“What? If the sword isn’t real, maybe her rank isn’t real either.”
But the young woman didn’t answer. She was staring at the fire in the stove, where the other half of her sword had turned to ashes. “My pass… my pass…”
“What pass?” asked Phyro.
Zomi continued to mutter as though she couldn’t hear Phyro.
Théra surveyed the young woman’s worn shoes and patched robe; her gaze lingered for a moment on the intricate harness around her left leg, whose design she had never seen, even from the Imperial doctors who worked with injuries suffered by her father’s most trusted guards; she noted the calluses on the pads of her right thumb, index and middle fingers, as well as on the back of her ring finger; she observed the bits of wax and ink stains under her fingernails.
She’s a long way from home, and she’s been practicing writing, a lot of writing.
“Of course she’s a real cashima,” Théra said. “She’s here for the Grand Examination. That fool burned her pass for the Examination Hall!”
CHAPTER TWO
FALLEN KINGS
The swirling snow intensified, and pedestrians and riders in the streets grew scarce as they hurried home or sought shelter in roadside inns and eateries. A few sparrows hiding out under the eaves twittered excitedly, as they seemed to hear a voice in the howling wind.
- What mischief do you plot, Tazu? Have you come to bring discord to the Harmonious City?
For a moment, a wild cackling accompanied by the strident noise of a hungry shark gnashing its teeth interrupted the swirling snowstorm, but it faded so quickly that the sparrows sat stunned, uncertain if they had truly heard it.
- Kiji, my brother, still so humorless after all these years. Like you, I’ve come to observe Kuni’s contest of intellects, a trial of sharp words and stalwart logograms. You have my sympathies for the tribulations of your studious young lady, but I assure you I had nothing to do with the man who ruined her day—doesn’t mean that I won’t have anything more to do with him, though, now that he’s gotten my interest. However, you’re acting so outraged that one wonders who’s the girl and who’s the patron god.
- I don’t trust you. You’re always bringing chaos to order, strife to peace.
- I’m hurt! Though I do confess that it always irks me a bit when the mortals reduce the messy truths of history to neat stories. Too smooth and “harmonious.”
- Then you’re doomed to live in ire all your days. History is the long shadow cast by the past upon the future. Shadows, by nature, lack details.
- You sound like a mortal philosopher.
- Peace has not been easy to earn. Do not stir up ghosts to prey upon the living.
- But we don’t want Fithowéo to be bored, do we? What kind of brother are you that you care not for his well-being?
A clanging of metal shot through the storm, like the thundering of shod hooves over the iron bridge spanning the moat of the palace. The sparrows cowered and made no more noise.
- My charge is war, but that does not mean I crave death. That is more Kana’s pleasure.
A flash of red behind the clouds, as though a volcano were glowing through mist.
- Tazu and Fithowéo, do not besmirch my name. I rule over the shades on the other shore of the River-on-Which-Nothing-Floats, but do not think that I desire their numbers to increase without good cause.
A chaotic swirl in the snow, like a cyclone roaming over a white sea.
- Tsk-tsk. What happened to doing the most interesting thing? You are all such killjoys. No matter. There is a dark stain at the foundation of the Dandelion Throne, whose empire is born from Kuni’s betrayal of the Hegemon. Such a sin at the origin cannot be erased and will haunt him, no matter how much good he thinks he’s doing.
The silence of the other gods seemed to acknowledge the truth of Tazu’s words.
- The mortals are dissatisfied and will make trouble no matter what you profess to desire. The scent of blood and rot draws the sharks, and I am only doing what comes naturally to me. When the storm comes, I know all of you will do the same.
The chaotic swirl blended with the howling storm, and snow soon covered the footprints of the last pedestrians.
Doru Solofi trudged through the snow, trying to move as fast as he could. Finally, he decided that he had gotten far enough away from the Three-Legged Jug and turned into a small alley, where he leaned against a wall to rest, his heart beating wildly and his breathing labored.
Damn that cashima, and damn those children! His little scam had worked well the last few times he'd tried it and earned him a nice bit of money—though he had soon lost it all in gambling parlors and indigo houses. If the cashima really reported him to the constables, he might have to hide for a while until things quieted down. In any event, perhaps it was risky to stay in the capital, where security was bound to be tighter than elsewhere, but he was unwilling to leave its bustling streets and thriving markets, where the very air seemed to crackle by proximity to power.
He was like a wolf who had been driven out from his den, and now he yearned for a home that was no longer his.
Thwack. A snowball slammed into the back of his neck, the cold more shocking than the pain. He whipped around and saw a little boy standing a few yards away down in the alley. The boy grinned, revealing a mouth full of yellow teeth that seemed unnaturally sharp, an impression reinforced by the shark’s-teeth necklace he wore around his neck.
Who is he? Doru Solofi wondered. Is he one of the savages from Tan Adü, where the inhabitants file their teeth to points in accordance with their barbaric custom?
Thwack. The boy lobbed another snowball at him, this one striking him right in the face.
Solofi wiped the snow away from his eyes, struggling to see. Melting snow and ice flowed down the collar of his tunic, drenching his chest and back. He could feel bits of gravel grinding against his skin, especially the tender spots where the hot tea had scalded him. With ice added to the alcohol and tea water that had already soaked his clothes, his teeth started to chatter in the howling wind.
He roared and leapt at the young boy, intent on teaching him a lesson. It was intolerable that even a child now believed that he could torment Doru Solofi, who had once been the most powerful man in this city.
The boy nimbly dodged out of his way, like a sleek shark slithering out of the way of a lumbering fishing boat. Cackling wildly, the boy ran away, and Solofi pursued.
On and on the boy and the man raced through the streets of Pan, careless of the astonished looks of the passersby. Solofi’s lungs burned as he panted in the icy air; his legs felt leaden as he stumbled and slipped through the snow. The boy, however, was sure-footed like a goat on the snowbound cliffs of Mount Rapa, and seemed to taunt him by staying just a step ahead, barely out of his grasp. Several times he decided to stop and give up the chase, but each time, as he did so, the boy turned and lobbed another snowball at him. Solofi could not understand how the boy had so much strength and endurance—it seemed unnatural—but rage had driven reason from his mind, and all he could think of was the pleasure he would feel when he crushed the skull of that nasty urchin against some wall.