Crack. The sword snapped in half crisply, and the woman was on the ground, stunned by the impact of the burly man against her body. She was still holding on to half of a sword, and not a drop of blood could be seen.
Scarface laughed and tossed the other half of the sword into the open stove, where the wooden blade, painted to look like the real thing, instantly burst into flames.
“Who’s the real swindler here?” Scarface sneered. “It takes one to know one, doesn’t it? And now you’re going to pay.” He strode up to the still stunned woman like a wolf closing in for the kill. Now that the hem of the woman’s robe had ridden up, he saw that her left leg was enclosed in a kind of harness, similar to the sort worn by many veterans who had lost limbs during the wars. “So you’re a useless cripple, too.” He spat at her and lifted his right foot, clad in a massive leather boot, aiming for her head.
“Don’t you dare touch her!” shouted Phyro. “I’ll make you regret it!”
Scarface stopped and turned to regard the three children in the corner.
Timu and Théra stared at Phyro.
“Master Ruthi always said that a Moralist gentleman must stand up for those in need,” Phyro said defensively.
“So you’ve decided that this is the moment you should start listening to Master Ruthi?” groaned Théra. “Do you think we’re in the palace, surrounded by guards who can stop him?”
“Sorry, but she was defending Da’s honor!” Phyro whispered fiercely, not backing down.
“Run, both of you!” shouted Timu. “I’ll hold him back.” He waved his gangly arms about, uncertain how he was going to carry out this plan.
Now that he had gotten a clear look at the three “heroes,” Scarface laughed. “I’ll take care of you brats after I’m done with her.” He turned back and leaned down for the traveling purse attached to the cashima’s sash.
Théra’s eyes darted around the pub: Some of the patrons were huddled near the walls, trying to stay as far away from the fight as possible; others were slowly inching their way to the door, seeking an escape. Nobody wanted to do anything to stop the robbery—and perhaps worse—in progress. She grabbed Phyro by the ears before he could get away, turned him to face her, and touched her forehead to his.
“Ouch!” Phyro hissed. “Do you have to do that?”
“Timu is brave but he’s no good in a fight,” she said.
Phyro nodded. “Unless we’re talking about a competition on who can write the most obscure logograms.”
“Right. So it’s up to you and me.” And she quickly whispered her plan to him.
Phyro grinned. “You’re the best big sister.”
Timu, still dancing about uncertainly, pushed at them both ineffectually. “Go, go!”
Over by the stove, Scarface was examining the contents of the purse he had ripped from the woman, who lay at his feet, unmoving. Maybe she was still recovering from the body blow.
Phyro dashed away and disappeared into the crowd of patrons.
Instead of running, Théra jumped onto the table.
“Hey, Auntie Phiphi, Auntie Kira, Auntie Jizan!” she shouted, and pointed at three of the women among those inching toward the door. They stopped to look at her, startled at having their names called by this strange girl.
“Do you know her?” whispered Phiphi.
Jizan and Kira shook their heads. “She was sitting at the table next to ours,” Kira whispered back. “I thought she might have been listening in on our talk.”
“Haven’t you always said that I can’t let men push me around if I want a harmonious household after I get married?” Théra continued. “Since the menfolk are all running away with their tails between their legs, aren’t you going to help me teach this oaf a lesson?”
Scarface looked from Théra to the three women, uncertain what was going on. But Théra wasn’t going to give him time to figure things out. “Oh, Cousin Ro! Practically our whole clan is here. Why are we so afraid of this dolt?”
“I’m certainly not,” a voice answered from the crowd. It sounded youthful, almost girlish. Then a bowl flew out of the shadows near the door and smashed into Scarface, drenching him in fragrant, hot tea. “Heck, all of us spitting on him would be enough to drown him! Auntie Phiphi, Auntie Kira, Auntie Jizan, come on!”
The crowd that had been trying to escape the pub stopped moving. The three women whose names had been called gaped at Scarface, who now looked like a chicken caught in a thunderstorm. They looked at each other and grinned.
A moment later, three mugs of beer flew through the air and smashed against Scarface. He roared in rage.
“And here’s one from me!” Théra grabbed the flask of rice wine from their table and tossed it at Scarface’s head. It just missed and broke against the stove, and the spilled wine hissed in the fire.
Crowds were delicate things. Sometimes all it took was a single example for a loose flock of sheep to turn into a wolfish mob.
Since the women had such success with their first strikes, the men looked at each other and suddenly discovered their courage. Even the storyteller Tino, so obsequious a moment earlier, threw his half-drunk mug of beer at the robber. Bowls, cups, flasks, mugs flew from every direction at Scarface, who wrapped his arms about his head and stumbled about to survive the onslaught, howling in pain. The couple running the pub jumped up and down, begging people not to destroy their property, but it was too late.
“We’ll pay you back,” shouted Timu over the din, but it was unclear if the pub-keeping couple heard him.
More than a few of the missiles had struck Scarface, and he was bruised all over. Blood flowed from cuts on his face, and he was soaked in tea, wine, and beer. Realizing that he could no longer intimidate the incensed crowd, Scarface spat hatefully at Théra. But he had to get away before the crowd got even bolder and tried to tackle him.
He tossed the purse into the burning stove as a final gesture of pique, and then pushed and shoved his way through the crowd. People, still individually awed by his size and strength, leapt out of his way. He slammed through the pub’s front door like a wolf chased away from the flock by a pack of baying hounds, leaving in his wake only a few snowflakes swirling in the eddies near the entrance. Soon, the snowflakes also disappeared, as though he had never been there at all.
Men and women milled about the pub, slapping one another on the back and congratulating all on their bravery while the proprietor and proprietress rushed around with dustpan and broom and bucket and rag to sweep up the broken pottery and china. Phyro pushed through the crowd until he was standing next to Théra.
“Smacked him right in the neck with that first bowl,” boasted Phyro.
“Well done, ‘Cousin Ro,’ ” Théra said, smiling.
Tino the storyteller and the proprietors of the pub came up to thank the three children for their heroic intervention—and in the case of the tavern owners, also to make sure they really would pay for the damage. Leaving Timu to handle the flowery language of mutual appreciation and proper humility and promissory notes, Théra and Phyro went to see if the young cashima was all right.
She had been stunned by the burly man’s blow but wasn’t seriously injured. They helped her sit up and fed her sips of warm rice wine.
“What’s your name?”
“Zomi Kidosu,” she said in a faint, embarrassed voice. “Of Dasu.”
“Are you a real cashima?” asked Phyro, pointing at the broken wooden sword lying next to her.
“Hudo-tika!” Théra was mortified by the rude question from her little brother.