The Veiled Throne, page 80
The audience and judges gazed at Mozo Mu with awe. No one thought of her as a mere child any longer.
* * *
“How can mushrooms represent the wood family? That doesn’t even make sense,” fumed Kinri.
“The ancient Ano believed that mushrooms, being grown from dead wood, take on their essence,” said Dandelion.
“What about the crab roe then? Where’s the metal in that?”
“Crab roe is golden, and gold is a metal,” said Dandelion. “Also, the ‘golden roe’ logogram is written with a metal semantic root—”
“That’s stretching the theme beyond the breaking point. If you’re going to try to replicate the instrument families with food, then you have to—”
“It’s a metaphor! Why do you have to be so literal-minded about everything?”
“Whose side are you on anyway?”
“As if you know anything about fine cuisine!”
The two glared at each other, their eyes as round as teacups, until, finally, both burst out laughing.
“I admit the dish does look and sound very impressive,” said Kinri at length.
“And I admit the dish’s interpretation of ‘stones’ is a bit… um…” Dandelion blushed. Then she turned serious. “The real problem with the appetizer, though, is that it’s so impersonal. Suzaré’s love of Jito of White Sleeves is about one woman’s yearning for another, not this grand, bombastic piece of political propaganda for Mapidéré.”
Kinri shook his head. “I think the real problem is the taste. I don’t know what they’re doing to flavor the clay, but I can’t imagine it will taste better than freshly made pepper-and-cacanut sauce on golden pot stickers.”
“The judges look plenty impressed to me.”
“Music of the Limbs seems to awe and shock the diner with the rarity of the ingredients and the skill of the chef. But actual taste has to be the key in a cooking competition. What was that thing you and Widi were saying… oh, right, to ‘weigh the fish’ here, you have to taste the fish.”
* * *
On the main stage, pairs of eating sticks hovered over the dishes hesitantly. The judges looked awkwardly at one another, none willing to be the first to destroy the amazing objects of art in front of them.
In the end, little Pimié was the first to dig in. He broke the puffy whirl of spun sugar on his plate, and, without even bothering to place the broken strands on top of a piece of glutinous rice, stuffed the sugar right into his mouth. A moment later, his face broke into a wide grin.
“Who says children can’t cook?” he yelled at Mozo Mu, and gave her a thumbs-up. Mozo smiled back at him.
Chuckling, the other judges began to eat as well. Soon, sounds of praise erupted from every part of the long table.
“The homunculus is seasoned to perfection! It’s a dish fit to offer to Lord Lutho himself.”
“I’ve never had such tasty bamboo shoots! The pickle sauce brings out the flavor of the mountains as ably as Lurusén once served the kings of Cocru!”
“Oh, by the Twins! This clay is to die for—”
“No, no, you haven’t tried the fried boar rinds yet. The texture is simply exquisite, like caressing the ancient books of the Ano sages with your tongue—”
“The dyran’s-tail pods are unbelievable. Just biting into one gives me visions of the moonlit seas by which Lady Suzaré walked with Jito of White Sleeves—”
“Have you tried to play music on the sugar strings? Listen, just lean your ear in, real close, and tap on the strands with an eating stick. Be careful that you don’t tap too hard. Can you hear that?”
“Oh, do I hear it! But have you tapped the strands against your teeth yet? There’s another level of heavenly music that comes right through your bones—”
“Try this! Try this! Tap the strands against different teeth. Do you hear the distinctive pitches? Incredible! This dish captures the sensual beauty of Suzaré’s poem with such ingenuity! And look at the way the rice has been carved: Doesn’t it remind you of the limbs of a great beauty?”
Lolo and Séca stood by, slack-jawed. There was really no need to provide any banter when the judges themselves had taken over the entertainment duties.
* * *
“Are the judges in their own competition to see who can offer the most ridiculous, over-the-top praise?” whispered Kinri in disgust.
Dandelion swallowed her retort. Somehow “I told you so” didn’t feel so satisfying when she noticed how dejected Widow Wasu and Mati both looked. As the crowd salivated at the beautiful dish on the screen and the judges vied with one another to exclaim their enjoyment, Mati was literally wilting in her kitchen, trying to find some way to make herself invisible.
“I just don’t believe it. Tapping sugar strands against your teeth to make music? Come on, that’s not even believable,” muttered Kinri.
“Your problem is that you think weighing the fish is the same as tasting the fish,” said Dandelion.
“How do you mean?”
“Weighing the fish requires only a fair scale, but there is no fairness when it comes to taste. The senses are governed by mind-pleasure. If you love a man, you think him handsome; if you hear a song from your childhood, you think it pleasant; if a smell or taste reminds you of home, then you feel its tickling caress in your heart.”
“But surely you aren’t suggesting that a mouthful of clay can be delicious—”
“Why not? I once played a trick on my father’s friends. They had come to have a private meal with the Imp—my family, and my father was going to serve them a special jar of rice beer brewed from the dew-fed rice in Faça, next to the Rufizo Falls. I stole the jar—well, mainly because my brother wanted a taste—poured out the beer into another flask, and refilled the jar with the common rice beer I found in the servants’ quarters. You should have heard how my father’s friends complimented that beer! ‘So pure!’ ‘So gut-warming!’ ‘Worth every gold!’ ”
“Maybe your father’s friends didn’t know anything about beers.”
“Quite a few of them were connoisseurs and collectors.”
“So you think they were lying to make your father happy?”
“Not at all. I think they really did taste the difference. Like I said, taste isn’t something like weight. It’s more about how you feel, the memories and associations the sensations draw up. Before you can taste something with the tongue, you season your mind with flavor-expectations.”
“And you think that’s what’s happening with these judges?”
“Exactly. The kind of dishes made by Mozo Mu may not taste any better than Mati’s pot stickers to someone who doesn’t know the allusions behind the name and are given bites blindfolded. But that’s not how we approach fine cuisine. Everything about Music of the Limbs is designed to engage mind-pleasure. Before you’ve even had that first bite, your mind is already awash with the beauty of the plating; the care and effort shown in the ingredients and the preparation; the romance of the story of Lady Suzaré and her lover; layers of refinement, culture, and history.”
“But… those are imagined pleasures. They aren’t real.”
“Of course they’re real. Despite all the wonderful dishes the cooks at my home can make, I’ve never tasted anything as delicious as fresh lotus seeds picked from Lake Tututika because my sister once took me there on a special outing when I was a little girl, and I think about her every time I bite into a lotus seed. Mind-pleasure comes from love, Kinri, love of sister, parent, friend, country, literature, beauty itself. A great lady I met at Lake Tututika on that outing taught me that. Love allows us to taste the fish, not just to weigh it.
“And so, the best way to evoke mind-pleasure is to tell a story about love. That’s what all great art, fine cooking included, is about.”
* * *
By the time Lolo and Séca returned to the front of the stage to announce the results of the appetizer portion of the competition, there was little doubt as to the outcome.
“The final tally is… eleven votes for the Treasure Chest, and one vote for the Splendid Urn!”
Widow Wasu sat tight-lipped and stony-faced. And if Tiphan Huto’s grin were any wider, the top of his head would have fallen off.
Mati looked gratefully at young Pimié, who had cast the lone vote for the Urn, and he nodded back at her, an encouraging smile on his face.
The crowd clapped, approving the judges’ decision. Mozo Mu marched back to her kitchen stage, proud as a victorious general. Mati, on the other hand, quietly descended from the back of her kitchen stage, averting her face from the audience. Many in the crowd assumed that she was so embarrassed by the result that she needed some time by herself to recover, and they felt sorry for her.
Lodan hugged Mati, and the two whispered together for a moment. Then Lodan patted Mati on the back and let her go.
Mati climbed into the first covered wagon, where Kinri and Dandelion were hiding. The two stayed quiet, uncertain how to comfort her.
To their surprise, Mati didn’t look dejected at all. Instead, she appeared to have had a great weight lifted off her shoulders. “To keep on going the way I had planned would mean total loss. Let’s try it your way.”
“Are you sure?” asked Kinri, unwilling to injure the pride of the sous-chef.
Mati nodded determinedly. “There’s a time to stick to what you know best, and a time to throw away everything and begin anew. I can’t beat them the only way I know, so I’m going to learn some new tricks.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT OBEDIENCE
MEANWHILE, IN KRIPHI.
Tanvanaki stared at the kneeling figure of Noda Mi. “You are certain?”
Noda Mi touched his forehead to the ground. “I am. Dasu will run out of food in about two months, before the harvest. The villages were dependent on the granaries in Daye.”
“You may leave,” Tanvanaki said.
“Thank you, votan.” The native minister held his forehead against the ground for another beat before climbing up. Still keeping his upper body bowed, he backed away from Tanvanaki until he was at the entrance to the Great Tent. He turned and disappeared.
The purification campaign had essentially paralyzed the native bureaucracy of Ukyu-taasa. By this point, the native deputy ministers were little more than heralds who reported on the world crumbling around them without the power to do anything about it.
Tanvanaki turned her attention back to the three Lyucu thanes left in the Great Tent: Cutanrovo Aga, who looked unconcerned, Goztan Ryoto, whose face was unreadable, and Vocu Firna, who looked worried.
“If we institute rationing right away,” said Vocu Firna, “we may be able to last until the harvest.”
“Rationing will tell the natives that we’re running out of food,” said Goztan. “When people believe they’re going to starve to death, nothing will stop them from a rebellion. Not even the threat of more reprisals.”
Tanvanaki turned to Cutanrovo. “Why did you burn down the granaries in Daye?”
A week ago, Cutanrovo’s purification packs had descended on Daye, the biggest city in Dasu, where they proceeded to smash temples and shrines and to tear down the old palace that had once housed Kuni Garu. To maintain the frenzied mood of destruction, Cutanrovo had distributed tolyusa to the Lyucu members of the pack (the natives were forbidden from consuming tolyusa). Nowadays, she did this sort of thing often, justifying the practice by arguing that the purification of native taint was a celebration and the tolyusa allowed everyone to feel more connected to the gods.
But Daye was not a prosperous city, and the small temples and modest palace didn’t take long to be reduced to rubble. Unsatisfied with the extent of the destruction, one of the tolyusa-frenzied naros then suggested that the packs go to the graveyards outside the city and continue their demolition frenzy.
At this, the native members of the purification packs balked. It was one thing to tear down old palaces and temples: The common people’s attachment to the houses of silk-garbed grand lords and greasy-lipped priests and monks was attenuated; besides, many of the natives who joined the purification packs secretly kept tiny figurines of the gods and prayed to them for forgiveness at night. But to desecrate the graves of ordinary people, to disturb the rest of the dead, to defile the bodies of ancestors—that proved to be too much to ask of her native followers.
So, of course, Cutanrovo insisted on having them smash the gravestones, dig up the bodies of their families, and toss the bones into outhouses. When the natives refused, she ordered random executions to compel obedience. This led to a sudden rebellion by the native purification pack members, which Cutanrovo suppressed harshly. In the end, the remaining rebels retreated to the granaries and threatened to destroy the food supply in an effort to negotiate a surrender. Cutanrovo laughed and set the granaries on fire herself, killing all the rebels in the process.
“I did it to make a point,” said Cutanrovo.
“What point, exactly?” demanded Tanvanaki.
“That there is no choice except to submit to the Lyucu, no virtue except obedience,” said Cutanrovo. She spoke forcefully, with little deference to Tanvanaki, as though she were giving a speech before a crowd.
These days, wherever Cutanrovo went, she was welcomed as though she were the living embodiment of Pékyu Tenryo himself. Naros and culeks praised her for making the Lyucu feel powerful again, and natives who wished to demonstrate their loyalty vied with one another to show how much they loved this terrifying living goddess. They built shrines to Cutanrovo, named children after Cutanrovo, accused their enemies of insulting the aura of Cutanrovo.
The thane continued. “Nothing, not their word-scars, not their language, not their ancestors, not their gods—nothing must stand in the way of obedience!”
Goztan flinched. She seemed to have been thrown back to that moment from decades ago, a moment she had tried so hard to forget.
She was kneeling next to a Dara-style raised bed. She kept her eyes lowered so that she didn’t have to look at the face of the vile man who thought he possessed her, the man who sat on the edge of the bed. All she could see were his feet.
The feet were resting on a Dara-style footstool, but it had been wrapped in a spirit portrait.
Oh, how she wanted to smash those feet, to break every bone in every toe, to hear him howl and beg for mercy for defiling the most sacred object of a Lyucu family, a portrait of the last breaths of an ancestor.
But she couldn’t. She had to kneel there and endure the caresses of this man; every touch from him made her skin crawl, but she had to keep the revulsion from her face. Had to. Had to.
The man caressed her head like he would pet a dog. He coughed, and she stiffened, dreading what he was going to say in his intolerably harsh language, a language she had to learn if she wanted to defeat him.
“I think I’ll call you Obedience,” said Captain Dathama. “Do you like the name? Tell me.”
“This isn’t the Lyucu way,” croaked Goztan.
Tanvanaki, Vocu, and Cutanrovo turned to her.
“This isn’t right,” said Goztan in a more steady voice. “If your aim is to make the natives into Lyucu, this will utterly fail.”
“Who says I’m interested in making them Lyucu?” said Cutanrovo, her voice full of contempt. “If they don’t have Lyucu blood, they can never become Lyucu.”
“Then what exactly is your aim?”
“I’ve told you: obedience. Once they’ve submitted completely, they’ll become acururo tocua, living bones who move only by the winds of our will.”
Goztan closed her eyes. The vision painted by Cutanrovo was repulsive. Everything was wrong with this comparison between, on the one hand, the art of children at play and the craft that lay behind the mysteries of the shamans, and on the other hand, slaves with their souls crushed through desecration.
“We’re going to have an island full of living bones soon enough,” said Vocu Firna, “if we don’t find more food.”
“Just ask for more from that coward Jia,” said Cutanrovo.
“I’ve already asked for more food barely two months ago,” said Tanvanaki. “To do so again now will leave no room to disguise our weakness. What if she says no?”
“She won’t say no,” said Cutanrovo confidently. “Does a sheep ever refuse to be sheared or milked? There is no courage in the heart of the Dara-raaki.”
“Even if you’re right, what do you want all the obedient natives to do?” demanded Vocu Firna. “The harvest this year is already ruined because you’ve trampled so many fields with your military and hunting exercises, and many young natives who should have been working were pulled into your purification packs. You’ve already destroyed just about all the temples and shrines on both islands, so there’s nothing left for your followers to even smash—”
“Don’t be so certain of that,” said Cutanrovo. “I’m sure I can find more ways to test them: ancestral graves, their customs and morals, family bonds…. There’s no end to what I can make them destroy, and the more they destroy, the more soulless and obedient they’ll become.”
“But there must be a purpose to this,” said Vocu Firna, his voice anguished. “The gods did not send us here only to break and destroy!”
“Of course there is a purpose,” said Cutanrovo. “Once they’ve been sufficiently purified, they can join the Lyucu army. They will never be Lyucu, but it doesn’t mean they can’t fight for us.”
“You think we’re going to invade the core islands with a bunch of emaciated peasants whose spirits have been broken?” asked Tanvanaki in disbelief. “You are deluded!”
There was more than a touch of madness in Cutanrovo, Tanvanaki had to admit. Once again, she wondered whether killing the thane might be the safest thing to do. The fervor Cutanrovo had inspired among the naros and culeks was burning out of control, and she was beginning to fear for the very survival of the Lyucu in Ukyu-taasa.
