The Veiled Throne, page 42
Volyu nodded, reluctantly accepting Théra’s analysis.
Théra sighed in relief. What she had said was reasonable, but it wasn’t the entire truth. She had picked Taten over Aluro’s Basin because Taten was near the anchorage of the city-ships. A single deadly strike with a small force could wipe out the Lyucu leadership and capture the city-ships, achieving the objectives of the Agon and Dara factions of the alliance at once. On the other hand, an attack on the Lyucu at Aluro’s Basin would leave the city-ships intact, and Théra worried that remnants of the Lyucu or even an ambitious Agon thane could seize the city-ships, leading to further trouble down the line. True, attacking Taten was more risky than Aluro’s Basin, but she believed that the additional hazard was worth it.
In Théra’s mind, it was as if the intricate pieces of a puzzle had finally fallen into place to make a coordinated whole. All the disparate interests and goals of the Agon and the people of Dara had interlocked into one living, breathing, mechanical bone beast.
The excited look on Takval’s face assured her that he agreed with her plan.
But Souliyan broke in. “This doesn’t feel right.”
“Why?” asked Théra.
“To attack the Lyucu at a gathering where they are honoring the gods…” Souliyan’s eyes seemed to be focused somewhere in the indefinite distance. “I’m afraid it will draw divine anger. Besides, our preparations are inadequate.”
Théra, who had an intellectual respect for the gods of Ukyu-Gondé but little instinctual piety, grew concerned. It was one thing when she didn’t realize there was an opportunity to achieve victory with a single blow, but now that the opportunity had been dangled in front of her by Volyu, she couldn’t help but lunge at it. “Surely the gods will be pleased by our boldness and cunning. That is the law of the scrublands—”
“I was not aware that you’ve become a shaman,” said Souliyan, her voice uncharacteristically cold. “You now speak for our gods?”
Théra was taken aback, but luckily, Takval came to her rescue. “Mother, Théra meant no disrespect. She may not speak for our gods, but the shamans have always taught us that the gods don’t like to hold our hands as though we’re yearlings. Afir and Kikisavo also acted boldly when opportunity presented itself, and the gods rewarded them for it.”
“You think you’re the equal of Afir and Kikisavo now?”
“No,” said Takval. “But Afir and Kikisavo weren’t certain of success before they set out into the wilderness either.”
“We have been protected by the gods…” Souliyan said, her voice fading.
Théra now suspected that she knew what was really behind Souliyan’s hesitation. The older woman had a pacifistic streak in her. She had told Théra once that her dream was to find a refuge away from the Lyucu, to live in peace, outside the cycles of vengeance and reprisals. Kiri Valley probably seemed to her just such a haven, and she didn’t want to give it up.
“Mother,” Théra said, trying to keep her voice kind but not yielding, “we cannot hide forever. You know this. I’ve never lied to you about what the goal is.”
Souliyan looked from Théra to Takval and back to Théra again. At length, she sighed. “My heart is heavy with doubt, but I am not the pékyu nor the Princess of Dara.”
“You’re just worried about your son, like any mother,” said Volyu, waving a hand dismissively. “But he and his wife both understand that the clever wolf must not hesitate when the herdsman presents his throat.” He turned back to Takval. “Give me half of your forces, and combined with my warriors, we will finally reclaim the glory of your grandfather.”
Théra understood that Volyu wasn’t offering this out of some sudden bout of courage or pride. He saw the rebellion as certain to succeed, and he wanted to share in the spoils. Indeed, if Takval gave in, she was certain that Volyu would plot some way to challenge Takval afterward in the hopes of becoming pékyu himself.
She was about to warn Takval unobtrusively, but Takval was already shaking his head slowly.
“Why?” demanded Volyu. “Don’t tell me your mother has infected you with fear. You’ll never have an opportunity like this again.”
“You misunderstand me, uncle. We will take this opportunity to attack, but you cannot take command of half the forces. Pékyu Cudyu would no doubt want your presence at this celebration as a representative of the vanquished Agon.”
Théra saw instantly that Takval was right. If Volyu didn’t show up at the banquet, it would arouse Cudyu’s suspicion and put the rebellion at risk.
“Therefore you have to attend the banquet as though nothing out of the ordinary is going on,” said Takval.
“In fact, once you’re at Taten, you can tell us how Cudyu’s defenses are deployed,” said Souliyan.
“It would really be the greatest contribution you can make, uncle,” said Théra. “Far greater than leading half of Takval’s forces.”
Théra and Takval exchanged another quick look, and Théra smiled inside. She was glad that her husband was thinking much along the same lines as herself. No longer was he the impulsive warrior who jumped to sacrifice as the first solution to every problem. He had learned to anticipate, to plot, to not trust the untrustworthy.
“You’re asking me to assume a great deal of risk,” said Volyu, his eyes hard and his voice rasping.
“If you risk nothing, how can we trust you?” asked Théra, her voice equally hard. “If you don’t commit, you’ll have no claim to the spoils. When the Lyucu are overthrown, you’ll have nothing.”
“But I have taken risks! I’ve kept your secret! I’ve sheltered—”
“We will do everything in our power to rescue you before the attack,” said Takval.
“And your contribution will not be forgotten,” said Théra, softening her own voice. Volyu was concerned above all with what he himself would lose and gain, and she needed to offer him honey along with the threatening stick. “Takval and I will honor you and consult you on every decision.”
“Once the Lyucu are overthrown, your uncle will be the pékyu-votan,” said Souliyan. She looked at Takval. After a moment of hesitation, Takval nodded.
Pékyu-votan was the title given to the predecessor of the current pékyu. Since the pékyus of the scrublands rarely left their posts until their deaths, it was rare to have a living pékyu-votan, though certainly not unprecedented. Théra reflected on Souliyan’s suggestion and approved of its cleverness. On the one hand, Volyu’s vanity should be satisfied with such a prize, as it would make him nominally senior to Takval himself. At the same time, Volyu would be deprived of any real power, since he wouldn’t command the loyalty of any of Takval’s warriors.
He would, in fact, be nothing more than a figurehead, a pile of living bones, a relic of a bygone age when the Agon survived by cowering under Lyucu abuse.
Evidently, Volyu understood the reality of what he was being offered. “I have brought you the information that will help you achieve victory!” he pleaded. “I think I deserve more than that.”
“You’ve had plenty of chances in the past, brother,” said Souliyan. “Takval is the one who spent years building up this base with Théra, plotting patiently for an opportunity to present itself. You can’t expect to sweep in at the last minute and take away what is his and his alone.”
“I thought you didn’t even approve of this plan,” sneered Volyu. “But now you’re already trying to make sure your son gets more credit for my plan?”
“I remain doubtful of this plan,” said Souliyan. “But I know the gods will be more pleased with Takval’s piety than with yours.”
Before Volyu could retort, Takval broke in. “Work with me, uncle. Let’s for once act as one family and achieve the dream that breathes inside the chest of every Agon. That, I should think, would be the greatest reward of all.”
Volyu looked at the three of them and sighed. “How I regret now not having gone along with you when you first arrived in Sliyusa Ki….” His gaze was distant, as though imagining a vision of himself as Pékyu of the Agon, with Théra and Takval as his loyal thanes. It was an alternate future that would never be.
Despite herself, Théra felt sympathy for the old man. He was greedy and selfish, and had sacrificed the lives of those braver than himself to keep himself safe as a servant of the Lyucu. Yet, he had also kept many of the Agon alive through some of the worst periods in Tenryo’s rule, and he had been of some help to her and Takval.
“I swear to all the gods of Dara and Gondé,” said Théra, “that I will let all bygones be bygones, and honor you as the pékyu-votan, if you go to Taten and help us win. I know the spirit of Afir moves through you still. You once let a chance for redemption pass you by. Seize this one.”
Takval poured kyoffir into two skull bowls and pushed one in front of Volyu.
“May the only blood that spills from now on be the blood of our common enemy,” he said, and drained the kyoffir in a single long gulp. He showed the empty skull to his uncle.
For a long silent moment, Volyu sat there, looking back at his nephew. Complicated emotions seemed to war on his face: doubt, jealousy, fear, anger, yearning. In the end, a look of determination prevailed. “There always comes a time for the old to yield to the young.” He finished the kyoffir and showed the empty skull to Théra, Takval, and Souliyan in turn.
They sat together, eating, drinking, and plotting the downfall of the Lyucu until the sun had risen again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CALCULATIONS
THE RORO HILLS NORTH OF KRIPHI: THE NINTH MONTH IN THE EIGHTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF AUDACIOUS FREEDOM (KNOWN AS THE EIGHTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF SEASON OF STORMS IN DARA, AND THE EIGHTH YEAR SINCE PRINCESS THÉRA DEPARTED DARA FOR UKYU-GONDÉ).
“You’re absolutely certain?” asked Tanvanaki, pronouncing the Dara words dispassionately.
Nonetheless, the Dara man kneeling before her, his forehead pressed to the ground, shook like a leaf trembling in autumn. For the first time in many months, he had been allowed clothing—not so much for his own benefit, but because Tanvanaki didn’t want to see the crisscrossing scars over his back and chest, evidence of what had been necessary to implant some sense of loyalty in him.
“I’ve ch-checked the cal-calculations many times, votan,” he said.
“Show them to me,” she said.
With an effort, he crawled forward and placed a scroll on the ground at her feet before crawling backward into his place. He was on his hands and knees not only out of fear, but also necessity. His last escape attempt had resulted in Tanvanaki ordering the severing of the sinews in his lower legs, hobbling him permanently.
Tanvanaki picked up the scroll and unrolled it, reading through the columns of figures carefully. She was no great mathematician, but she could follow the derivation just fine, especially since she had worked through these steps herself many times in the years she had been in Ukyu-taasa.
“So the Wall of Storms will open in just over two and a half years?” she asked.
The man lifted his head from the floor to nod, but not high enough to look into her eyes. Then he placed his forehead back on the ground again.
Is he afraid to look at me because he’s terrified I will hurt him again or because he doesn’t want me to see the hatred in his eyes? Tanvanaki wondered. She decided it didn’t matter.
“Good,” she said. “I already knew the answer, but it’s good to have you demonstrate your loyalty.”
The man visibly relaxed.
“But why didn’t you discover this earlier?” she asked.
He began to shake again. Tanvanaki turned her face away, revolted. To think this man had once been a cashima, a scholar who arrogantly wrote essays on the best policies for the Dandelion Throne, as though he was some kind of sage who only lacked recognition for his talents! Though she was the one who had reduced him to this groveling state, barely more than a dog begging for scraps, she hated to see a scholar so debased. The reverence for learning, seeded in her by Oga Kidosu and Luan Zya, was a childhood ideal that refused to detach from her wintry heart.
“This lowly slave is sorry, votan! Luan Zya’s talents far ex-exceed mine.” He was careful to avoid calling Luan “master” or using the -ji suffix with his name, as was commonly done among the core islands. “This… this… this foolish Dara-raaki couldn’t detect the de-deception until you suggested there was possibly a code. This idiot tried—” The smell of urine suddenly filled the tent.
“Shut up!” growled Tanvanaki, disgusted with the abject pleas. She understood, of course, that it was far easier to crack a code once you knew there was a code. For years, Luan Zya’s old calculations had simply been assumed to be a deception. No one thought to try to approach them as a coded message.
She strode to the entrance of the tent and summoned her guards. “Take him away. Bathe him and give him plenty of water and food.”
That brain needs to be saved.
The Battle of Zathin Gulf had confirmed for Tanvanaki that the knowledge and skills of the people of Dara posed the greatest threat to the long-term success of the Lyucu. To truly rule Dara, the Lyucu had to achieve parity with the natives in mechanical proficiency.
However, though the Lyucu had made halfhearted attempts to study and acquire Dara engineering skills since the days of Tenryo’s first encounter with Mapidéré’s fleet, these efforts had never amounted to much. The mechanical tradition of a people was a language, with its own idioms and grammar and syntax and morphology and phonetics. Rooted in a people’s culture and history, it could not be adopted wholesale by another without a dedicated and sustained effort at adaptation, translation, imitation, fusion, and ultimately, inspired innovation. Like the process of learning any language, it required fundamental changes in habits of the mind, in way of life, in the story a people told themselves about who they were—changes that Tenryo and his thanes could not tolerate. The Lyucu artisans could no more become skilled inventors merely by learning how to maintain the city-ships than Lyucu warriors could pick up bows and instantly become skilled archers.
Tanvanaki had neither the time nor the freedom to nurture and develop Lyucu engineering into a true competitor against Dara mechanics, not when Ukyu-taasa’s position was so precarious. She had to settle for the next best thing: borrowing brains instead of growing them. This prison camp among the Roro Hills had been set up by her in secret as a place to corral talented individuals captured from the core islands of Dara, to force them to serve the Lyucu. But the plan had met with little success, since Noda’s pirate partners seemed to bring her mostly useless scholars of philosophy. She had been lucky to at least get this cashima who knew mathematics.
After the guards dragged the terrified Dara scholar away, Tanvanaki paced in the tent, trying to sort out the skein of tangled thoughts in her mind.
The mysterious messages on the backs of the turtles that had been captured years ago now finally made sense. She had not dared to trust the information her nameless spy brought her until now, after she had received independent confirmation. Her brother must have deciphered Luan Zya’s code long before her, and sent the turtles to let her know to expect a reinforcement fleet.
She had been planning for the long term, to somehow find a way to coexist with the natives even after the expiration of the peace treaty, but it was obvious now that she had to rethink those plans. How would Cutanrovo and her hard-liners react once they knew that more Lyucu city-ships were coming? How could she possibly convince them to let Timu’s policy of accommodation with the natives continue? She’d better make sure that news of the expected opening of the Wall of Storms remained a secret.
The extent of Luan Zya’s betrayal didn’t surprise her. She had always had a talent for seeing through the perspective of another. For some people of Dara, no matter how kindly or harshly they were treated, their nature compelled them to put the interests of their own people before the interests of the Lyucu. That was true of Oga Kidosu, her first teacher, and also of Luan Zya, her second. But she could hardly blame them. Indeed, she admired their fortitude and resourcefulness. Were she in their position, she only hoped that she would show the same strength of character.
Stop it. I cannot let this admiration develop into a weakness. They are the enemy. They are not Lyucu.
Tanvanaki rubbed her forehead, exhausted. Her father, in so many ways, had had the easier task. To conquer the bodies of the people of Dara required guile and courage, but to conquer their hearts… that was a problem that she had been banging her head against for years without solution.
The nameless spy, whose report had brought her down to this secluded prison in the hills north of Kriphi, entered the tent quietly.
“I’ve confirmed your report,” she said, relaxing into the speech of Lyucu. There was no need to praise him. “It’s good that you stayed after Noda Mi left the Dara ship.”
“Shall I eliminate him?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. I already know Noda can’t be trusted. But a man like that remains useful. Let Jia and the rest of the Dara-raaki think they have successfully planted a spy.”
He nodded and said nothing more.
Tanvanaki didn’t bother explaining to him her reasons. He was a tool, utterly devoted to her, and tools didn’t need to be given explanations. “Contact the pirates and inform them that I want them to focus on the area around Ginpen.”
“The same ones contacted by Noda?”
“No,” said Tanvanaki, after a moment of hesitation. “Let the ones Noda dealt with continue as before.”
