The Wall of Storms, page 3
“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
PAN: THE SECOND MONTH IN THE SIXTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF FOUR PLACID SEAS.
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.”
