As he chanted, the storyteller banged a coconut husk against a large kitchen spoon to simulate the sounds of sword clanging against shield; he leapt about, whipping his long sleeves this way and that to conjure the martial dance of legendary heroes in the flickering firelight of the pub. As his voice rose and fell, urgent one moment, languorous the next, the audience was transported to another time and place.
…After nine days, both the Hegemon and King Mocri were exhausted. After parrying another strike from the Doubt-Ender, Mocri took a step back and stumbled over a rock. He fell, his shield and sword splayed out to the sides. With one more step, the Hegemon would be able to bash in his skull or lop off his head.
“No!” Phyro couldn’t help himself. Timu and Théra, equally absorbed by the tale, didn’t shush him.
The storyteller nodded appreciatively at the children, and went on.
But the Hegemon stayed where he was and waited until Mocri climbed back up, sword and shield at the ready.
“Why did you not end it just now?” asked Mocri, his breathing labored.
“Because a great man deserves to not have his life end by chance,” said the Hegemon, whose breathing was equally labored. “The world may not be fair, but we must strive to make it so.”
“Hegemon,” said Mocri, “I am both glad and sorry to have met you.”
And they rushed at each other again, with lumbering steps and proud hearts….
“Now that is the manner of a real hero,” whispered Phyro, his tone full of admiration and longing. “Hey, Timu and Théra, you’ve actually met the Hegemon, haven’t you?”
“Yes… but that was a long time ago,” Timu whispered back. “I don’t really remember much except that he was really tall, and those strange eyes of his looked terribly fierce. I remember wondering how strong he must have been to be able to wield that huge sword on his back.”
“He sounds like a great man,” said Phyro. “Such honor in every action; such grace to his foes. Too bad he and Da could not—”
“Shhhh!” Théra interrupted. “Hudo-tika, not so loud! Do you want everyone here to know who we are?”
Phyro might be a rascal to his older brother, but he respected the authority of his older sister. He lowered his voice. “Sorry. He just seems such a brave man. And Mocri, too. I’ll have to tell Ada-tika all about this hero from her home island. How come Master Ruthi never taught us anything about Mocri?”
“This is just a story,” Théra said. “Fighting nonstop for nine days and nine nights—how can you believe that really happened? Think: The storyteller wasn’t there, how would he know what the Hegemon and Mocri said?” But seeing the disappointment on her little brother’s face, she softened her tone. “If you want to hear real stories about heroes, I’ll tell you later about the time Auntie Soto stopped the Hegemon from hurting Mother and us. I was only three then, but I remember it as though it happened yesterday.”
Phyro’s eyes brightened and he was about to ask for more, but a rough voice broke in.
“I’ve had just about enough of this ridiculous tale, you insolent fraud!”
The storyteller stopped in midsentence, shocked at this intrusion into his performance. The tavern patrons turned to look at the speaker. Standing next to the stove, the man was tall, barrel-chested, and as muscular as a stevedore. He was easily the largest person in the pub. A jagged scar that started at his left brow and ended at his right cheek gave his face a fearsome aspect, which was only enhanced by the wolf’s-teeth necklace that dangled in front of the thick chest hair that peeked out of the loose lapels of his short robe like a patch of fur. Indeed, the yellow teeth that showed between his sneering lips reminded one of a hungry wolf on the prowl.
“How dare you fabricate such stories about that crook Mata Zyndu? He tried to thwart Emperor Ragin’s righteous march to the throne and caused much needless suffering and desolation. By praising the despicable tyrant Zyndu, you’re denigrating the victory of our wise emperor and casting aspersions upon the character of the Dandelion Throne. These are words of treason.”
“Treason? For telling a few stories?” The storyteller was so furious that he started to laugh. “Will you next claim that all folk opera troupes are rebels for enacting the rise and fall of old Tiro dynasties? Or that the wise Emperor Ragin is jealous of shadow puppet plays about Emperor Mapidéré? What a silly man you are!”
The owners of the Three-Legged Jug, a rotund man of short stature and his equally rotund wife, rushed up between the two to play peacemakers. “Masters! Remember this is a humble venue for entertainment and relaxation! No politics, please! We’re all here after a hard day’s work to share a few drinks and have some fun.”
The husband turned to the man with the scarred face and bowed deeply. “Master, I can tell you are a man of hot passions and strong morals. And if the tale has offended, I apologize first. I know Tino here well. Let me assure you he had no intention of insulting the emperor. Why, before he became a storyteller, he fought for Emperor Ragin during the Chrysanthemum-Dandelion War in Haan, when the emperor was only the King of Dasu.”
The wife smiled ingratiatingly. “How about a flask of plum wine on the house? If you and Tino drink together, I’m sure you’ll forget about this little misunderstanding.”
“What makes you think I want to have a drink with him?” asked Tino the storyteller, whipping his sleeves contemptuously at Scarface.
The other patrons in the pub shouted in support of the storyteller.
“Sit down, you ignorant oaf!”
“Get out of here if you don’t like the story. No one is forcing you to sit and listen!”
“I’ll throw you out myself if you keep this up.”
Scarface smiled, stuck one of his hands into the lapel of his robe, under the dangling wolf’s-teeth necklace, and retrieved a small metal tablet. He waved it around at the patrons and then held it under the nose of the proprietress of the pub. “Do you recognize this?”
She squinted to get a good look. The tablet was about the size of two palms, and two large logograms were carved into it in relief: One was the logogram for sight—a stylized eye with a beam coming out of it—and the other was the logogram for faraway—composed of the number logogram for “a thousand” modified by a winding path around it. Shocked, the woman stuttered, “You—you’re with the—the, um, the—”
Scarface put the tablet away. The cold, mirthless grin on his face grew wider as he scanned the room, daring anyone to hold his gaze. “That’s right. I serve Duke Rin Coda, Imperial Farsight Secretary.”
The shouting among the patrons died down, and even Tino lost his confident look. Although Scarface looked more like a highwayman than a government official, Duke Coda, who was in charge of Emperor Ragin’s spies, was said to run his department in collaboration with the seedier elements of Dara society. It wouldn’t be beyond him to rely on someone like Scarface. Even though no one in the pub had ever heard of a storyteller getting in trouble for an embellished tale about the Hegemon, Duke Coda’s duties did include ferreting out traitors and dissatisfied former nobles plotting against the emperor. No one wanted to risk challenging the emperor’s own trusted eyes.