“Oh?” Jia lifted her eyebrows.
“I was not being modest when I said Ra Olu, my regent, really runs everything on my behalf. For the Grand Examination this year, I signed the blank passes ahead of time, and he filled in the names of the top cashima, sending the list to me later for ratification. I really had nothing to do with the candidates.”
“Still, you could have revoked her pass. You’re the one who sent her on her path to fame and glory.”
“That’s just it, Sister.” Kado put down the cup and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Zomi Kidosu’s name wasn’t among those sent to me for ratification.”
Jia froze. “What?”
“When I saw her at the Palace Examination, I was surprised.” Kado smiled. “But I didn’t say anything because… uh…”
“Because you figured if she did well, you could take credit for recommending her. Why mess with success?” Jia said, smirking.
“Ahem.” Kado cleared his throat awkwardly. “I can’t hide anything from you. Yes, I’m sorry, but such a thought did cross my mind. I should have been more circumspect, of course.”
“So if you didn’t recommend her, how did she come to be in possession of a pass to the Examination Hall? Was it a forgery?”
“I did do some discreet investigating afterward. She got in with a proper examination pass, but it wasn’t one signed by me.”
“Who did sign it?”
“Queen Gin of Géjira.”
Jia looked thoughtful. Then she smiled and raised the cup again. “Thank you, brother. Thank you.”
A breeze passed through the courtyard outside, caressing the nodding blossoms of the dandelion.
GUSTS AND GALES
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE MAGIC MIRROR
The veneration of the Hegemon had begun with his death on the shore of the Big Island, across the channel from Farun.
Eight years earlier, Mata Zyndu, the greatest warrior who had ever walked the Islands of Dara, had committed suicide along with his faithful consort, Lady Mira, after being betrayed by his erstwhile friend, Kuni Garu. When news arrived that the Hegemon had refused to cross the channel because he could not bear the shame of facing the people of his homeland, many had vowed to fight Kuni Garu to the bitter end to avenge their lord.
However, instead of sending an invasion force, Kuni had pardoned all of the Hegemon’s followers and planned a lavish burial outside Çaruza to show his great affection and admiration for the man. The gods of Dara had also cooperated by intervening at the last minute to take the body of Mata Zyndu into the realm of myth and legend.
In the rest of Dara, people whispered of the generosity of Kuni Garu, now known as Emperor Ragin. Scholars competed with each other to write biographies and compose odes to the emperor, celebrating his friendship with the Hegemon and the tragic flaws of Mata Zyndu that had made the breach in their friendship inevitable.
But in Tunoa, commanders of the last army units loyal to the Hegemon reminded the common people that those who were victorious by sword and horse never lacked willing accomplices who wielded the carving knife and the brush. After all, the greatest flaw of Mata Zyndu was trusting that wily Kuni Garu, the bandit-of-a-thousand-lies, too much.
Then the emperor announced that the Tunoa Isles would not be enfeoffed to a noble, but would remain directly under Imperial administration. To honor the man the emperor had once called brother, the people of Tunoa would not have to pay taxes for five years. The palace would buy all the dried fish it needed exclusively from Tunoa at guaranteed prices as well as offer positions in the palace for the women of Tunoa to work as Imperial embroiderers. Finally, Zyndu Castle would be renovated and turned into a mausoleum for the Hegemon, and the Imperial Treasury hinted at a large roster of local masons, carpenters, blacksmiths, and general laborers who would be employed.
It was a transparent ploy, as was the wont for vulgar Kuni Garu. Still, people needed to eat and drink, and children needed to be fed and clothed. The Hegemon’s remaining captains and lieutenants found fewer and fewer people who echoed their calls for vengeance, and eventually, they stopped. Quietly, their soldiers deserted the garrison forts, sold off their uniforms to collectors, and faded into the fishing villages.
By the time the emperor’s emissaries arrived at Farun harbor, bearing the headless body of Réfiroa, Mata Zyndu’s famous black steed, and his weapons, the magnificent bronze-iron sword Na-aroénna and the fearsome toothed war club Goremaw, the people of Tunoa stood onshore silently to welcome the relics of their lord. Without having to fire a single arrow or spill a drop of blood, the emperor’s emissaries accepted the surrender of the Hegemon’s last commanders.
Réfiroa was buried in the family cemetery for the Zyndu clan, and, after months of work to renovate and enlarge the ancient structure, the sword and the cudgel were installed in the highest room in Zyndu Castle, a place of honor they shared with the weapons left behind by past generations of Zyndus. Priests and priestesses of Rapa and Kana, paid a stipend by the emperor himself, maintained an everlasting flame in the ancestral hall, and pilgrims came from everywhere in Dara to hear about the deeds of the great man and to view the weapons that had transformed Dara.
The emperor had carried out his promise, and the people of Tunoa smiled as copper pieces jangled in their pockets. There was no more talk of vengeance or honor.
That was the way of the world, wasn’t it?
But keeping alive the memory of a spirit had its costs: It was hard to keep such a spirit confined.
Mota Kiphi had grown up hearing stories of the brave deeds of his father, one of the Hegemon’s original Eight Hundred warriors.
He had been born after his father had already left Tunoa with the Hegemon for the Big Island seventeen years ago to join the rebellion against the Xana Empire. It was said that Mota’s father had killed twenty Xana soldiers at the siege of Zudi and that he had fought by the Hegemon’s side during the charge at Wolf’s Paw, killing three Xana hundred-chiefs and earning the rank of hundred-chief for himself.
His father had never returned, which only made the stories truer.
What boy didn’t wish to emulate his father?
But the two men in front of him now didn’t look like deposed Tiro kings. In fact, with their ragged clothes and scraggly beards, they looked like desperate robbers who had turned to begging. The Tunoa seaside cave in which they “held court” was small and dank, and the stuffy, hot air was infused with the stench of briny sea and rotting garbage.
“I was the first to discover Kuni Garu’s treachery at Thoco Pass,” said one of them, who called himself Doru Solofi, King of South Géfica. He seemed insulted that Mota did not know who he was.
“Did you really know the Hegemon?” Mota asked, skeptical.
Solofi chuckled. “What a time we live in that a king could be interrogated by a child.”
“Any fraud could claim to have known the Hegemon,” said Mota. “I used to play at being the Hegemon myself when I was little.”
“Here, I’ll show you proof,” said the other man, wiry and dark-skinned, who called himself Noda Mi. From somewhere deep in the cave, he retrieved a long bar of jade carved with intricate patterns. “This is the Seal of Central Géfica, the Tiro state created by the Hegemon for me.”
Mota examined the jade bar carefully. Though he couldn’t read any of the Ano logograms, he could tell it was very valuable and the workmanship was exquisite. He decided there was a chance that these men could have been nobles—or at least they were pirates or robbers who had stolen this artifact from nobles.