The Wall of Storms, page 5
“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?”
