary rage of the learned scholars, the backbone of the Imperial bureaucracy, without any harm. They’re the true treasure of Dara.”

The princess bowed to Dafiro in jiri, and Dafiro bowed back deeply, his face now also serious. Timu and the pana méji relaxed.

Kuni looked on, pleased. “I will speak with the students once they pick a representative. The stakes of the exams are high, and it’s understandable they would react this way to disappointment, but I am satisfied that the integrity of the exams is unassailable, and I will persuade them to see reason.”

Zomi Kidosu, silent through the entire exchange between Miro and the children, now cut in. “You may have pacified the disappointed cashima today with a distraction, but the fundamental problem, the unfairness of the exams, remains.”

Everyone in the Grand Audience Hall was reminded that they were still in the middle of a Palace Examination. Dafiro retreated to the side of the hall, the children quieted and sat down, and Kuni sat up straight and once again gave Zomi his full attention.

“You spoke of the way prized essays tended to reflect the tastes of the academies of Ginpen in Haan,” said Kuni. “It is a fair criticism, perhaps. But it will take time for other regions of Dara to become as devoted to learning as Haan.”

Zomi shook her head. “Rénga, that is not all. Even if all the other provinces of Dara had academies as respected as those in Ginpen, the examinations are still not selecting for talent. Look at the cashima who were so easily manipulated by the captain’s tricks: They are narrow-minded fools who have memorized ten thousand Ano logograms and think they know all there is to know. Such poverty of spirit cannot lead to true beauty or grace or suppleness of thought.”

Kuni was momentarily stunned by her vehemence, but Risana broke in. “Zomi Kidosu, do you have a different view of what is worthy of being called beautiful and graceful and supple in thought?”

Zomi nodded. “Master Ruthi speaks of the power of examples drawn from life to persuade, but the lives of his students are different from the lives of most of the emperor’s subjects, as distinct as the life of the pampered rose in a hothouse is from the lives of the dandelion in the fields.

“This man paints a picture of a world in which his family again holds absolute sway over a kingdom. That man over there wishes for an ideal world in which all laws and taxes have been redesigned to allow his family to accumulate wealth. They dress up these visions with citations to dead philosophers, but all I see is ugliness and hypocrisy. Look at these men”—Zomi pointed at the other pana méji—“Not a single one of them has ever had to work for his next meal or had to beg a corvée administrator for a reprieve.”

Kuni Garu’s face, hidden behind the dangling cowrie veil, flinched.

“I doubt any of them can tell an ear of sorghum apart from an ear of wheat, or knows the weight of the fish in the boat after a day of trawling in Gaing Gulf. They have never sweated after an honest day’s labor or bled from blisters made by swinging the sickle or hauling in the net.

“Has anyone in the College of Advocates ever told you that your policy of increasing the taxes on the merchants would end up harming the small farmers you aimed to help?”

Kuni shook his head.

“When the taxes go up on the merchants, who, as the empress has noted, also tend to be large landowners, they pass on the tax to their tenants and increase their burden.”

“That is not supposed to—”

“I know that isn’t supposed to happen. But it does—it happened to my mother. You may have your edicts and policies, but in the villages, the wealthy do what they will and the poor must obey. The voices of the poor are not heard in these halls, and so you do not understand their plight.”

“I was not always the Emperor of Dara,” said Kuni Garu quietly. “I was once a boy who stood by the side of the road to watch Mapidéré’s procession and wandered the markets of Zudi, tempted but not able to afford anything. There were days when I did not know where my next meal would come from.”

“All the more reason that you should weigh the fish instead of trusting self-serving reports, imaginary models, or hopeful visions!”

Kuni was about to defend himself, but Zomi would not be interrupted.

“And look at them.” She swept her arm at the pana méji. “They are all men! You may have opened the civil service to women, but only a few dozen of the cashima who came to Pan for the Grand Examination are women, and out of those barely a handful made it into the ranks of the firoa.

“What do those in your College of Advocates know of the beauty prized by women that isn’t for the delectation of men? Or the plight of women who must raise children without any of the advantages given to men? Or the reasons some sell themselves to the indigo houses? Or the causes that make the choice of a marriage akin to bondage seem reasonable to so many?”

Risana could not help but nod vigorously as Zomi spoke. She remembered the life she had led with her mother, before she met Kuni Garu. She berated herself inside for having been so absorbed by the worries of life in the palace that she had not done more for all those others who lived just like she had. This young woman was an inspiration.

“Can your firoa react with anything but condescension toward a fisherman’s song composed from rough and simple words of his dialect?” Zomi went on. “Can they see the creativity and love imbued in a leaping carp a farmer’s daughter folds out of wrapping paper saved from parcels of roasted nuts? What appreciation can they—and you—have for examples drawn from the people’s lives? You’ve forgotten—”

“We cannot give up on heading out to the sea just because we know we cannot catch all the fish!” The emperor stopped himself, and, after a moment, continued in a calmer tone. “Before Mapidéré’s time, some states administered everything through hereditary nobles while others restricted civil service testing to families who owned land. Mapidéré was the one who opened up the examinations to all men, though in practice his judges could be bribed. I have expanded the examinations to all candidates without regard to sex or status and enforced fairness with standardized questions and grading criteria across the realm. Imperfect as my examinations are, are they still not better than anything that came before?”

“Rénga, I mean no disrespect, but you sound like a fisherman with a hold full of rotting fish laughing at another with a bigger hold of rotting fish.”

“Perfection cannot be achieved in a brief span of time! The ladder of Imperial testing will not elevate all men and women of talent, yet it offers a beam of hope for the studious and the poor. You come from a sharecropping family without power, yet today you stand among the most honored of Dara’s scholars. You are the fulfillment of my trust and hope for the system.”

“I am hardly a good example,” said Zomi. “I have been blessed with instruction from… a teacher few could aspire to, and when it seemed I was about to be denied the chance to take the examinations, strangers came to my aid. Luck is not much of a promise.”

Despite the surging pride Luan Zya felt in his student, he had to keep his emotions hidden. Zomi was determined to make it through the examinations on her own merit, and he could not reveal his relationship to her no matter what. You are a fledgling eagle heading for the skies; you’re the hatchling turtle diving into the sea.

“Then it is the will of gods that you should be elevated above others,” said Kuni. “I ascended to the Throne of Dara by equal measures of skill and luck, and random chance governs our fates more than we’d like to admit.”

“That is the counsel of despair, Rénga. If you seek true talent, then your system of examinations resembles the man who seeks pearls only by diving from the wharf because it is safe and convenient, all the while arguing that the random motion of the tides will move pearls of great value into his reach.”

For a long while after, the Grand Audience Hall was silent.

Unexpectedly, Prince Phyro spoke up. “It sounds like you are just jealous that they’re rich while you’re not. But their families have worked as hard as yours to accumulate their wealth, and why should their children not gain the advantage of having been born to a wealthier family?”

Both Risana and Kuni looked at the young boy. Risana was about to reprimand the boy for speaking in this solemn hall, but Kuni waved for her to be quiet.

“I suppose that is one way to look at it,” said Zomi. “But let me try to explain it another way.” She walked to the side and stood in front of Zato Ruthi and bowed.

“May I borrow these?” she asked, pointing to the stack of thin wooden boxes for holding the examination essays. “I haven’t prepared a presentation, as you now know. So I must improvise.”

Surprised, Ruthi nodded.

Zomi picked up four of the boxes, walked back, and laid them out in a row on the floor. She knelt down and hid the boxes from view with the hem of her robe, appearing to place some objects into the boxes. Then she stood up and unveiled the boxes, walking to stand behind them.

“I have placed some humble gifts for you in these boxes,” Zomi said, looking at each of Timu, Théra, Phyro, and little Fara. “One of them contains a piece of thousand-layer cake, steeped in sweet honey and filled with lotus seed. The other three boxes are empty. The princes and princesses may each pick a box, and whatever you find in the box, that is your dessert for tonight. If you find yourself in possession of the thousand-layer cake, you have no obligation to share with your siblings. And if you find yourself holding an empty box, you must not complain. Do you like this arrangement?”

“Um…,” said Phyro.

“That’s unfair,” said Fara, her voice crisp and childish. “We should share!”

“Why is it unfair?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” said Phyro. “Why should I get an empty box?”

Zomi looked at Phyro. “Before birth, all of us are mere potentials. We have no control over the moment of incarnation, when we might end up as the son of an emperor or the daughter of a peasant. The veil is lifted as we come into the world, and we find ourselves holding a box that determines our fates without regard to our merit. Yet all the great philosophers have always said that our souls are equal in weight in the eyes of the World Father, Thasoluo. It would be most strange if our own sense of justice, after being cultivated by the wisdom of the sages, cannot match that of a child of four.”

Phyro’s face turned red, but he had no response.

Unexpectedly, Prince Timu came to his rescue. “That is mere sophistry, Zomi Kidosu.”

Zomi Kidosu regarded him coolly.

“You misunderstand the Classical philosophers. That our souls are equal in the eyes of the World Father does not mean that we’re meant to achieve material equality. The sages teach us that men and women are born into different ranks, but all of us have our roles to play in the harmonious play of life. You speak as though it is bad to be a peasant, but there is also the nobility of being virtuous in poverty; you speak as though it is good to be a king, but a king’s cares are as great as his fortune. Neither one is inherently better than the other: Each should strive to excel in his assigned position. Not everyone prefers thousand-layer cake. That is true wisdom.”

“I see,” said Zomi. “Prince Timu, you will surely not object then if I eat the thousand-layer cake and give you the wrapping paper to lick? In fact, why don’t we switch places so that I can experience the suffering of your many cares in the palace, and you get to experience the nobility of poverty in my muddy hut?”

It was now Prince Timu’s turn to be at a loss for words. “You—you—”

Empress Jia looked at Zomi, her face frosty. “Timu, speak no more.”

“So which box holds the thousand-layer cake?” asked Fara, still staring at the boxes. “Can I see?”

Zomi nodded.

Fara opened the first box; it was empty.

“Can I try again?” she looked at Zomi, who nodded.

Fara opened the second box, then the third, and finally the last. All were empty.

“Where’s the cake?”

“There never was any cake.”

Fara squinted at her. “But you said there was!”

“For most people of talent in Dara, that is the kind of promise made by the Imperial examinations.”

“You clearly have a proposal that you did not write down in your essay,” Kuni said. “Perhaps it’s time to present it.”

Luan Zya had been staring at Zomi, his face tense. But Zomi refused to meet his eyes, instead gazing calmly at the emperor.

“I propose that we abolish the use of Ano logograms and Classical Ano in the Imperial examination altogether.” Her voice was steady and sure. “Testing should be done using only zyndari letters writing in the vernacular.”

Kuni froze, as did all the assembled ministers and generals and nobles. The Grand Audience Hall was so silent that the noise of the distant crowd was the only sound.

Murmurs of incredulity began to grow among the assembled ministers, and a few began to chuckle.

Théra hung on every word of the young scholar. She had never heard anyone so bold, so original. Zomi was like a lightning bolt that had lit up a dark sky; she had never believed that it was possible to turn the world upside down like this, to reimagine it as though nothing that had come before mattered.

“Surely you—” Kuni started to say.

“Preposterous!” Ruthi seemed to not realize or care that he was interrupting the emperor. “Without knowledge of the Classical Ano logograms, you might as well abolish literacy!”

“That isn’t true. It takes only about a month for a child to learn the zyndari letters and to start composing in the vernacular. Yet we deem writing with only zyndari letters to be unacceptable and require years of schooling to learn the intricacies of the dead words of Ano philosophers and twist our thoughts to fit their mold. Schools constructed around the logograms can only be attended by those who do not have to live off the fruits of their own labor.

“The kind of arguments prized under such a system are sclerotic, lifeless, oriented toward the past. If we abolish the need for the Ano logograms and write the wisdom of the new age in the vernacular using only zyndari letters, there will be such a flourishing of learning across Dara that you will have a much better chance of finding the talent you desire. Instead of seeking pearls in the shallow reefs near the wharfs of Haan, you will be casting the net far and wide across the entire ocean.

“I do not advocate that we discard the logograms altogether. I well know their advantages in beauty, in literary expressiveness, in maintaining a connection with the past, in allowing people who speak differently to communicate, in crafting and shaping a worldview that offers joy and comfort. But the cost they impose on the examinations is too high. I love the logograms as much as any of you, perhaps even more, yet just because we love something doesn’t mean we must hold on to it when circumstances have changed. It’s time to abandon old machines and remake the minds of Dara.”

The Grand Audience Hall exploded with voices of outrage and argument.

Now, she thought, if only my secret can stay hidden.

^{CHAPTER EIGHTEEN} HEIR TO THE EMPIRE

In the back of the palace, behind the wall that divided the public halls from the private quarters of the Imperial family, there was a garden.

About equal in area to a medium-sized farm, it wasn’t large by the standards of the old Tiro kings, who often had private hunting grounds and seaside resorts that took up thousands of acres of land, but it was intricately laid out and reflected the tastes of the Imperial family.

The western end of the garden belonged to Empress Jia, who had filled it with decorative flowers and useful herbs. Varieties of chrysanthemums and roses in every hue bloomed in coral-and-obsidian lined planters arranged in concentric rings that echoed the whorls of individual flowers (the planters made it easier to move the plants into hothouses during the cold months). Herbs collected from all corners of Dara were grown here in grids, each square clearly labeled with the herb’s name, place of origin, and a warning if the plant was toxic. A work shed constructed in the style of a medicine shop of Cocru sat in the middle of the herb plots as though it had been plucked from the streets of Zudi.

The eastern part of the garden belonged to Consort Risana, who had chosen to build a maze made up of thick, trained hedges; deep-lake rocks full of wrinkles and perforations that resembled massive sponges; coral formations taken from the sea; and small ponds that held schools of colorful carp and tranquilly reflected the sun like tidal pools. Herbs known for their mind-altering qualities were grown here and there, and Consort Risana sometimes entertained the children by practicing her smokecraft, turning the maze into a fantasyland filled with friendly immortals who provided sage advice, as well as mythical monsters who delighted the children with fits of terrified laughter.

But the few visitors who had the privilege of being allowed into the garden all agreed that it was the central part of the garden, the emperor’s own preserve, that was the most distinctive.

The children, who had lingered in the Grand Audience Hall after the conclusion of the Palace Examination to observe the rare sight of all the Lords of Dara leaving the hall by rank and seniority as though performing some choreographed dance—in truth, they were also motivated more than a little by the thought of avoiding having to deal with Empress Jia and Master Ruthi’s inevitable scolding for their interruption of the proceedings—finally left the hall to return to the family quarters at the back of the palace.

They went through the guarded door at the Wall of Tranquillity, crossed the small arched bridge that traversed the thin stream that flowed from west to east and marked the division between the public and private sections of the palace, and entered the garden.

On their left was a flooded field that would become a rice paddy later in the spring. On their right was a taro patch and a vegetable garden filled with trellises for climbing vines. Had one not known that this was the Imperial garden, one might have thought the princes and princesses had just stepped into a Cocru farm.

And there was even a man dressed in the traditional garb of the Cocru farmer: white leggings made from long strips of hemp cloth, a large-brimmed hat woven from reeds to keep the sun off his face and neck, and a thin robe with the hem tucked into the belt to allow freedom of movement. He was hauling two buckets of water dangling from the ends of a carrying pole from the stream over to the vegetable garden.

“Rénga,” Timu called out. “Your obedient children give you their respects.”

The man in the reed hat stopped, slowly turned around to keep the water in the buckets from spilling, and smiled at the children. It was indeed Kuni Garu, Emperor Ragin of the Islands of Dara.

Though Féso and Naré Garu had been farmers by trade, they owned their land and were not sharecroppers. By the time Kuni was a young boy, the Garus had settled inside the city of Zudi and rented out their farm to support their other business interests. Kuni had but the vaguest recollections of life on a farm. But after he became emperor, and especially after the death of his father, Kuni had taken up farming as a sort of hobby that he pursued with dedication in the Imperial garden. Perhaps it was a way for him to honor the roots of his own family and indeed the economic foundation that supported all of Dara.

“Come and help me,” said Kuni. “I can show you the budding taros and string beans.”

“Most Revered and Honored Father,” said Timu, “this is a most delightful invitation that humbles me. Your solicitude of the well-being of the lowliest subjects of Dara is unprecedented! To debase yourself to perform the task of coaxing sustenance from the earth is akin to a cruben deigning to act the part of a mere shrimp. By experiencing the life of the common people, the virtuous sovereign may feel himself closely attached to the people. Indeed, Kon Fiji, the One True Sage, once said—”

“It’s all right, Timu,” Kuni interrupted him. He was still smiling, but a hint of impatience was in his eyes. “All you have to say is: ‘I’m busy. Thanks but no thanks.’ ”

“Er… Master Ruthi indicated earlier that there are some important lessons he wishes to impart to his foolish student. I am caught in the difficult position of having to choose to obey my father, Sovereign of the Empire and mold of my body, and my teacher, Sovereign of the Realm of Knowledge and author of my mind—”

“Go, go!” Kuni said, one hand waving as though chasing a pesky fly. The motion disturbed the pole balanced over his shoulder, and some of the water spilled from the buckets.

“I am most grateful for your indulgence, Rénga.” Timu bowed and hurried away.

Kuni chuckled, but he sighed inside. I know well that you think it’s beneath you to dig in dirt and perform physical labor, because you think Kon Fiji meant it literally when he said that menial tasks made the mind mean. Sometimes I wonder if reading so many books is a good thing. Why are you so unlike me?

He turned to Phyro. “Hudo-tika, what about you?”

“Da, I’m busy. Thanks but no thanks.”

Kuni laughed out loud, and more water spilled from the buckets. “I see. And what are you busy with?”

“Captain Miro promised to see me and tell me more about how he got those scholars to start drinking instead of rioting, and I want to ask Auntie Gin and Uncle Théca for tales about the Hegemon.”

Kuni nodded and waved him away also. Phyro is a lot like me when I was younger, but he’s too attached to the romance of daring and war. He’s had a life of ease, and I do not know when or how he will learn the patience necessary….

Finally, he turned to the girls. “What about you, Rata-tika and Ada-tika? Are you busy as well?”

“I love playing in the dirt!” Fara yelled, and ran over to hug Kuni. She was so fast that Kuni had no time to set the carrying pole down, and more water spilled as Fara wrapped her arms around her father’s legs. Then she let go and happily ran into the empty rice paddy and splashed around, careless of how the mud and water soaked her opulent dress.

“Father.” Théra came up to Kuni and gave a low bow in jiri. She glanced at the buckets. “I think we might as well go back to the stream and refill these.”

“You’re right,” said Kuni. “Your brothers and sister managed to make me spill most of the water.”

He set the carrying pole down and released the two buckets, handing one to Théra. Father and daughter walked back to the stream and refilled them. Théra struggled with the heavy weight as she followed Kuni, and as the water in the bucket matched the rhythm of her steps, it sloshed over the edge.

“Here, let me help you,” said Kuni. He bent down and picked up a small wooden plank and set it to float in the middle of Théra’s bucket. “Now try.”

This time, though Théra continued to struggle with the weight, the plank dampened the waves in the bucket and water didn’t spill out.

“Being a ruler is a lot like carrying a bucket of water,” Kuni said. “There are always competing forces that threaten to make waves, and it is the ruler’s job to find a way to balance the various forces from spilling out of control so that the land may be irrigated and the people fed.”

“Why not just set the bucket down so that it wouldn’t be agitated?” asked Théra, her breathing becoming labored.

“Then we’d be left with a bucket filled with dead water, and nothing would grow. Forward motion is essential, Rata-tika. Change is the only constant.”

Théra couldn’t help but feel that this speech had perhaps been rehearsed and intended for her brothers. But she was glad to have this moment with her father. She had always enjoyed listening to him talk about politics and economics, and he had always stopped whatever he was doing when the children wanted to spend time with him, though she tried not to bother him often.

“Are there a lot of people pushing on you, Father?”

“Too many to count. The nobles want more independence; the civil ministers want more uniformity; those in the College of Advocates want more say in policy; the generals want more money to pay their soldiers; the veterans want more land to settle on; the merchants want more spent on fighting the pirates and competent magistrates—I’ve even had to revive the profession of paid litigators; the farmers want more aid for irrigation and reclamation; everybody wants somebody else to be taxed more. I am a kite buffeted by the winds from every direction, and it’s all I can do to stay aloft.”

Théra imagined her father flying through the air like the legends of the Hegemon, and she felt a wave of tenderness for him. Not pity, exactly, but it was strangely moving to hear that her father, who had always seemed so sure of himself, didn’t know everything.

“It’s good that you have so many wise ministers and generals to advise you.”

“Ah, but they all see but a slice of the whole, and they depend on me to keep them in balance. That is why, Rata-tika, I designed my crown to shield my face so that they cannot see my expressions as I struggle to figure out what to do. Half of my work is hiding what I think so that I won’t be manipulated too much.”

They made it to the vegetable garden, and with Kuni’s guidance, Théra used a ladle made from a calabash cut in half to gently water the baby shoots and sprouts just poking out of the soil.

“Rata-tika, do you know why we don’t plant the vegetables with the rice, or mix the climbing vines with the taro patch?”

If this question had been addressed to Timu, he would have replied that it was a matter of keeping each plant with its own kind to ensure respect for their natural places in the chain of being. If this question had been addressed to Phyro, he would have replied that it was a matter of preventing the plants from fighting each other. But Théra somehow understood that it was a test.

She looked at the way the emperor’s garden was laid out, which seemed rather careless: The rice paddy was irregularly shaped; the taro patch was much too tiny to yield more than a few meals; the vegetable garden had a mix of beans and melons and leafy vegetables in apparent disarray; and beyond the vegetable garden was a weedy area where wildflowers like dandelions bloomed in abandon.

No real farmers would do things this way, right?

She walked around the garden, looking at it from every angle. Though she had walked by it countless times and even examined it up close a few times, she had never realized that… wait, that’s it! The shapes of the different crop patches reminded her of the Islands of Dara.

Cautiously, she said, “Because different plants require different nutrients and different amounts of water. A rice paddy needs to be inundated, while the vines do best with plenty of air and little water. And even the weeds are a part of your domain, and they have their own needs.”

Kuni nodded, apparently satisfied. “Different policies are needed for different regions.”

Théra’s heart thrilled. I was right! The independence given to the nobles is meant as an experiment. “And perhaps when planting a new crop, it’s best to try to plant it in different plots subject to different regimens and see which one works best.”

Kuni laughed. “My daughter has a talent for farming… and perhaps much more.”

“I could come out and farm with you more often.”

“I would like that,” Kuni said. Then, after a pause, he added, “It was clever of you to remember to help the pana méji and Master Ruthi save face after what Captain Miro did at the Palace Examination. If only your brothers had your sense.”

Théra’s face flushed, pleased at the compliment. “What did you think of Zomi Kidosu’s proposal?” she asked, eager to hear her father’s views concerning her protégée.

Kuni glanced at her, curious. “Do you know her?”

“Um… no. But she was so striking.”

Kuni continued to look at her but did not press the question. “Some seeds would thrive only when the soil is prepared properly.” He did not elaborate.

Théra pondered this answer as she continued to water the garden with her father.

Plunk, the gourd scraped the bottom of the bucket and came up empty. Théra stood up and wiped her forehead with a sleeve. “Shall we go back and get more water?”

Kuni looked at her sweat-drenched face, and his face softened. “It’s all right. You’ve already helped me a great deal. Girls shouldn’t get all sweaty and sunburnt. You can take Ada-tika to play in the shade of your mother’s part of the garden.”

Théra regarded Kuni, biting her bottom lip. Then, steeling herself and standing up very straight, she said, “Father, did you tell Queen Gin during the war that she shouldn’t have gotten all sweaty and sunburnt?”

For a moment, Kuni’s expression was suspended between surprise and embarrassment; then his features relaxed into a smile as he bowed to his daughter. “My apologies, Princess Théra. Strength may wear a robe or a dress. I had not intended an insult, but you’re right, my words were ill considered. You have your mother’s temper and spine, and that is a good thing.”

Théra bowed back deeply in jiri. “My father is a lord of capacious mind.”

Just as they were preparing to return to the stream with their empty buckets, a friendly voice cried out from some distance away, “Luan! What are you doing here?”

Kuni and Théra turned and saw that Rin Coda, Imperial Farsight Secretary, was coming over the arched bridge. He was speaking to Luan Zya, who was standing under the bridge, as though trying to meld into the abutment.

Luan stepped out from the shadow of the bridge and bowed. “My apologies, Rénga. I did not want to intrude upon your private moment with the children.”

“Intrude!” said Rin. “You’re practically family! Though you have been absent for much too long! We must have at least six cups of wine later; I dare say I have a much better liquor collection now, and I’m sorry we haven’t been able to spend much time together for your visit. While you’ve been away, my people have had a very difficult time keeping an eye on you—for protection!—for you’re like an elusive turtle in the ocean, popping up in some town for a few days and then disappearing for months!”

Luan chuckled. “Thank you for your concern for my safety, but perhaps it’s best for our chief spy not to admit in front of the emperor that your employees have been having trouble keeping a simple itinerant scholar under surveillance.”

Rin waved dismissively. “Kuni knows that I keep a close watch on the real troublemakers. I just wanted to be able to get you back here in case some crisis happened and we needed your advice.” As the emperor’s childhood friend, Rin Coda had always gotten away with being very informal with him.

“I’m certain the emperor is surrounded by men and women of far greater wisdom than a simple engineer.”

“Oh, stop that! That sort of excessive humility comes across as bragging!”

Kuni listened to their banter happily. It reminded him of a simpler time.

“Father, I will retire with Ada-tika so that you can discuss matters of state,” said Théra. She knew that when Rin came to speak with her father, it was usually about something secret. She bowed to Luan and Rin in jiri, called for Fara to follow her, and left the Imperial garden for the private quarters of the Imperial family.

Kuni turned to Rin.

“The cashima are still drinking and arguing,” said Rin. “No more trouble from them, for now.” Then he looked contrite as he added, “I’m sorry I had not anticipated the riots.”

Kuni waved dismissively. “It’s all right. I will have to deal with their petition eventually. I’ll talk to Cogo and Zato about how to address the imbalance between the regions. Perhaps a system whereby scholars from regions outside of Haan and Gan are given some bonus points is necessary. It will require some relaxation of the anonymity requirements.”

“Good luck convincing stiff-spined Ruthi of the wisdom of that plan,” said Rin. “He’ll tell you that any candidate who gets in because of extra points will always feel inferior to the candidates from Haan, and thus your cure is worse than the disease.”

“He wouldn’t be entirely wrong,” said Kuni. “That is why this is a difficult problem. But compromise is the lubricant that keeps the machinery of the state running.” Kuni grinned as Luan lifted his eyebrows at this engineering metaphor. “I’ve been saving that for your return.”

Luan laughed. “The emperor is a most interesting lord.”

“You’re already spending so much money in stipends to lure good teachers to move from Haan to the other provinces,” said Rin. “These bookworms don’t seem to realize how much you’ve been doing behind the scenes to address their complaints.”

“It takes as much time to watch a sapling grow into a towering oak as it does to cultivate scholarship in regions without a tradition of learning,” said Kuni. “But young men do not have such patience, and interim measures are needed. Besides, I’m also trying to encourage more children of the poor to attend schools to add to the talent pool, which I’m sure these children of the wealthy will object to as they’ll perceive it as increasing competition. Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. What else do you have to report?”

“Not much. A few deposed nobles are making trouble—two of them actually met recently in Pan. But I don’t think they’ll amount to much. More worrisome is the cult of the Hegemon, which is growing in the Tunoa Islands, and there are signs it’s spreading to other regions. So far, I’ve limited myself to surveillance. Should I do more?”

Kuni’s face darkened, but after a moment he relaxed. “It’s easy for Mata to grow kinder in the people’s memories now that he’s only a ghost haunting Dara and not an insatiable lord who rides from one end of the Islands to the other, demanding tribute in blood.”

“These ingrates—”

“No! As long as they are peaceful, let the worship of my brother grow unimpeded.”

“But Kuni—”

“No. A forceful response would only encourage those who wish me ill. I betrayed Mata on the shores of the Liru because I thought it in service of a greater honor, and if some believe that the House of Dandelion is founded on a sin, I will not confirm their opinion with a vain attempt to dam up the mouths of the people. Mata truly was an extraordinary individual, and veneration of honor and faith is no threat to me.”

To the side, Luan nodded.

“What about the Golden Carp?” asked Kuni.

“It’s been difficult. The parents of the young women sometimes require the most persuasion, especially when they’re wealthy.”

“Then focus on the poor,” said Kuni. “Those enjoying fewer advantages from the way things are may be more ready to be persuaded.”

Rin nodded. “Let me keep at it.” He turned to Luan. “Remember the drinks later—I’ll invite Cogo and Gin along. But first, let me… um… check on something from the empress’s garden.”

He hurriedly bid his farewell and left for Jia’s part of the garden.

Kuni laughed. “Jia is always complaining to me that someone has been taking her happy herbs without permission. I’ve always suspected Rin was the culprit.” He turned around and saw that Luan had a strange look on his face. “What is it?”

“As one without a position at court, I do not think it is my place to comment—”

“Come on,” said Kuni. “Why do we have to play this game? I’ve already indulged your desire to not be entwined in the politics of the court, but can’t I have my old friend speak honestly to me?”

Luan nodded, comforted that his lord still thought of him that way. “Then permit me to speak plainly. It is not good to indulge our appetites unchecked. Though it ought to be celebrated that you’re still so vigorous that you seek out new… beauties, yet I’m reminded of a tale from Pan, after you conquered the palace of Emperor Erishi, when you entered the women’s quarters—”

“What in the world are you talking about?” interrupted Kuni, whose eyes had been growing wider and wider as Luan prattled on.

“Er… this Golden Carp program… is it not a reference to the idea that a golden carp leaping over the Rufizo Falls will turn into a dyran? And Rin mentioned young women… so… I’m glad that I amuse you, Rénga.”

Kuni was now laughing so hard that he was bent over at the waist. “Oh Luan, Luan! You have been away for too long. I should be wounded that you think so little of me as to believe that I’m holding some sort of beauty pageant to choose for myself new wives from among the commoners of Dara. The very idea!”

“Then what is it that you’re asking Rin to do?”

Kuni struggled to get his laughter under control. “Ahem… Zomi Kidosu is right that the Imperial examinations, as fair as I’ve tried to make them, are not a good way to attract the talents of all of Dara. Though I’ve opened the examinations and the civil service to women, few have applied to take the examinations and even fewer have risen through the ranks. I have been asking Rin to find girls of promising talent and to secretly offer their parents a stipend to encourage them to attend school and take the tests—that is what I meant by the Golden Carp. But so far the results have been poor, even in Haan. Most parents do not want their daughters to leave home and seek a career in the service of the Imperial bureaucracy.”

“Custom is a hard thing to change,” said Luan. He was very relieved to see that his guess had been wrong. Perhaps he had been too cynical about Kuni Garu. After all, he was a lord who had been willing to take the most interesting path, to gamble for success.

“It takes time,” agreed Kuni. “I’ve had to keep the project a secret because the Moralists are so ascendant and loud. If this became public knowledge, I’m certain that the College of Carping”—Luan smiled at Kuni’s alternative name for the College of Advocates—“will bury me under a mountain of petitions denouncing me for ignoring tradition and straying from virtue. My life is all about compromises.”

“Why don’t I help you carry water, Lord Garu?” asked Luan. For a moment, he was concerned that slipping into the old familiar form of address would upset the emperor, but Kuni’s relaxed face assured him. Not all customs were bad.

“You should be at court and help me carry the burden of administration.”

“I am an old buffalo, Lord Garu, suitable for wandering the wilderness but no longer capable of taking up the plow.”

“Ha! There you go again. Excessive humility disguising a boast. It’s all right, I know you love your freedom. If I were in your position, I wouldn’t want to come back to court either.”

“I do have a request for you.”

“Oh?”

“Will you fund an expedition to the north? The records of Emperor Mapidéré’s voyage to the Land of the Immortals bother me. We know so little of the sea. The ancient books speak of walls made of storms and living islands that devour all travelers, but the truth is hard to come by.”

Luan retrieved the strange pieces of wreckage—filled with carvings of winged and antlered beasts—from his sleeves and explained his plan.

“You really have made up your mind not to stay at the court, haven’t you?” asked Kuni, disappointment evident in his voice. But he shook it off. “All right. I can’t force you to stay. But I won’t be able to afford an expedition on the scale of Mapidéré’s folly.”

“A few small but capable ships—equipped to my specifications—are all I require.”

“I will do my best.”

As the two men carried water to the vegetable patch and continued to converse about family and work, Luan realized that there was a dark cloud under Kuni’s easy manners.

“Though you’re steering the ship of state through treacherous waters,” Luan said, “the hand on the wheel seems confident enough. But perhaps there is something deeper that concerns you?”

Kuni glanced at him. “There is. Maybe it’s a good thing that you’ve decided not to come back to court.” The emperor looked around to be sure that none of the servants were nearby in the garden, but he nonetheless lowered his voice further. “Without a place here, you might be able to give me more objective advice. Like the ship of Métashi, the House of Dandelion faces a coming storm.”

Luan paused to consider the reference. Métashi was the name of an ancient Tiro state. Though the balance of power between the Seven States prior to the Unification Wars of Emperor Mapidéré had persisted in some form for more than a thousand years, they were not the only Tiro states of history. After the Diaspora Wars, the Islands of Dara had been divided into many more, smaller Tiro states that fought each other, and the Seven States were the ones that had managed to survive the early period of chaotic warfare.

Métashi, one of the smaller states established on the northern shore of the Big Island, had attempted to unify the Big Island more than a thousand years ago. King Gota of Métashi managed to secure all the territories north of the Damu and Shinané Mountains, and established a capital at the site of present-day Boama. However, after Gota’s death, his three most powerful generals, Haan, Faça, and Rima, each supported a separate heir and tore the nascent empire apart. The partition of Métashi into three separate states was memorialized by the Boama court poet Para with the following lines:

“You’re still young, Rénga,” said Luan.

Kuni gave him a bitter smile. “We’re all young in the eyes of the gods and old in the eyes of our children. A young dynasty must pass through a wall of storms before the first succession—no less treacherous than the mythical walls in your ancient tomes. If we succeed, this empire might last as long as the Seven States; if we fail, my fate will be no different from that of Mapidéré. Jia and Risana both have been pushing, in their own ways, for me to name the crown prince. Who would you choose?”

Startled, Luan lowered his head diffidently. “I do not know the princes well.”

“I know you had been standing under that bridge before the children’s arrival,” said Kuni evenly. “A single move is sometimes enough for an observer to judge the strength of a cüpa player.”

Realizing that he had no choice but to voice an opinion, Luan proceeded carefully. He thought over what he had observed of the children’s performance at the Palace Examination and their interactions with their father. “Prince Timu is learned in the ways of the Ano sages; he will no doubt gain the support of the civil ministers and the College of Advocates. He’s prudent and respectful, and he’ll be an able administrator.”

Kuni said nothing, but nodded for Luan to go on.

“Prince Phyro yearns for honor and glory, and he has a natural charm that appeals to the generals and nobles. I can see echoes of you in his easy manners, and I believe he’ll be a good leader in a time of war.”

Kuni looked at Luan. “Did I ask you to tell me which of my children should head the College of Advocates or suit up in armor and ride by Gin’s side? You know well that it takes more, much more, to steer the ship that is Dara.”

Luan sighed and remained mute.

“Your silence is more telling than what you did say.” Kuni said. “So now you see my dilemma.”

“Either of the princes would succeed at the task, if properly advised.”

“If. If! But that is precisely the problem—the advisers want to run the show. They’re already lining up and waiting for me to die.”

“Surely things are not as bad as that!”

“No, perhaps not. But… so far you’ve been speaking of talents. What of a father’s heart?”

Luan took a deep breath. “There is a natural affection between you and Prince Phyro, which is lamentably absent between you and Prince Timu.”

Kuni winced but did not look away. “The gods keep an accounting of our errors and mistakes, and sooner or later we are asked to pay. I was absent from Timu’s life for much of his childhood, and things have always been awkward between us. But is it right to deprive the firstborn of his natural inheritance for choices he did not make?”

“Guilt is not the best way to pick an heir.”

“I know that!” Kuni took a deep breath to calm himself down. “But I am not a scale made of insensate ironwood; I cannot ignore my own feelings. Risana stayed by my side throughout the war years, and Phyro grew up in my lap. Yet without Jia’s sacrifices as a hostage of the Hegemon, the House of Dandelion would not be on the throne today. I owe her too much.”

“Then the empress was wise to have chosen to step off the airship in Zudi that day.”

“Who knows how much of her choice was made from love, and how much from calculation for a day just like this?” Kuni said, and heaved another sigh. “I do not want to see brothers take up arms against each other, or my wives locked in a deadly war of succession. They each have the support of a faction of the court, and it is all I can do to keep my choice hidden.”

The way Kuni said brothers gave Luan pause. Once more, he reviewed what he had seen and heard, and suddenly he understood what Kuni was really saying.

“Rénga, you’re indeed a lord of capacious mind!” said Luan.

Kuni looked at him, an eager expression on his face. “What do you think of the solution?”

“It will take time,” said Luan cautiously. His mind was still reeling from the revelation of Kuni’s true plans. A crown princess, not a crown prince.

“A very long time. That is the true aim of the Golden Carp: As long as Gin is an exception, my choice of heir will never be accepted by the College of Advocates or the nobles and ministers. Only when those qualified to enter the Grand Audience Hall are as likely to wear a dress as a robe will it be possible for Théra to ascend to the Throne of Dara.”

Though Luan had already figured out Kuni’s plan, it was still a shock to hear the name of Kuni’s true chosen heir spoken aloud. Luan imagined the angry protests from the College of Advocates and the denunciations from the Moralist scholars. It had no doubt taken a great deal of effort for Kuni to convince the court to tolerate attendance by the empress and Consort Risana due to their long service as his advisers. But to persuade them to accept a woman as the empress regnant would require a revolution—or a change in the composition of the court.

“I was especially pleased to see your student at the examination today,” said Kuni. “It’s as if you’ve found a golden carp for me without even being asked.”

“How… did you know she was my student?”

Kuni quirked a brow at him. “You and I have had many debates over the years, and I saw echoes of your style in her rhetoric, though she is entirely original. She is bold and brash like a newborn calf who knows no fear of a pack of wolves; her ideas are so radical that they cannot be implemented—at least not yet.”

Luan was reminded once again how people had always underestimated Kuni—including even sometimes himself.

“She will learn humility in time,” said Luan. “Raw iron must be refined by the crucible of experience to become steel.”

“If the young do not have radical ideas, the world will never change,” said Kuni—and Luan was reminded of the legend of a young Kuni Garu who had gazed upon the face of Mapidéré and saw his eventual downfall. “Each fresh wave coming to land from the sea is brash, bold, radical, and wild like a newborn idea; the wave is worn down by the unyielding reality of the hard land and eventually dissipates, exhausted, to be replaced by the next wave in an apparently futile endeavor. Yet the cumulative efforts of such successive surges, over generations and eons, carved the coastline of Dara. Like me, she will learn the art of the possible; I’m patient.”

“Sometimes I think you’re a kite rider in time,” said Luan. “Your visions are so far beyond the horizon of the present.”

“It is the only way, Luan,” continued Kuni. “Of all my children, Théra is the only one who has the judgment, the instinct for politics and theater, to grasp the helm of the empire. She gets along well with both her brothers, and with her ascent, she’ll be able to find ways to moderate their rivalry and find ways for both of them to help her, something that neither of the boys can do on their own.

“Yet in order for her to be accepted, I must play the long game, and subtly pave the way for her ascent while keeping everyone in the dark. What’s more, I must ensure that she has no obvious base for power until the moment is ripe. Phyro and Risana have the generals while Timu and Jia have the scholars, but if I encourage Théra to build up a power base of her own, it will only lead to even more intense factional fighting at the court. Only by keeping her apparently powerless could I ultimately help her take over the reins.”

“Why haven’t you confided in the empress?” asked Luan. “Surely she would be as supportive of a bid by her daughter as her son?”

Kuni shook his head. “She will not tolerate the risks involved in such a radical change; besides, she’s proud, and will not give up her own chosen path.”

“Has the court become so divided that you and she can no longer see with one mind?”

“We never have been of one mind,” said Kuni. “Oh, do not mistake me. The love between us has not faded, but to love someone does not mean giving up your own will. You underestimate Jia. She believes that stability is more important than anything else, and my plan requires a revolution that—if not carefully managed—may plunge the empire into civil war. Besides, she has thrown her lot in with the scholars and promoted their interests for years, and she is too proud and certain to gamble away all she has built on my impossible dream.”

“A most interesting dream,” said Luan, and the two shared a smile, thinking of deeds of daring in the past.

“Interesting enough to tempt you back?” asked Kuni.

Luan shook his head. “Your goal is admirable, Lord Garu, but I would rather brave the wild seas than the politics of the court.”

“Do you really think my palace is more deadly than the realm of capricious Tazu?”

“I know my talents as well as their limits.”

Kuni sighed. “I had to try.”

“I wish you success with every fiber of my being.”

“I have to be in control long enough to see the seeds I plant germinate and blossom—in some ways, the older I grow, the more I become sympathetic to Mapidéré, who also begged the gods for more time. So I keep myself in good health with Jia’s herbs that regulate the humors, and vigorous exercise.” Kuni picked up the buckets for another trip back to the stream. “As long as I can keep things from spilling over, I think I have a chance of preparing Dara to weather the wall of storms.”

And so the emperor and his adviser continued to labor in the farm in the middle of the Imperial palace, nourishing an old friendship and new sprouts.

“Rin!” the empress called out from the work shed.

“Ah!” A surprised Rin jumped up from the patch of Rufizo’s fingers—an herb whose leaves could be smoked to relieve pain as well as to induce a sense of euphoria. “How did you know—er, yes, I’m here!” Quickly, he stuffed the leaves he had collected into his sleeves, brushed the dirt and grass off his robe, adjusted his hat, and walked into the shed confidently, prepared to deny everything.

The shed was suffused with the smell of a thousand herbs that made Rin dizzy. He rarely came here, as the place seemed to him full of things that could harm him: Plant specimens—possibly toxic—and strange animal parts dangled from crisscrossing lines, drying in the sun; cabinets along the walls were filled with tiny drawers labeled in Jia’s neat hand; sea horses, jellyfish, centipedes, spiders, tiny snakes, and other exotic creatures floated in jars of distilled liquor; notebooks overflowing with Jia’s recipes and experiments lined the bookshelves.

Jia herself was working at the counter. She was pounding on some mixture in a mortar, the muscles in her forearms bulging with the effort. The sound of the pestle scraping against the bowl and crushing the ingredients made Rin fear the worst.

To his relief, the empress made no mention of the missing herbs. She stopped what she was doing and greeted Rin with a casual bow as though they were meeting in one of the taverns in Zudi.

“We’ve all been so busy that we haven’t had a chance to chat like in the old days. Here, I’ve created a few new pills that I think you’ll like.” She opened one of the tiny drawers in the cabinet and retrieved a few paper packets and handed them to Rin. “The first one is good for cold nights—it keeps the chill out of your bones and can give you a quick energy boost. I know the emperor works you hard and sometimes you have to stay up late. The second one is a sleep aid, but it also gives you peaceful, vivid dreams; I know you like happy herbs.” Rin blushed at this, but Jia went on, “And as for that last teal packet… well, let’s just say that the next time you are with a woman, try it. I’m sure she and you would both appreciate it.” She grinned at him and went back to her mortar and pestle.

Rin’s face was now bright red. He managed to mumble a few words of thanks and put the packets away. He had never married and started his own family, instead devoting all his efforts to serving the Imperial family. He knew that he wasn’t the most talented of Kuni’s advisers, and he had obtained his position in large measure because he had grown up with Kuni—well, also because he was able to bend the rules and do things that Kuni needed done without having to know about them. He had always been a bit insecure about his own place in Kuni’s life, and Jia’s solicitousness warmed his heart.

“Are things going well with the farseers?” Jia asked casually.

“It’s all right,” said Rin. “Things are peaceful. There are always some dissatisfied old nobles and veterans who had served the Hegemon complaining about their bad luck, but nothing that you or Kuni need to worry about.”

“If that is so, I suppose your requisitions from the Imperial Treasury haven’t been very extensive? And you haven’t had to hire many people?”

“That’s right,” said Rin, pride in his voice. “I’ve actually asked for a reduction in my budget.” He wanted to make sure Jia knew that while he might still be tapped into the world of organized crime and making a small profit—mostly by keeping his spies away from certain gangs who offered information as well as bribes—he wasn’t skimming from Kuni.

Jia chuckled. “Rin, you are honest to a fault sometimes. Don’t you know the basic rules of bureaucratic maneuvering?”

Rin was confused. “I’m… not sure I understand.”

“Zato Ruthi complains to the emperor constantly about the amount of work involved in administering the Imperial examinations fairly, and so year after year, he gets a bigger budget and hires more of his friends and students. Cogo Yelu comes up with one new scheme for the emperor after another, and he thereby enlarges his staff and occupies more offices. Those in the College of Advocates are always discovering new ways they can be helpful to the emperor and write more detailed critiques, and so they are allowed to review more types of petitions and pay for more research. Even the generals and enfeoffed nobles know to describe the pirates and bandits in their territories in meticulous—perhaps even exaggerated—detail so as to justify the bloated sizes of their armies and fleets. If you don’t find things for yourself to do, how do you expect to keep a seat at the table? What need is there for a Farsight Secretary if there are no plots and rebellions against the emperor?”

Rin was even more moved. Jia was like a big sister who was watching out for his interests, knowing that he didn’t have the native talent to keep up with clever people like Gin and Cogo. “So… should I be telling Kuni that… that there are more malcontents plotting rebellion, like those scholars and Hegemon cults, and ask for a bigger budget?”

Jia didn’t turn around but continued to pound away at the mortar, punctuating her speech with the rhythmic noise. “Well, exaggerating will only get you so far. The rule of bureaucratic life is that all the departments are competing for a limited pool of funds, and everyone is trying to enlarge his empire. To really secure your position, you have to show Kuni results.”

“But… how? Dara is at peace. There are always complainers, but few are serious about starting a rebellion.”

Jia stopped and looked at Rin, amused. “If there are no rebels, can’t you… create some?”

“What?” Rin wasn’t sure he was hearing right.

“There are many who dislike this time of peace,” Jia said, and there was no longer a smile on her face. “But they don’t act because they lack funds, weapons, and men. Suppose, however, that you find a way to get them weapons and money and light the fire of ambition in their hearts, don’t you think that, in time, you’ll be able to reveal to the emperor a massive plot and demonstrate the need for your department?”

“But why would I encourage a plot against Kuni?”

“Not encourage,” said Jia, “not exactly.” She reached up and pulled down a leaf drying on one of the lines stretched across the shed. “Do you know what this is?”

Rin looked at the leaf. It was thin and wrinkly, and resembled nothing so much as an octopus. He shook his head.

“This is a plant called drainwright grass, often found in Géjira. Because Géjira is so industrious, many landowners build workshops to supplement their income, and the dyes and acids and bleach they use make the soil toxic. Later, if they wish to restore the land to farming, the inhabitants plant drainwright, which delights in pulling the salt and pollutants out of the soil and incorporating them into itself as a way to deter herbivore animals. The farmers then cut down the drainwright grass, burn the leaves, and cart the ashes away. A few cycles of this would cleanse the soil and make it suitable for planting again.

“Do you understand what I’m saying, Rin?”

Rin struggled to make sense of Jia’s obscure hints. “You are saying… that if I make money and weapons available to those who I suspect of disloyalty, it is a way to get them to come to the surface, a way to extract the poison hidden in the empire’s soil.”

Jia nodded. “And when you expose such plots, you’ll earn Kuni’s eternal gratitude and gain yourself a bigger budget.”

Rin thought through the plan and grinned. It reminded him of the way low-level bosses in rival gangs sometimes colluded to secure their positions in the eyes of their respective bosses through manufactured conflict. He bowed deeply. “I can’t thank you enough, Jia. A single conversation with you is worth ten years spent in a schoolroom.”

Jia chuckled. “Flattery does not suit you, Rin. If you carry the plan out, Kuni and I will both have much to thank you for. But of course, this will only work if you keep it a secret, otherwise Kuni will not be so impressed with the plots you foment and uncover.”

Rin nodded like a chicken pecking at rice. “Of course. Of course!”

Jia watched as he left, the smile on her face gradually fading like a ghost.

^{CHAPTER NINETEEN} PARTINGS

Though it was good to catch up with old friends and to indulge in the fruits of civilization, there were only so many banquets one could attend and only so many teahouses one could visit before the appetite waned. It was time for Luan to leave the Harmonious City.

Gin came to the city gates to see him off.

“Will you come to Nokida to spend a few days with me?”

Luan shook his head.

“I had hoped you would come so that you could meet…” Gin’s eyes dimmed for a moment before turning resolute again. “You have your journey, and I have mine. I take it you’ll head north to prepare for your search for the Immortals?”

“Yes,” said Luan. “But first, I have some ideas for outfitting the expedition on the cheap that will take a bit of time to work out.”

He wanted to embrace her but stopped himself. Ever since the night of the celebration held for Mün Çakri’s son, Gin had been acting cool toward him. Perhaps it was a way for her to dull the sorrow of parting by not getting too entangled in the first place. And who was to say he wasn’t doing the same thing himself?

Still, it was not easy to leave a lover without saying what was on his mind.

“Be careful, Gin. You’re too proud. Don’t make enemies with those who will always have the favor of the cruben.”

Gin looked at him, her eyes narrowed. “Have you ever known me to shy away from a fight?”

Before Luan could reply, a crisp voice called out from the side. “Teacher!”

Luan turned and saw Zomi Kidosu striding toward him from the city, holding a satchel over her shoulder.

“I thought we already said our good-byes, Mimi-tika.”

“Did not Lurusén say that it was the duty of a student to accompany her teacher for ten miles at the start of every journey?”

To the side, Gin shifted and cleared her throat.

Zomi turned to her as though realizing that the queen was there for the first time. “Your Majesty, I meant to come by and thank you earlier. I was very fortunate that Princess Théra was able to secure your help on my behalf.”

Gin nodded imperiously. “Don’t mention it.”

“I’m curious, Your Majesty. How did she—”

Gin interrupted her. “I said not to mention it. Don’t you understand?”

Zomi’s face flushed, and she nodded.

Luan observed the exchange quietly, suppressing his irritation at Gin. She was clearly annoyed that Zomi had not acknowledged her, a queen, before acknowledging her untitled teacher—Gin’s pride verged on arrogance. He was a bit puzzled that Gin and Zomi would know each other, but he decided not to pry as it was clearly not a topic Gin wanted discussed.

Gin glanced back at Luan, seemed about to speak, stopped, tried again, stopped again. Finally, she said, “A pelagic anemone cannot be cultivated in an aquarium. I wish you well.”

She turned to leave.

“You never looked at yourself in the Fool’s Mirror!” Luan called out.

Gin stopped. Without turning around, she said, “You say I am proud; so why should I not compare myself to the winter plum?”

Then she left.

“You look sad, Teacher,” said Zomi.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Luan. “Just thinking that we all have to be true to our natures.”

The winter plum was a poetic companion to the chrysanthemum. Just as the chrysanthemum was the last flower to bloom before the onset of winter, defiant against death, the winter plum was the first flower to bloom before the coming of spring, refusing to shield its powerful fragrance from frost and snow.

Have you ever known me to shy away from a fight?

“The emperor finally decided on a position for me!” said Zomi.

“Oh, what is it?” asked an excited Luan. At the end of the Palace Examination, there had been so much consternation and outrage at Zomi’s performance that the emperor said that he needed some time to think about a suitable assignment.

“He has appointed me to the College of Advocates!” said Zomi. “I’m starting at second rank, above all the other new appointees.”

“Deservedly so!” Luan was pleased. Zomi’s voice would be exactly what the emperor needed to carry out his plan.

And the two walked ten miles together, stopping every mile or so to drink from the bottle gourds Zomi carried in her satchel. Zomi told him her plans for reshaping Imperial policy and for bringing her mother to Pan, and Luan nodded and laughed, seeing hints of the shape of the future.

“Teacher.” For the first time, doubt and hesitation crept into Zomi’s voice. This was the end of ten miles, the last chance for her to ask her question. “What if I were to tell you that I’ve done something terrible, something that would change the way everyone sees me?”

Luan looked at her. “I once counseled a king to break a peace treaty so that thousands would be slaughtered in order to save hundreds of thousands of future lives. The emperor once betrayed his best friend to give Dara a better future, elevating the grace of kings above personal honor. Let the past be the past, Mimi-tika, and endeavor to make the future that resulted from your choice be a better one.”

Zomi carefully considered this advice, and then she nodded and bowed.

“Teacher, may you continue to find treasure everywhere you go.”

Luan drained his cup, turned it so that Zomi could see it was empty, and then bowed back and left without another word.

Let old heroes fade into story and song; the world will be remade by new heroes.

“Brother, I’m glad we have a chance to chat before you leave,” said Jia, raising a cup of plum wine. She sat in relaxed géüpa, her legs folded easily under her. “It is so rare for the Imperial family to be together.”

Across from her, a nervous Kado Garu raised his cup in response. He remained in stiff mipa rari. “Sister, I’m honored by your invitation.”

Kado and Jia had never been close. He was certain that the empress had summoned him for some purpose.

“You’ve done an excellent job with Dasu,” said Jia. “You know how special the island is to Kuni—it is his second home, in some ways. He gave the island to you because he couldn’t trust anyone else to run it.”

Kado turned Jia’s words over in his mind. What does she mean? She knows very well that I’m doing nothing in Dasu. I haven’t even visited the place more than half a dozen times since I was made the “king,” letting Kuni’s governor-regent do whatever he wants in my name.

“I’ve been blessed by an able assistant picked by Kuni,” said Kado. He hoped that the answer was what Jia wanted to hear.

“You don’t need to be so modest,” said Jia. “To have a scholar recommended by you take the first place in the Palace Examination! No one expected that of poor little Dasu.”

Ah, so that’s it, thought Kado. He had seen how Jia seethed as Zomi Kidosu embarrassed Prince Timu during the Palace Examination. Rumor had it that the empress was extremely protective of her son since Kuni seemed to favor Phyro over Timu. A cold sweat broke out on Kado’s back. If Jia thinks that somehow this Zomi Kidosu is my way of further strengthening Risana’s push for Phyro to be designated the crown prince…

“I have a confession to make, Sister,” he said. “I didn’t recommend Zomi Kidosu.”

“Oh?” Jia lifted her eyebrows.

“I was not being modest when I said Ra Olu, my regent, really runs everything on my behalf. For the Grand Examination this year, I signed the blank passes ahead of time, and he filled in the names of the top cashima, sending the list to me later for ratification. I really had nothing to do with the candidates.”

“Still, you could have revoked her pass. You’re the one who sent her on her path to fame and glory.”

“That’s just it, Sister.” Kado put down the cup and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Zomi Kidosu’s name wasn’t among those sent to me for ratification.”

Jia froze. “What?”

“When I saw her at the Palace Examination, I was surprised.” Kado smiled. “But I didn’t say anything because… uh…”

“Because you figured if she did well, you could take credit for recommending her. Why mess with success?” Jia said, smirking.

“Ahem.” Kado cleared his throat awkwardly. “I can’t hide anything from you. Yes, I’m sorry, but such a thought did cross my mind. I should have been more circumspect, of course.”

“So if you didn’t recommend her, how did she come to be in possession of a pass to the Examination Hall? Was it a forgery?”

“I did do some discreet investigating afterward. She got in with a proper examination pass, but it wasn’t one signed by me.”

“Who did sign it?”

“Queen Gin of Géjira.”

Jia looked thoughtful. Then she smiled and raised the cup again. “Thank you, brother. Thank you.”

A breeze passed through the courtyard outside, caressing the nodding blossoms of the dandelion.