I never thought you, Lutho of Haan, would be the one to strike first. That bit with the fish and the scroll has your handiwork all over it.
The reply, in the old and leathery voice of Lutho, the turtle-companioned god of calculation and tricks, was as gentle as flippers parting the waves, as soft as a shell scraping across moonlit sand.
I assure you that I had nothing to do with it, my brother. It’s true I have a knack for prophecies, but this one surprised me as much as you.
Then was it the Twins of Cocru, sisters of fire and ice?
Two voices spoke together, discordant and harmonious, indignant and calm, like a river of lava flowing next to a glacier. It was Kana and Rapa, the raven-accompanied goddesses of fire and ice, death and sleep.
The mortals find signs where they will. We had nothing to do with starting this—
But you can be sure we’ll end it. Even if Cocru lives on only in the heart of one man—
Kiji cut them off.
Save your breath. You still have to find that one right man.
CHAPTER SEVEN. MATA’S VALOR
FARUN, IN THE TUNOA ISLANDS:
THE NINTH MONTH IN THE THIRD YEAR OF THE REIGN OF RIGHTEOUS FORCE.
In Farun, on North Tunoa, the northernmost of the Tunoa Islands, Commander Datun Zatoma was troubled by news of the rebellion on the Big Island.
It was hard to get reliable information. Things were so chaotic. The bandits Huno Krima and Zopa Shigin claimed to have found the rightful heir to the Throne of Cocru, and this new “King of Cocru” had promised to make nobles of any Imperial commander who led his troops to join him.
The empire was in disarray. Ever since the suicide of General Gotha Tonyeti and the execution of General Thumi Yuma, the Imperial army had been without a proper commander-in-chief. For two years, the regent and the young emperor seemed to have forgotten about the army entirely, leaving all the regional commanders to their own devices. And now that a bona fide rebellion had broken out, Pan seemed stunned, and even after a month, no general had been put in charge of an Imperial force to put down the rebels. Each local garrison commander was trying to decide what to do.
It’s hard to tell which way the winds are blowing, Commander Zatoma thought. Perhaps it’s better if I seize the initiative. The earlier I move, the greater my contribution. “Duke Zatoma” has a nice ring to it.
But he was more comfortable behind a desk than on a horse. He needed good, capable lieutenants. In this he was lucky, being assigned to Farun. Tunoa had long been one of the most martial domains in all of Dara, as it was one of the last places in the Islands to be settled by the Ano, who had to pacify the warlike original inhabitants. In Farun, even the girls learned how to throw the javelin well, and every boy over five could wield his father’s spear without disgrace.
If he approached the right men, they might be very grateful to get a chance to recover some of the honor of their disgraced families and serve him loyally. He would be the brain, and they would be his arms.
As Phin Zyndu walked through the cavernous halls and long corridors of his ancestral castle, he kept the turmoil in his heart off his face. He had not been back here since that day, a quarter of a century ago, when he had been driven away in the darkest hour of the Zyndu Clan. Coming back now at the behest of Datun Zatoma, a commoner in the garb of the conqueror, was not how he imagined his return.
Behind him, Mata hungrily took in the rich tapestries, the intricate iron latticework on the windows, and the paintings depicting the deeds of his ancestors. The heads of the figures in a few of the brush paintings had been torn out by Xana soldiers as souvenirs during the looting right after the conquest, and that lowlife Datun Zatoma had simply left the desecrated paintings in place, perhaps as reminders of the ignominious fall of the Zyndu Clan. Mata ground his teeth to keep the anger within from boiling over. All this, his rightful inheritance, had been soiled by the pig who had usurped his place and summoned them here.
“Wait here,” Phin Zyndu said to Mata. Uncle and nephew exchanged meaningful glances, and Mata nodded.
“Welcome, Master Zyndu!” Datun Zatoma was enthusiastic and — in his mind, anyway — gracious. He clasped Phin Zyndu around the shoulders, but the man did not return the gesture. Awkwardly, Zatoma backed away after a moment and waved for the man to sit. Zatoma folded and crossed his legs, tucking each foot under the opposite thigh in géüpa, to show that they were speaking as friends, but Phin knelt stiffly on the sitting mat in formal mipa rari.
“You’ve heard the news from the Big Island?” Zatoma asked.
Phin Zyndu said nothing. He waited for the commander to go on.
“I’ve been thinking.” This was a delicate matter, and Zatoma wanted to be careful so that his meaning would be unmistakable to Zyndu — and yet, should the emperor’s troops prevail and crush the rebels, he would be able to explain his words satisfactorily. “Your family served the kings of Cocru faithfully and well for generations. Many great generals were Zyndus, a fact known to even a small child.”
Phin Zyndu gave a barely perceptible nod.
“There is a war coming, and in war, men who know how to fight are rewarded. The Zyndus, it seems to me, may have interesting opportunities before them.”
“We Zyndus fight only for Cocru,” Zyndu said.
Good, Zatoma thought. You are the one who said what needed to be said, not me.
He went on, as if Zyndu had not just made the treasonous comment. “The troops under my command are either aged veterans who can no longer draw a strongbow or fresh conscripts who can’t tell a parry from a thrust. They’ll need to be whipped into shape, and quickly. I would be honored if you and your nephew would help me in this endeavor. In a time of change, we could rise together and taste glory side by side.”
Phin looked at the Xana man, a supposed commander of the Imperial army. His hands were white, fat, and smooth, the color of a pearl on a woman’s ring. These were not hands that knew how to grip a sword or swing an axe. A bureaucrat, he thought. A man who knows only how to push beads on an abacus and to curry favor with his superiors has been put in charge of leading soldiers meant to defend the spoils of the Xana Conquest. No wonder the empire has stumbled so badly before a peasant rebellion.
But as he smiled at Zatoma and nodded, his expression did not betray his disgust and contempt. He had already decided what he and Mata would do. “Let me get my nephew from the hallway. I think he would like to meet you too.”
“Of course, of course! I always like meeting young heroes.”
Phin emerged from the commander’s room and nodded to Mata, who followed him back into the room. Zatoma approached, a big smile on his face and his arms opened wide to embrace the young man. But this welcome was a bit forced. The twenty-five-year-old Mata was over eight feet tall and quite intimidating. Also, his double pupils always made others look away. It was impossible to maintain eye contact with him: One didn’t know which pupil to focus on.
Zatoma would never learn to get comfortable looking into those eyes. The first time he looked into them was also his last.
He looked down in disbelief. A dirk, thin as a needlefish and now red with his life’s blood, was in Mata’s left hand and being pulled out of his chest. All Zatoma could think about at that moment was how incongruous the tiny weapon looked in the hand of the giant man.