The Wall of Storms, page 24
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:
White drops between white beads;
Red sticks between red lips.
Girls crunching lotus seeds;
Smoothly gliding lean ships.”
“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
PAN: THE THIRD MONTH IN THE SIXTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF FOUR PLACID SEAS.
“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.”
