“If you were Tiro kings, how did you end up here in this cave, not even able to afford to pay me for the food I brought you?”
“We didn’t ask you here to talk about food and money!” snapped Doru Solofi. “I saw you showing interest at that dancing troupe’s performance honoring the deeds of the Hegemon, and I thought you might be willing to serve the Hegemon again.”
“What do you mean? My family already venerates the Hegemon. Not only do we go to the mausoleum in Farun once a year, but we have a private shrine set up behind the house—”
“That isn’t serving,” an impatient Solofi interrupted him. “Are you willing to fight for him?”
Mota backed up a few steps. “That is talk of treason! I won’t join some plot against the emperor, who’s been respectful of the Hegemon’s memory.”
“What if the Hegemon himself told you that it’s your duty to avenge him?” asked Noda Mi, a cold glint in his eyes.
“Wh-what do you mean?” Despite the heat, Mota felt a chill going down his spine.
Noda walked to the back of the cave, where a crack in the ceiling let in a single beam of bright sunlight that fell against a natural ledge. He knelt at the bottom of the ledge as though at a shrine, retrieved a silk bundle, and reverently unwrapped it.
“Come,” he said, beckoning to Mota. “Gaze into this.”
Gingerly, Mota walked closer and picked up the mirror. It was made of bronze and very heavy. The back of the mirror was carved in relief, and by the illumination of the beam of sunlight, he could see that it was the figure of the back of the Hegemon, standing tall with Na-aroénna in his right hand and Goremaw in his left, both pointing at the ground. He flipped the mirror around and looked into the smooth, brightly polished surface. A reflection of himself stared back. Nothing out of the ordinary.
“I’ve seen mirrors like this all over the place,” said Mota. “This is better made than the one my mother has—”
“Be quiet!” said Noda Mi. “Now, watch.”
He placed the mirror under the beam of sunlight and tilted it until the reflection, a much larger circle of light, fell against the opposite wall of the cave.
Mota stared at the image, his eyes wide open and his jaw hanging. Then he fell to his knees, and he touched his forehead to the ground. “I am yours to command, Hegemon!”
Noda Mi and Doru Solofi looked at each other and smiled.
On the wall of the cave was the clear projection of an image of the Hegemon, this time from the front, a grim, determined look on his face. Both weapons were raised in the air as he prepared for another immortal charge. A line of zyndari letters curved around him like a halo:
Kuni Garu must die.
As word of the magic mirror spread, more bold young men and a few bold young women came to the mysterious cave to gaze upon this apparition. They examined the mirror carefully and could find no flaw in its perfectly smooth surface. Yet when placed under a beam of sunlight, the ghostly image of the Hegemon in battle invariably appeared.
The only explanation, however improbable, had to be true: The Hegemon was speaking to them from beyond the grave.
Noda Mi gathered them into groups to practice what he called “spiritual dancing” at night, where the young worshippers had to follow certain choreographed steps that were a blend of traditional sword dancing and parade-ground marching. After they worked up a sweat, Noda handed out bowls of hot soup that smelled strongly of medicinal herbs, and as they drank, the ghost of the Hegemon watched over them from a projection against the mountainside, cast there by a bright full moon or the light of a flickering torch.
And as the medicine took effect, the image of the Hegemon would start to move before their eyes, leaping, dodging, charging, rushing. The worshippers would start to chant, falling into a hypnotic trance:
“Excellent take tonight,” said a satisfied Noda. He loved the sound of coins jangling in his purse, the collected donation from the evening’s congregation.
“Don’t we already have plenty of money?” asked Doru. “I’m sick of dressing like beggars all the time. When can we change into clean clothes and go visit the indigo house again?”
“Patience, my brother,” said Noda. “We don’t want to draw the attention of the Imperial governor or Kuni Garu’s spies. We’ve been lucky, but let’s not push our luck too far. The funds we’re gathering must be turned into weapons.”
They had indeed been extraordinarily lucky. After several failed rebellions and months of running and hiding from Duke Coda’s spies, they’d decided to make their way to Tunoa, where they hoped the strength of the cult of the Hegemon would provide them with fearless warriors.
The farseers pursued them into the isles, where they suddenly seemed to lose interest in the two deposed Tiro kings. Not only did they fail to capture Noda and Doru, but, perhaps overconfident with their past successes, Duke Coda’s agents began to make mistakes.
In teahouses where Noda and Doru thought they were trapped, the hunters spoke of their plans in voices loud enough to be overheard by their prey and departed without making an arrest. Careless and lazy, they left behind in hostel rooms maps and orders signed by Duke Coda himself, from which Noda and Doru gathered important information about the movement of Duke Coda’s funds.
At first, the two kings could not believe the intelligence revealed by these documents. According to what they read, a few of the convoys shipping precious jewels for the duke were practically unguarded, relying for protection on the fact that they were disguised as garbage haulers. Noda and Doru tried their luck by raiding one of these and were rewarded with a large haul of treasure without any loss of life—Duke Coda’s drivers practically ran away the moment they realized they were under attack. The two kings had a good laugh over the cowardice of the emperor’s spies.
The money allowed them to extend their reach, to hire spies who infiltrated noble courts and Imperial magistracies across Dara. It was delicious to use money intended for spying to spy on the spymasters.
Their luck had taken an even better turn as they visited an indigo house, where a pretty girl with dark hair chatted incessantly of her skill and boasted of the gossip she had heard from her important clients. But her face flushed red after just a single cup of plum wine, and she was asleep before the flask was even empty. Noda had then searched her room and found her trunk unlocked, confirming his suspicions that her foolish clients had made her quite wealthy.
Noda grabbed the money purse and left in a hurry, and only later did he and Doru realize that the satchel contained more than jewels. There was an herbal recipe for inducing a hypnotic trance—no doubt one of the girl’s tricks—as well as a discarded draft in beautiful calligraphy critiquing the emperor’s policy of decreasing funding for the armies of the independent fiefs—perhaps a memento left by one of the girl’s customers.
Noda had immediately concocted the plan to approach the nobles for surplus weapons. With the reduction in Imperial funding, the nobles had no choice but to reduce the sizes of their armies, increase taxes, or begin selling weapons on the black market, and he was sure more than a few would choose the last.