The Veiled Throne, page 70
Widi Tucru, the paid litigator, was speaking. “… Rati, ingenious and inventive as the all-purpose bamboo; Mota, strong and steady as the stout-limbed pine; Arona, multifaceted like the many-hued safflower; and myself, striving for the integrity and faith of the common orchid—we think it must be the gods who brought us together to wander the isles as heart-oath companions.”
“So do you drift around the isles like vagabonds with no steady abode? No grander ambition?” asked Lodan. She glanced at Mati fondly before continuing. “What about family?”
“Oh, some of us were rejected by our birth families,” said Widi, “and others lost our loved ones to war or pestilence. But in one another, we found the mirrors of our souls, trusty companions with whom to weather the storms of this unpredictable world. There are as many different kinds of families as there are flowers, and a family of choice can be just as comforting as one by birth. We call ourselves the Blossom Gang, and we seek a life of clean conscience and constant learning.”
“Constant learning?” Mati broke in. “Are you all scholars then?”
“I never got beyond the rank of toko dawiji,” said Widi, “but there are more kinds of knowledge in the world than can be found in ancient tomes and lecture halls. Rati seeks the intoxication of the mechanical poetry of gears and levers—”
Rati’s deep guffaws broke in. “Dear Widi, you’re not making an argument before a magistrate. There’s no need to make me sound more impressive than I am: a mere untaught tinkerer.”
“There’s nothing ‘mere’ about your skills,” said Widi. “Mota wishes to become a living embodiment of Fithowéo’s deadly dance of blades and cudgels—”
Mota blushed and shook his head at this.
“Arona studies the thousand faces worn by the human heart—”
“But not in learned histories or philosophical treatises,” said Arona. “I’m only interested in vulgar plays that make the common housewife or gossip laugh and weep. The officials and grand scholars condemn folk theater for being sentimental and silly, but I think they just have a habit of accumulating too much shit in their bellies before going to the outhouse.”
Everyone around the table exploded into laughter. It was some time before Widi could continue. “And I seek to understand the intricacies of practical and ‘dirty’ law—bribes for prison guards, trick clauses in contracts, loopholes in Imperial proclamations, arguments to twist cashima in knots—and how to use them to help the common people. As you can see, we don’t care about the kind of learning that they test for in the Grand Examination, but our curiosity is ambition enough for the four of us.”
Kinri was mesmerized. The members of the Blossom Gang were unlike anyone he had ever met. To wander the world seeking knowledge that wasn’t found in logograms, to support each other and help the needy, to be a tribe unto themselves… that sounded like a life of freedom. He had not known that the people of Dara, bound to a life of digging food out of mud, tied to the land, were even capable of such freedom. They sounded… almost like the vagabond Lyucu.
A commotion outside Lodan and Mati’s quarters broke his reverie. One of the kitchen maids rushed into the room, her face twisted in shock and panic. “The Grand Mistress is summoning everyone to the meeting hall. Tiphan Huto has challenged us to a contest for the title of Best Restaurant in Ginpen!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE KNOW THY ENEMY
GINPEN: THE FOURTH MONTH IN THE NINTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF SEASON OF STORMS AND THE REIGN OF AUDACIOUS FREEDOM (TWENTY-FIVE MONTHS UNTIL THE REOPENING OF THE WALL OF STORMS).
“The Hutos mean to humiliate us by making a big splash,” declared Widow Wasu. “Their new restaurant, the Treasure Chest, hasn’t even opened. But they’re already acting as if they’ve taken the title from us. Well, I won’t go down that easy.”
Now in her seventies, her movements were slower, more deliberate; her spine was hunched over like a shrimp’s; and her fingers trembled as she held up one hand to emphasize her words and leaned on a cane with the other. But her gaze was as sharp as it had been more than thirty years ago, when she had faced down Kuni Garu, the gangster, and her voice just as steady and assured. “There will be three contests.”
Everyone in the meeting hall held their breath as all eyes focused on their Grand Mistress, standing on the dais at the front of the hall, flanked by two maids. The Wasus (the Grand Mistress’s son Teson, two nephews, four nieces, their spouses, and children) stood near the front. Behind them were the assistant manager, the maitre d’, the shift managers, the head chef, the head accountant, the head waitress, the entertainment booker, and other senior clerks. The waitstaff, kitchen staff, and low-level help like Kinri stood near the back. The Blossom Gang, as guests and outsiders, had not been invited to this assembly.
Widow Wasu continued. “The contests will be judged by a panel of the leading citizens of Ginpen, including representatives of the scholars, officials, indigo and scarlet houses, theaters, prominent merchants, and augurs and monks from the Great Temple of Lutho.”
Excited whispers and murmurs filled the room. No one present had ever experienced anything like the proposed competition.
“I’ll need all of you to put on your best effort. Needless to say, if we lose, we’ll become the laughingstock of the city. Who’s going to want to host a banquet or treat an honored guest to the Second Best Restaurant in Ginpen? I might as well shutter the doors of the Splendid Urn and slink back to Zudi.”
The crowd sobered as they realized that their jobs and the very survival of the restaurant were on the line.
Widow Wasu held out her trembling right hand and counted off, one finger at a time. “The rules proposed by the Hutos are simple. The first contest will be a cooking competition. After all, the best restaurant must have the best food. We’ll have a week to prepare.”
The crowd turned to look at the head chef, an old man named Néfi Ézugo. He had served in the Grand Mistress’s employ the longest, having opened the first iteration of the Splendid Urn, a noodle-and-dumplings stand in Temple Square, decades ago. The burden of this contest would obviously fall on his shoulders.
Néfi was breathing heavily, his white beard quivering as he kept his hands, clenched into tight fists, at his sides. His shoulders were hunched over and his neck tense, while his eyes strained wide open, not blinking at all.
“Uh-oh,” whispered Lodan to Mati. “He reminds me of a rabbit stunned by a peal of thunder, unable to even bolt to the nearest hole for safety.”
Kinri looked at the intense faces of everyone around and vowed to do whatever he could to help. He wasn’t worried about losing his own job, but he wanted to make sure his friends were all right. It wasn’t clear how he could help, though; while he helped out in the restaurant and enjoyed the special dishes Mati made for him from time to time, he knew nothing about fine cuisine. The idea of a cooking contest seemed both ridiculous and exciting to him, a far cry from the epic contests of strength and valor that he knew from Lyucu re-remembering and Dara history.
“The loser of the first contest will have the consolation prize of picking the subject of the next contest,” said Widow Wasu. “And if necessary, the loser of that one will get to choose the format and content of the final contest to determine the ultimate winner. Now, are we ready to show the judges the best the Splendid Urn has to offer?”
Scattered murmurs of “Yes, Grand Mistress” and “Absolutely, ma’am” came from around the room.
Widow Wasu shook her head. “I’m old, but my ears still work pretty well. That was pathetic.”
A few embarrassed chuckles.
“I once served my dumplings at the coronation of Emperor Ragin, and Empress Jia herself asked for seconds. Do you think after that I’m going to be afraid that our food won’t impress the notables of Ginpen? Now, let me ask you again: Are you ready to show that the Splendid Urn is the best restaurant in Ginpen, and maybe all Dara?”
This time, the loud shouts of “Yes, we are!” “We’ll get ’em!” rattled the shingles on the roof.
The head chef mouthed the words along with the others, but Kinri could tell that he wasn’t actually shouting.
“You know, it’s been a while since I’ve seen him cook,” whispered Mati to Lodan. “I’ve been in charge of the menu for three seasons. But aged ginger has the sharpest bite, and I’ve learned a lot of good tricks from him. Can’t wait to see what he comes up with.”
Widow Wasu paused to survey the room, and then looked deliberately at Néfi Ézugo. “One more thing. Tiphan Huto has hired Mozo Mu as the head chef of the Treasure Chest.”
Néfi’s eyes rolled up into his skull as his lips flapped; a gurgling noise emerged from his throat. As the staff of the Splendid Urn cried out in alarm, he toppled backward and fell to the ground, unmoving.
* * *
Soon, the four best doctors in the neighborhood were summoned. One felt the comatose head chef’s pulse with two fingers, looking thoughtful with his eyes shut; another listened to his heart and lungs with a bamboo trumpet; the third poked him with needles; and the last applied shocks to his hands and feet with Ogé jars.
This last diagnostic technique managed to awaken the head chef, who sputtered incoherently and hissed at anyone who dared to approach him. Soon, he was running about and bumping into walls, babbling all the while, “Impossible! Doomed!”
“My learned colleague has the touch of Rufizo!” exclaimed the doctor who liked quick pulses.
“What an amazing recovery!” blurted the doctor with the bamboo trumpet.
“Say, where did you get those jars?” asked the doctor with the needles, looking rather forlornly at his own outdated instruments. (Kinri actually had the same question. He knew almost nothing about silkmotic devices and was keen to find out more.)
“This isn’t helpful at all,” complained Lodan. “He’s scaring everyone. We asked you to wake him, not make him raving mad. We need him to strategize! Do something!”
The four medical professionals conferred and agreed to go to an herbalist in the market. They returned with a packet of herbs, which they brewed into a bitter concoction. While Mati held the head chef’s flailing arms, the four doctors directed Lodan to force the liquid down the head chef’s throat with a funnel.
The head chef fell back into a deep sleep.
“Err…” said the doctor with the Ogé jars, “our fee?”
“We’re right back where we started, and you want to be paid?” asked an incredulous Widow Wasu.
“Honored Grand Mistress,” said the doctor with the Ogé jars, “is it not the case that after a customer has consumed one of your meals, he is hungry again six hours later? Is he not, as you put it, right back where he started? Do you think you should not be paid?”
“With that wagging tongue,” muttered Widow Wasu, “you should be a paid litigator instead. At least give us a real diagnosis.”
The doctors conferred again. “Delirium due to terror” was the consensus opinion, possibly the result of “overwork.” The four competitors-cum-colleagues collected their fee from Widow Wasu and assured the Grand Mistress that her head chef would make a full recovery in time, though he would need plenty of rest during the next few weeks and should not be anywhere near the kitchen.
“I could have told them that myself!” said Widow Wasu. “Is it any wonder that people avoid going to the doctor’s? All they do is prod you with their shiny toys and demand to be paid for their pleasure. Ah, may the Twins protect us.”
Mati, as the most senior sous-chef, was now put in charge of the competition in a week. Looking terrified, she immediately canceled dinner service and took the senior staff with her to the Great Temple of Lutho to pray for good fortune. After giving Mati some extra money for incense at the temple, Widow Wasu secluded herself in her room to try to recover from the shock of this stroke of bad luck. The rest of the staff sat around the customerless tables, whispering in hushed voices and looking at one another with worried eyes. The Splendid Urn now had the look of a city under siege.
Since no one was telling him what to do, Kinri, rather puzzled by everyone’s sudden loss of confidence, came into the street in front of the restaurant to escape the oppressive atmosphere inside.
He found the Blossom Gang waiting for him.
“What’s with the hubbub?” asked Rati Yera, the old woman with the magical cart. “Everyone’s running around like chickens with their heads chopped off. We thought we’d wait around to thank Mati and Lodan for hosting us, but they never even stopped as they ran by.”
Kinri quickly explained what had happened.
“Did you say the Hutos have hired Mozo Mu as their head chef?” asked Rati.
Kinri nodded.
“Ah—” “Oh—” “Hmm—” “Aiya!”
Kinri looked at the four in consternation. Maybe they could explain to him what had so frightened Néfi and Mati.
“Who exactly is this Mozo Mu?”
That was indeed the question Kinri wanted to ask, but he couldn’t figure out how his voice had suddenly turned so mellifluous. And… he was sure he hadn’t spoken yet.
All five turned to the source of the question and saw the mysterious young woman Kinri and burly Mota Kiphi had rescued at Temple Square. But in contrast to the opulent outfit she’d worn on the day of her arrival, she was now sporting a decidedly more down-to-earth look: plain flaxen dress with a straw rope for a belt; no jewelry save for a few dandelions tucked into the rabbit-ear buns over her head.
Given how much respect Widow Wasu had shown the young woman, Kinri immediately bowed deeply. “Mistress… um—” Kinri felt strange calling her “Dandelion,” which didn’t seem like a real name at all.
“Didn’t I tell you to just call me Dandelion? No ‘Mistress’!” said the young woman impatiently. “What’s wrong with people in Ginpen? Everyone at the teahouse was bowing and smiling and addressing me as ‘Honored Mistress,’ even though I’m dressed like a kitchen maid! How am I supposed to have any fun and hear all the good gossip?”
Arona, the actress, tried but didn’t quite succeed in suppressing a chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” asked Dandelion, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“You look like a scullery maid about as much as I look like the Empress of Dara right now,” said Arona.
“What?” said an incredulous Dandelion. “I bought this dress from the kitchen maid sent to take care of me. And I saw plenty of country girls put wildflowers in their hair. I even painted these on!” She pointed at the streaks of soot on her cheeks. “My costume is completely authentic.”
Arona burst out in laughter. And the rest of the Blossom Gang joined in.
Only Kinri didn’t laugh. He didn’t want to hurt Dandelion’s feelings. He knew that she didn’t look right as a maid, but he couldn’t quite explain why.
“You’re a terrible actress,” said Arona, when she managed to get herself back under control. “I… oh, by Lutho’s carapace, I haven’t seen such a bad disguise in ages.”
Instead of getting angry, Dandelion held up her hands in a supplicating gesture. “Please, big sister, teach me how to do this better!”
* * *
Back in Pan, Prince Gimoto had grown even more insolent, putting on airs as though it was only a matter of time before Empress Jia declared Phyro unfit to govern and made him the heir to the Dandelion Throne. At one of the palace tea parties, he lectured Fara about her habit of flirting with the young scholars of the College of Advocates and going to the theater with Aya to see ribald plays.
“It’s indecorous for an Imperial princess to behave this way,” he said, his features hardened in sententious disapproval. “You really need to reflect upon the wisdom of the sages and your duties as a role model for all the young noble ladies of the capital. Now, I can recommend several passages from Kon Fiji—”
“Who do you think you are?” said an incensed Fara. “You’re not my father—”
“When the father isn’t with the family, the eldest brother must step into his shoes,” intoned Gimoto, quoting the Moralist adage piously. “If your brother is as neglectful of his private duty to instruct his younger sister as he is of his public duty as the sovereign-in-waiting, then I have no choice but to step up and do his job.”
Oh, Fara would have liked to scratch his eyes out at that moment. But she knew blowing up publicly at him would only allow him to claim victory. Ever since she had vowed to stop meddling in politics, she had devoted herself to the theater, her art, and having fun. She wasn’t going to let him spoil her mood.
So she retreated from that confrontation meekly. But then she asked one of the servants to gather some dead flies from the toilet stalls, which she dropped into Gimoto’s teapot when he wasn’t looking. For the rest of the evening, she smiled at him sweetly, pretending to hang on his every word, as he consumed the oddly fragrant beverage.
She thought she would just stay out of his way in the future. But as the Adüans would say, While the aspen wishes to stand still, the wind does not stop.
Pleased with how compliantly Fara had submitted to him, Gimoto proceeded to write a petition to the empress listing all the ways Fara was “bringing disrepute to the Imperial name” and suggesting that he be appointed her tutor.
Empress Jia ignored the petition, but a scandal nonetheless erupted, with everyone tittering behind Fara’s back. And when Fara wrote to Phyro and Zomi to gripe, instead of lending a sympathetic ear, they wrote back to censure her for “leading Aya astray.”
Everyone was telling her what she must not do; Fara felt very alone in the world.
Only Lady Soto was supportive. “Your father would have understood you. He hated people like Gimoto too,” she said. “Maybe you should try living away from the palace for a while.”
Jia agreed to her request to go away from Pan, but only if she stayed in the care of someone she trusted. Fara begged Aya, who had just gotten her first military command, to take her to Ginpen and promised to be good.
