Fajitas
Hold the Peppers
A Sovereign liar's pants do not catch on fire. They become filled with rocks.
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A Rose In The Wind: A Saga of the Halmae -- Updated June 19, 2014
- Thread starter ellinor
- Start date
A Sovereign liar's pants do not catch on fire. They become filled with rocks.
The_Warlock
Explorer
Really? I would think Kettenek's Justice would freeze them right off like a Polar Bear with an Icelance spell.
ellinor
Explorer
22x02
“Kiyari’s down!” —Kiyari’s naked!”
“Perfidy?” “It means malfeasance.” “—cheating! It means cheating! Kiyari was cheating!”
A cacaphony of voices surrounded Mena as she struggled to sit up.
Kormick pushed his way into the ring. Brother Soburu was hot on his heels, followed immediately by a tournament official and an Adept.
“I’ll show you what I mean,” Kormick announced to the official. Kormick pointed at Kiyari. “Get up.” Kiyari scrambled to his feet—and immediately slipped and fell again, as if a carpet had been pulled out from under him. “There,” Kormick pronounced, “you see, he has done something to the ring. It is a plot to fix the matches. He wins by cheating, and his cronies bet on his matches and make out like bandits.”
Mena jumped in as Kormick helped her to her feet. “Whatever’s making it slippery—it’s in his pants. He controls it by adjusting his loincloth or moving his hips.” She handed the loincloth to the Adept, who examined it thoroughly. There was a fine, sandy substance sewn into the hem along the bottom, with small apertures in the hem where it could be dispensed.
“A gambling scheme,” the official huffed, “at the Trials! This shall not stand. Dame Philomena-san, you shall of course advance to the next round. Kiyari-san shall be disqualified. And detained,” he added, indicating that Kormick should take custody of the prisoner. The ring cleared, and the official and several others busied themselves sweeping the ring free of its slick coating.
Mena retired to the competitors’ tent to prepare for her next match, where she’d face Brother Ono. Brother Ono sat alone in the corner, legs crossed, apparently meditating. He opened his eyes when Mena approached. “Brother Ono-san, I must apologize for that commotion—” Mena began.
“It was a commotion of justice,” Brother Ono cut in, “and no apology is necessary. When justice is served we all benefit.” He paused. “I shall request that the Inquisition begin an Inquest into Kiyari’s heretical actions tomorrow,” he continued, “assuming the Mother Superior agrees.”
A gambling scheme involving fixed matches. He’s right, that may be a Sedellan heresy, Mena thought. But the real question is who’s pulling Kiyari’s strings.
A few minutes later, Mena and Brother Ono entered the ring for their match. Mena slowed her breathing, bowed, and gave it her all. For minutes—it felt like hours—she and Ono were locked in a tight shoulder-hold, circling and staring into each other’s eyes. One would flinch; then the other; they would back away and then clinch and circle again. Finally, Brother Ono surged forward, pushing Mena into a stumble. She ducked, retreated, regained her footing, and plowed, shoulder-first, into his midsection. She could hear the crowd roar as Ono was forced back. But then he planted his feet, leaned in, and stopped, still inside the circle.
And then something strange happened.
It was as if Mena could hear Brother Ono’s voice in her head, reciting the same words over and over: I am the rock, and the rock does not move. I am the rock, and the rock does not move.
Mena could hear Brother Ono’s voice in her head.
But voice or no voice, he was, in fact, not moving. Mena ducked again and dove again, this time going for his leg. She grasped it, and twisted, and he reversed the grab, pushing her down… I am the rock and the rock does not move… shoving her out of the ring . . . Brother Ono had won. But it had been a good match.
Two rounds later, Brother Ono had, as expected, won the tournament. “It was the only way to prevent a greater evil,” Mena commented, as they watched Brother Ono’s solemn bows to dignitaries and trophy-bearers, “but I still can’t believe I pantsed a man.”
“Like us,” Kormick replied, wrapping Mena’s cloak around her shoulders, “it was a little bit of chaos and a little bit of justice.”
###
TAVI
As the sun reached its peak in the sky, Tavi arrived at the arcane wrestling venue. From the competitors’ tent, Tavi could see across the lake, where a small handful of individuals remained on the endurance platforms. Some of those seasoned few might be there until sunset, hanging by two arms and then by one. Rose, Savina, and Arden had gone back to the Inn, where Rose would clean up.
As the names of the first competitors were called, Tavi realized: he was the only heathen in the tent. It made him feel . . . conspicuous. Nervous, even. At first, learning arcane wrestling had been a lark, just another way of sparring. He even remembered having thought, “Here’s this thing I can compete in, sure, I’ll try it, what’s the harm”—but now, looking around the tent, he realized that he needed to do well in the Trials. The party needed the help of the Inquisition to gain access to the Lord High Regent, who might be the “dying king” mentioned in the prophecy. And to secure the help of the Inquisition, they needed to continue working the long way around the circle. If Tavi embarrassed himself today, everything would be that much harder.
A loud voice boomed into the tent: “Signor Octavian di Raprezzi.”
Tavi arrived at the edge of the lake with a spindly woman about his age. Together, they walked across a narrow plank to a five-foot platform atop a tower over the water. Officials removed the plank, leaving Tavi and the woman alone on the tower. The silent crowds lining the shore seemed very far away. From the corner of his eye, Tavi could see Rose, arriving in the back.
Tavi and the young woman bowed to each other and waited. An official said “Begin.”
If I’m going to be conspicuous, I might as well be interesting. Tavi ignited his arms like gauntlets, as his sparring partner had recommended. The crowd let out a soft “ooh.” Tavi focused his mind and, using arcane force, pushed against the young woman. Immediately, she stumbled, but pushed back. Tavi felt his footing slip, but he returned the shove. The young woman flew off the tower and landed in the water.
Tavi’s second and third rounds went nearly as quickly. In the stands, Rose beamed. Whee! On to the next one, Phoebe cheered.
By the time Tavi’s name was called for the fourth round, there were only seven others in the tent with him. He was matched with the oldest of these, a wizened old woman with long hair. For a moment, Tavi felt uncomfortable about fighting an old woman—but then the match began. Immediately, Tavi began to feel as if he were being pulled backward by a thousand hands tugging on his arms and neck. Tavi stumbled. He focused his mind on her left leg, pushing up from her toes, trying to twist her body . . . he could barely breathe through the pressure on his neck. He began to slide backward. But just before Tavi reached the edge of the platform, the woman’s foot gave way and her whole body spun off the tower and into the water. There was a quiet hum from the crowd. It had been a good match.
The sun was low in the sky when Tavi’s name was called for the semifinal. He walked out to the platform with a boy of about twelve. The tops of the boy’s fuzzy hair reached almost to Tavi’s waist. He was cute, with chubby cheeks, like one of the novice students at the Academy just learning to wield an orb. How did a kid like this make it so far in the tournament? Tavi thought. But then a short bow; the word “begin”; and a blast of force landed against Tavi’s chest like a boulder falling from a cliff. Tavi was helpless against it. In seconds, he fell backward and rolled off the tower.
Time to make another impression, Tavi thought. Just before hitting the water, Tavi teleported, blinking back into sight at the edge of the lake. He bowed to the boy, and then to the audience. Another soft “ooh” rippled through the crowd.
Rose met him in the stands, where they watched the last two matches. Remarkably, the boy beat everyone.
“I suppose it’s good to know I was beaten by the winner,” Tavi commented.
“And considering that today is an Ehktian holiday nearly everywhere else in the world,” Rose pointed out with a smile, “you certainly brought some fire to the proceedings.”
NYOKO
Although the pageant would not start until after sundown, Nyoko’s preparations began in the morning, with physical therapy and massage at the Adept house. Throughout the day, Nyoko practiced lightly while solicitous helpers stretched her muscles and Iwai-sensai paced in and out of the room with reminders and advice.
“Remember,” he said, popping his head in the room after lunch, “after the third turn, you must tilt your head before accelerating.”
“I remember,” Nyoko replied. His reminders were small, Nyoko thought, more to comfort himself than anything else. But some of the helpers and adepts who pattered in and out of the dance studio—Nyoko could tell they had doubts about her performance. Wanted her to fail, even. Friends of Unsuku, no doubt, she thought. When Unsuku herself swept into the room, Nyoko was gracious: “I could never have learned this without you.”
Unsuku nodded a polite, tight-lipped thanks, and swept back out.
By the afternoon, when the helpers began applying her makeup and styling her hair, Nyoko was desperately ready to go—to dance. But time ticked slowly.
Suddenly, a young Adept rushed into the dressing room. “Nyoko-san! You must come see! In the courtyard!” Nyoko threw a hooded robe over her half-done makeup and stood to follow him.
“What? What’s happening?”
“It’s the Go tournament. You—you have to see it to believe it.”
“Kiyari’s down!” —Kiyari’s naked!”
“Perfidy?” “It means malfeasance.” “—cheating! It means cheating! Kiyari was cheating!”
A cacaphony of voices surrounded Mena as she struggled to sit up.
Kormick pushed his way into the ring. Brother Soburu was hot on his heels, followed immediately by a tournament official and an Adept.
“I’ll show you what I mean,” Kormick announced to the official. Kormick pointed at Kiyari. “Get up.” Kiyari scrambled to his feet—and immediately slipped and fell again, as if a carpet had been pulled out from under him. “There,” Kormick pronounced, “you see, he has done something to the ring. It is a plot to fix the matches. He wins by cheating, and his cronies bet on his matches and make out like bandits.”
Mena jumped in as Kormick helped her to her feet. “Whatever’s making it slippery—it’s in his pants. He controls it by adjusting his loincloth or moving his hips.” She handed the loincloth to the Adept, who examined it thoroughly. There was a fine, sandy substance sewn into the hem along the bottom, with small apertures in the hem where it could be dispensed.
“A gambling scheme,” the official huffed, “at the Trials! This shall not stand. Dame Philomena-san, you shall of course advance to the next round. Kiyari-san shall be disqualified. And detained,” he added, indicating that Kormick should take custody of the prisoner. The ring cleared, and the official and several others busied themselves sweeping the ring free of its slick coating.
Mena retired to the competitors’ tent to prepare for her next match, where she’d face Brother Ono. Brother Ono sat alone in the corner, legs crossed, apparently meditating. He opened his eyes when Mena approached. “Brother Ono-san, I must apologize for that commotion—” Mena began.
“It was a commotion of justice,” Brother Ono cut in, “and no apology is necessary. When justice is served we all benefit.” He paused. “I shall request that the Inquisition begin an Inquest into Kiyari’s heretical actions tomorrow,” he continued, “assuming the Mother Superior agrees.”
A gambling scheme involving fixed matches. He’s right, that may be a Sedellan heresy, Mena thought. But the real question is who’s pulling Kiyari’s strings.
A few minutes later, Mena and Brother Ono entered the ring for their match. Mena slowed her breathing, bowed, and gave it her all. For minutes—it felt like hours—she and Ono were locked in a tight shoulder-hold, circling and staring into each other’s eyes. One would flinch; then the other; they would back away and then clinch and circle again. Finally, Brother Ono surged forward, pushing Mena into a stumble. She ducked, retreated, regained her footing, and plowed, shoulder-first, into his midsection. She could hear the crowd roar as Ono was forced back. But then he planted his feet, leaned in, and stopped, still inside the circle.
And then something strange happened.
It was as if Mena could hear Brother Ono’s voice in her head, reciting the same words over and over: I am the rock, and the rock does not move. I am the rock, and the rock does not move.
Mena could hear Brother Ono’s voice in her head.
But voice or no voice, he was, in fact, not moving. Mena ducked again and dove again, this time going for his leg. She grasped it, and twisted, and he reversed the grab, pushing her down… I am the rock and the rock does not move… shoving her out of the ring . . . Brother Ono had won. But it had been a good match.
Two rounds later, Brother Ono had, as expected, won the tournament. “It was the only way to prevent a greater evil,” Mena commented, as they watched Brother Ono’s solemn bows to dignitaries and trophy-bearers, “but I still can’t believe I pantsed a man.”
“Like us,” Kormick replied, wrapping Mena’s cloak around her shoulders, “it was a little bit of chaos and a little bit of justice.”
###
TAVI
As the sun reached its peak in the sky, Tavi arrived at the arcane wrestling venue. From the competitors’ tent, Tavi could see across the lake, where a small handful of individuals remained on the endurance platforms. Some of those seasoned few might be there until sunset, hanging by two arms and then by one. Rose, Savina, and Arden had gone back to the Inn, where Rose would clean up.
As the names of the first competitors were called, Tavi realized: he was the only heathen in the tent. It made him feel . . . conspicuous. Nervous, even. At first, learning arcane wrestling had been a lark, just another way of sparring. He even remembered having thought, “Here’s this thing I can compete in, sure, I’ll try it, what’s the harm”—but now, looking around the tent, he realized that he needed to do well in the Trials. The party needed the help of the Inquisition to gain access to the Lord High Regent, who might be the “dying king” mentioned in the prophecy. And to secure the help of the Inquisition, they needed to continue working the long way around the circle. If Tavi embarrassed himself today, everything would be that much harder.
A loud voice boomed into the tent: “Signor Octavian di Raprezzi.”
Tavi arrived at the edge of the lake with a spindly woman about his age. Together, they walked across a narrow plank to a five-foot platform atop a tower over the water. Officials removed the plank, leaving Tavi and the woman alone on the tower. The silent crowds lining the shore seemed very far away. From the corner of his eye, Tavi could see Rose, arriving in the back.
Tavi and the young woman bowed to each other and waited. An official said “Begin.”
If I’m going to be conspicuous, I might as well be interesting. Tavi ignited his arms like gauntlets, as his sparring partner had recommended. The crowd let out a soft “ooh.” Tavi focused his mind and, using arcane force, pushed against the young woman. Immediately, she stumbled, but pushed back. Tavi felt his footing slip, but he returned the shove. The young woman flew off the tower and landed in the water.
Tavi’s second and third rounds went nearly as quickly. In the stands, Rose beamed. Whee! On to the next one, Phoebe cheered.
By the time Tavi’s name was called for the fourth round, there were only seven others in the tent with him. He was matched with the oldest of these, a wizened old woman with long hair. For a moment, Tavi felt uncomfortable about fighting an old woman—but then the match began. Immediately, Tavi began to feel as if he were being pulled backward by a thousand hands tugging on his arms and neck. Tavi stumbled. He focused his mind on her left leg, pushing up from her toes, trying to twist her body . . . he could barely breathe through the pressure on his neck. He began to slide backward. But just before Tavi reached the edge of the platform, the woman’s foot gave way and her whole body spun off the tower and into the water. There was a quiet hum from the crowd. It had been a good match.
The sun was low in the sky when Tavi’s name was called for the semifinal. He walked out to the platform with a boy of about twelve. The tops of the boy’s fuzzy hair reached almost to Tavi’s waist. He was cute, with chubby cheeks, like one of the novice students at the Academy just learning to wield an orb. How did a kid like this make it so far in the tournament? Tavi thought. But then a short bow; the word “begin”; and a blast of force landed against Tavi’s chest like a boulder falling from a cliff. Tavi was helpless against it. In seconds, he fell backward and rolled off the tower.
Time to make another impression, Tavi thought. Just before hitting the water, Tavi teleported, blinking back into sight at the edge of the lake. He bowed to the boy, and then to the audience. Another soft “ooh” rippled through the crowd.
Rose met him in the stands, where they watched the last two matches. Remarkably, the boy beat everyone.
“I suppose it’s good to know I was beaten by the winner,” Tavi commented.
“And considering that today is an Ehktian holiday nearly everywhere else in the world,” Rose pointed out with a smile, “you certainly brought some fire to the proceedings.”
NYOKO
Although the pageant would not start until after sundown, Nyoko’s preparations began in the morning, with physical therapy and massage at the Adept house. Throughout the day, Nyoko practiced lightly while solicitous helpers stretched her muscles and Iwai-sensai paced in and out of the room with reminders and advice.
“Remember,” he said, popping his head in the room after lunch, “after the third turn, you must tilt your head before accelerating.”
“I remember,” Nyoko replied. His reminders were small, Nyoko thought, more to comfort himself than anything else. But some of the helpers and adepts who pattered in and out of the dance studio—Nyoko could tell they had doubts about her performance. Wanted her to fail, even. Friends of Unsuku, no doubt, she thought. When Unsuku herself swept into the room, Nyoko was gracious: “I could never have learned this without you.”
Unsuku nodded a polite, tight-lipped thanks, and swept back out.
By the afternoon, when the helpers began applying her makeup and styling her hair, Nyoko was desperately ready to go—to dance. But time ticked slowly.
Suddenly, a young Adept rushed into the dressing room. “Nyoko-san! You must come see! In the courtyard!” Nyoko threw a hooded robe over her half-done makeup and stood to follow him.
“What? What’s happening?”
“It’s the Go tournament. You—you have to see it to believe it.”
Last edited:
ellinor
Explorer
22x03
TWIGGY
Twiggy awoke before dawn. It felt strange not to awaken Rose—but Rose had released her from that responsibility for the day. Dressing alone, in the dark, Twiggy felt the weight of the day and the solitary nature of her responsibility as heavily as ever.
Go is a game of psychology as well as strategy. One must use all tools at one’s disposal to gain an advantage over one’s opponent, Twiggy told herself, as she donned traditional Hennan garb for the first time in months. It had taken a couple of tries for the Sovereign tailors to get the cut right, but the Hennan style in rich Sovereign silks was quite striking. She then sat down and began braiding her hair in the Elven style. Normally, Twiggy wore her hair loose, with a single braid in the front that, in Elven reckoning, said “Little Branch"—but traditional Elves’ braids told their whole life story in braiding, knotting, and beading. Twiggy had learned from her father, and from books, and by the time the sun rose, an Elf beholding her would know that before him stood Chelesta Little Branch Rossi, who was alive 18 years; worked in service to the House di Raprezzi of Pol Henna and the Inquisition of Cauldron; was a graduate of the di Raprezzi Academy for Arcane Studies; faced and shared in the defeat of Lurx of the Derro; and explored the wonders and terrors of the Ketkath.
Twiggy examined her handiwork. It might get me noticed, she thought, but only my playing can get me a spot across the board from Lady Mochizuki.
For the Go tournament, the courtyards of the Adept house had been transformed into a stadium of sorts. Dozens of boards were set up outdoors among the trees and sculptures. As the competitors gathered, an official explained the tournament point system for wins, losses, and stalemates. Twiggy tried to calm the vibration inside her belly and throat.
Brush off that cushion before sitting down, Acorn urged as the players took their places for the first round.
Thanks for being yourself, Acorn, Twiggy thought in response. I was afraid you were going to act like Mena and tell me I’d trained for this.
I was, Acorn replied, but then the cushion was dusty.
Across the board sat a husky woman with gray-streaked hair. Twiggy focused her mind on the game. Their play was quite even, but Twiggy could see further ahead. As Acorn paced nervously back and forth across Twiggy’s lap, Twiggy lured the woman into playing her stones in a vulnerable position.
Twiggy realized she’d been holding her breath, and released it. That had been hard—and it was only the first round.
The second round was easier: a bookish man, using well-known patterns to try to force a stalemate. Once Twiggy recognized the man’s strategy, it was easy to force him into a corner. In the third round, Twiggy faced a retired merchant. They were neck and neck throughout; each move had a counter. It was close enough that a few people gathered to watch. But in the end, Twiggy made just a few unpredictable moves—and like that, the merchant had lost. Even the merchant was surprised, and cried out: “You have me! She has me! Amazing!”
That got people’s attention.
Twiggy’s fourth round had an audience. Her opponent appeared to be a nobleman, from his dress; he wore a prominent symbol of Kettenek around his neck, although it did not belong to a sect Twiggy recognized. The man dove in with a strong offense, but he had no balance to his play, and Twiggy had momentum. It was her most decisive win yet.
The next round was the semifinal. Twiggy breathed deep, using meditation techniques Nyoko had shown her, and searched in her head for dignified thoughts about testing her intellect. All she could come up with was Eeeeeee! I’m in the semifinal!!!! Is this my life?
Her opponent was an older man, with spectacles on the end of his nose. He was, Twiggy noticed, the first person she’d seen in the tournament who seemed to be having fun. As they began their game, he giggled and smiled to himself, and chattered on about past Go matches, no doubt played before Twiggy was born. Past Go matches. As the board began to fill, Twiggy noticed something: They were recreating, move for move, one of the great historical matches. It was played at these very Trials, in fact, decades ago. She knew the match . . . and she knew that the man with the spectacles was playing the role of the winner. Twiggy struggled to avoid hinting that she knew what was happening, and kept playing, kept the man giggling, and reached deep into her mind for a moment at which she could diverge from the historical game. It came, at last, when the board was too full for comfort—but Twiggy knew she had a chance. The man grinned and placed his stones aggressively, trying to box Twiggy into a corner, but he had been toying with her for too long. The move had worked—Twiggy had won.
Twiggy had won! The courtyard erupted in chatter. The honorable Heathen would advance to the finals against the most honorable Lady Mochizuki! It was unheard-of; Adepts streamed outside to watch the match; the courtyard, once so filled with players, now filled with spectators. Twiggy could see her friends in a bunch in the crowd—all of them. Even Nyoko, who still needed to prepare for her nighttime performance, had managed to come to the courtyard.
The crowd stirred as Lady Mochizuki—tall, dignified, hair the color of steel—walked out to the courtyard and made her way to the central Go board. She nodded to the crowd in recognition before sitting down, and instantly, all grew quiet. Suddenly, it was as if she and Twiggy were the only people in the world.
With another quiet nod, Lady Mochizuki acknowledged Twiggy and focused on the board between them. Her posture was steady, but not rigid. Her face was serious, but not stern. She plays an intellectual game, Twiggy reminded herself of Lady Mochizuki’s reputation. Tactical, calm, and flexible. She likes opponents who make her respond in interesting ways.
Lady Mochizuki took an early lead, as Twiggy gave up several ko fights in rapid succession. She’s testing me, thought Twiggy, and I will be temperate. Then Twiggy went on the offensive, building several contested territories on the board. She knew she could juggle multiple life-and-death challenges on a single board at once—and although she was forced to sacrifice one of the territories, she maintained her perspective on the board. As they neared the end of the game, the board was controlled chaos, and had the look of a closer match than Twiggy knew it to be. Twiggy could not win—but she protected her stones like a commander who would not leave a man behind. When she bowed to Lady Mochizuki at the close of the match, Twiggy knew, she could be proud of her play.
“Lady Chelesta-san,” Lady Mochizuki said, as they stood from their cushions, “your play would have bested most players.”
Twiggy beamed inside.
“The match posed the greatest of intellectual challenges, and was truly a pleasure,” Lady Mochizuki continued. “Should you wish a rematch, I am at your disposal. Do be in touch.”
And in that moment, as she realized she had attained her goal of a private meeting with the head of the Ring of the Military, Twiggy almost cried.
###
KORMICK
Kormick's day was getting better and better. First, he’d had a chance to enact justice and see Dame Mena at her very (most intimidating) best. Now, he’d discovered a unique opportunity to make contact with the Eighths. There was a boy—scruffy, and a little jumpy—who had watched each of Kiyari’s matches. Kormick knew what a runner for a criminal organization looked like—and this boy was one. After seeing Dame Mena off at the close of the final match, Kormick grabbed the boy’s collar.
“What’s your name, kid?”
The boy thrust his chin out defiantly. “Aoki.”
“Aoki,” said Kormick, “I know you work for the Eighths. I’m going to need you to tell me the name of the leader of the Eighths in Cauldron.”
Aoki paused for a moment, just long enough to weigh his options. “Daisuki,” he replied.
“Good lad, Aoki,” said Kormick, and clapped him on the back. “Now, Aoki, you’re going to take me to Daisuki.”
The kid knew better than to disagree. He led the way to a tavern. A faded sign outside read “The Inn of Generous Portions.”
As soon as Kormick walked in, he felt right at home. He knew where each dagger was hidden and where each guard sat, intermingled with afternoon drunkards. And he knew exactly which one was Daisuki. He was the burly man, with long black hair and small eyes, who radiated power.
Kormick strode up to Daisuki’s table. Two bodyguards stood up as Daisuki raised his eyes to this new arrival. Without saying a word, Kormick calmly removed his warhammers and his Justicar holy symbol and laid them on the table. He removed his Inquisitorial robe and folded it neatly on top of them. Then he grabbed a chair, spun it backward, and sat down. “Now we may speak.”
Daisuki stared.
“One of your men was found cheating at the wrestling Trials today,” Kormick said. “I apprehended him. But that’s beside the point right now. I am not from around here. In addition to being a Justicar and deputized Inquisitor, I am also a representative of my King, tasked with meeting the people who make things happen here. You are such a person. I hope that this is the first of many meetings. The next time I see you, know that it will not be as an Inquisitor.”
With that, Kormick stood up, righted his chair, collected his belongings, and left. Daisuki still hadn’t said a word—but all he’d needed to do was hear, and he’d done that.
###
NYOKO
Nyoko arrived at the performance hall at the same time as the young man who would play the role of Ehkt. He looks more nervous than I feel, she observed.
“My makeup artist suggested that I picture all of them in their underwear,” Nyoko told him, as they took their starting positions behind the closed curtains, “but I think that would do more harm than good. I’d just crack up laughing.”
The young man didn’t seem comforted. “One of my heathen friends told me a saying,” Nyoko continued. “‘Fear is the whetstone of the sword of intent.’”
The other dancer raised his eyebrow.
“I don’t get it either,” Nyoko replied. The other dancer laughed.
Nyoko was glad to see him relax a little, but her own mind was racing for a different reason. The time had come for her to deliver the group’s message to Brother Ono. With only seconds to whisper in his ear, her words must be attention-grabbing yet succinct. And when they had mingled at the Go matches, Dame Mena had given her a particularly specific suggestion…
The curtain opened.
Outside was a full stadium of people, seated on risers. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Nyoko's friends were there, along with everyone from the Adept house, anyone of any importance in Cauldron . . . Nyoko’s stomach fluttered, but she caught herself. The Mother Superior was on stage, speaking solemnly about the day’s accomplishments and the importance of discipline. The crowd was silent, listening.
It was a stark reminder that they were still a long way from exposing the Mother Superior as the secret leader of the Tide in Cauldron.
But they’d have their chance to take one small step this evening: The Mother Superior announced that the closing pageant honored the competitor who most exemplified the day’s virtues of stalwart spirit and enduring strength, Brother Ono.
She handed Brother Ono the headdress of Rikitaru.
The performance began. Overall, it was very staid choreography; a stylized recounting of the creation myth. Rikitaru’s movements were, as advertised, strong and stalwart; Alirria was, for most of the performance, recumbent on a divan. Ehkt, as required, moved with broad, impulsive strokes. The one exception was Sedellus—Nyoko—who flitted among them, eddying and twirling, tempting them to misdeeds.
At the climax of the story, as Rikitaru wept, Sedellus whispered in his ear and handed him a cup of wine, as choreographed. But what she said was not choreographed at all:
“I am the rock, and the rock does not move. We will stand with you, but we must speak in private.”
Brother Ono almost spilled the wine.
TWIGGY
Twiggy awoke before dawn. It felt strange not to awaken Rose—but Rose had released her from that responsibility for the day. Dressing alone, in the dark, Twiggy felt the weight of the day and the solitary nature of her responsibility as heavily as ever.
Go is a game of psychology as well as strategy. One must use all tools at one’s disposal to gain an advantage over one’s opponent, Twiggy told herself, as she donned traditional Hennan garb for the first time in months. It had taken a couple of tries for the Sovereign tailors to get the cut right, but the Hennan style in rich Sovereign silks was quite striking. She then sat down and began braiding her hair in the Elven style. Normally, Twiggy wore her hair loose, with a single braid in the front that, in Elven reckoning, said “Little Branch"—but traditional Elves’ braids told their whole life story in braiding, knotting, and beading. Twiggy had learned from her father, and from books, and by the time the sun rose, an Elf beholding her would know that before him stood Chelesta Little Branch Rossi, who was alive 18 years; worked in service to the House di Raprezzi of Pol Henna and the Inquisition of Cauldron; was a graduate of the di Raprezzi Academy for Arcane Studies; faced and shared in the defeat of Lurx of the Derro; and explored the wonders and terrors of the Ketkath.
Twiggy examined her handiwork. It might get me noticed, she thought, but only my playing can get me a spot across the board from Lady Mochizuki.
For the Go tournament, the courtyards of the Adept house had been transformed into a stadium of sorts. Dozens of boards were set up outdoors among the trees and sculptures. As the competitors gathered, an official explained the tournament point system for wins, losses, and stalemates. Twiggy tried to calm the vibration inside her belly and throat.
Brush off that cushion before sitting down, Acorn urged as the players took their places for the first round.
Thanks for being yourself, Acorn, Twiggy thought in response. I was afraid you were going to act like Mena and tell me I’d trained for this.
I was, Acorn replied, but then the cushion was dusty.
Across the board sat a husky woman with gray-streaked hair. Twiggy focused her mind on the game. Their play was quite even, but Twiggy could see further ahead. As Acorn paced nervously back and forth across Twiggy’s lap, Twiggy lured the woman into playing her stones in a vulnerable position.
Twiggy realized she’d been holding her breath, and released it. That had been hard—and it was only the first round.
The second round was easier: a bookish man, using well-known patterns to try to force a stalemate. Once Twiggy recognized the man’s strategy, it was easy to force him into a corner. In the third round, Twiggy faced a retired merchant. They were neck and neck throughout; each move had a counter. It was close enough that a few people gathered to watch. But in the end, Twiggy made just a few unpredictable moves—and like that, the merchant had lost. Even the merchant was surprised, and cried out: “You have me! She has me! Amazing!”
That got people’s attention.
Twiggy’s fourth round had an audience. Her opponent appeared to be a nobleman, from his dress; he wore a prominent symbol of Kettenek around his neck, although it did not belong to a sect Twiggy recognized. The man dove in with a strong offense, but he had no balance to his play, and Twiggy had momentum. It was her most decisive win yet.
The next round was the semifinal. Twiggy breathed deep, using meditation techniques Nyoko had shown her, and searched in her head for dignified thoughts about testing her intellect. All she could come up with was Eeeeeee! I’m in the semifinal!!!! Is this my life?
Her opponent was an older man, with spectacles on the end of his nose. He was, Twiggy noticed, the first person she’d seen in the tournament who seemed to be having fun. As they began their game, he giggled and smiled to himself, and chattered on about past Go matches, no doubt played before Twiggy was born. Past Go matches. As the board began to fill, Twiggy noticed something: They were recreating, move for move, one of the great historical matches. It was played at these very Trials, in fact, decades ago. She knew the match . . . and she knew that the man with the spectacles was playing the role of the winner. Twiggy struggled to avoid hinting that she knew what was happening, and kept playing, kept the man giggling, and reached deep into her mind for a moment at which she could diverge from the historical game. It came, at last, when the board was too full for comfort—but Twiggy knew she had a chance. The man grinned and placed his stones aggressively, trying to box Twiggy into a corner, but he had been toying with her for too long. The move had worked—Twiggy had won.
Twiggy had won! The courtyard erupted in chatter. The honorable Heathen would advance to the finals against the most honorable Lady Mochizuki! It was unheard-of; Adepts streamed outside to watch the match; the courtyard, once so filled with players, now filled with spectators. Twiggy could see her friends in a bunch in the crowd—all of them. Even Nyoko, who still needed to prepare for her nighttime performance, had managed to come to the courtyard.
The crowd stirred as Lady Mochizuki—tall, dignified, hair the color of steel—walked out to the courtyard and made her way to the central Go board. She nodded to the crowd in recognition before sitting down, and instantly, all grew quiet. Suddenly, it was as if she and Twiggy were the only people in the world.
With another quiet nod, Lady Mochizuki acknowledged Twiggy and focused on the board between them. Her posture was steady, but not rigid. Her face was serious, but not stern. She plays an intellectual game, Twiggy reminded herself of Lady Mochizuki’s reputation. Tactical, calm, and flexible. She likes opponents who make her respond in interesting ways.
Lady Mochizuki took an early lead, as Twiggy gave up several ko fights in rapid succession. She’s testing me, thought Twiggy, and I will be temperate. Then Twiggy went on the offensive, building several contested territories on the board. She knew she could juggle multiple life-and-death challenges on a single board at once—and although she was forced to sacrifice one of the territories, she maintained her perspective on the board. As they neared the end of the game, the board was controlled chaos, and had the look of a closer match than Twiggy knew it to be. Twiggy could not win—but she protected her stones like a commander who would not leave a man behind. When she bowed to Lady Mochizuki at the close of the match, Twiggy knew, she could be proud of her play.
“Lady Chelesta-san,” Lady Mochizuki said, as they stood from their cushions, “your play would have bested most players.”
Twiggy beamed inside.
“The match posed the greatest of intellectual challenges, and was truly a pleasure,” Lady Mochizuki continued. “Should you wish a rematch, I am at your disposal. Do be in touch.”
And in that moment, as she realized she had attained her goal of a private meeting with the head of the Ring of the Military, Twiggy almost cried.
###
KORMICK
Kormick's day was getting better and better. First, he’d had a chance to enact justice and see Dame Mena at her very (most intimidating) best. Now, he’d discovered a unique opportunity to make contact with the Eighths. There was a boy—scruffy, and a little jumpy—who had watched each of Kiyari’s matches. Kormick knew what a runner for a criminal organization looked like—and this boy was one. After seeing Dame Mena off at the close of the final match, Kormick grabbed the boy’s collar.
“What’s your name, kid?”
The boy thrust his chin out defiantly. “Aoki.”
“Aoki,” said Kormick, “I know you work for the Eighths. I’m going to need you to tell me the name of the leader of the Eighths in Cauldron.”
Aoki paused for a moment, just long enough to weigh his options. “Daisuki,” he replied.
“Good lad, Aoki,” said Kormick, and clapped him on the back. “Now, Aoki, you’re going to take me to Daisuki.”
The kid knew better than to disagree. He led the way to a tavern. A faded sign outside read “The Inn of Generous Portions.”
As soon as Kormick walked in, he felt right at home. He knew where each dagger was hidden and where each guard sat, intermingled with afternoon drunkards. And he knew exactly which one was Daisuki. He was the burly man, with long black hair and small eyes, who radiated power.
Kormick strode up to Daisuki’s table. Two bodyguards stood up as Daisuki raised his eyes to this new arrival. Without saying a word, Kormick calmly removed his warhammers and his Justicar holy symbol and laid them on the table. He removed his Inquisitorial robe and folded it neatly on top of them. Then he grabbed a chair, spun it backward, and sat down. “Now we may speak.”
Daisuki stared.
“One of your men was found cheating at the wrestling Trials today,” Kormick said. “I apprehended him. But that’s beside the point right now. I am not from around here. In addition to being a Justicar and deputized Inquisitor, I am also a representative of my King, tasked with meeting the people who make things happen here. You are such a person. I hope that this is the first of many meetings. The next time I see you, know that it will not be as an Inquisitor.”
With that, Kormick stood up, righted his chair, collected his belongings, and left. Daisuki still hadn’t said a word—but all he’d needed to do was hear, and he’d done that.
###
NYOKO
Nyoko arrived at the performance hall at the same time as the young man who would play the role of Ehkt. He looks more nervous than I feel, she observed.
“My makeup artist suggested that I picture all of them in their underwear,” Nyoko told him, as they took their starting positions behind the closed curtains, “but I think that would do more harm than good. I’d just crack up laughing.”
The young man didn’t seem comforted. “One of my heathen friends told me a saying,” Nyoko continued. “‘Fear is the whetstone of the sword of intent.’”
The other dancer raised his eyebrow.
“I don’t get it either,” Nyoko replied. The other dancer laughed.
Nyoko was glad to see him relax a little, but her own mind was racing for a different reason. The time had come for her to deliver the group’s message to Brother Ono. With only seconds to whisper in his ear, her words must be attention-grabbing yet succinct. And when they had mingled at the Go matches, Dame Mena had given her a particularly specific suggestion…
The curtain opened.
Outside was a full stadium of people, seated on risers. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Nyoko's friends were there, along with everyone from the Adept house, anyone of any importance in Cauldron . . . Nyoko’s stomach fluttered, but she caught herself. The Mother Superior was on stage, speaking solemnly about the day’s accomplishments and the importance of discipline. The crowd was silent, listening.
It was a stark reminder that they were still a long way from exposing the Mother Superior as the secret leader of the Tide in Cauldron.
But they’d have their chance to take one small step this evening: The Mother Superior announced that the closing pageant honored the competitor who most exemplified the day’s virtues of stalwart spirit and enduring strength, Brother Ono.
She handed Brother Ono the headdress of Rikitaru.
The performance began. Overall, it was very staid choreography; a stylized recounting of the creation myth. Rikitaru’s movements were, as advertised, strong and stalwart; Alirria was, for most of the performance, recumbent on a divan. Ehkt, as required, moved with broad, impulsive strokes. The one exception was Sedellus—Nyoko—who flitted among them, eddying and twirling, tempting them to misdeeds.
At the climax of the story, as Rikitaru wept, Sedellus whispered in his ear and handed him a cup of wine, as choreographed. But what she said was not choreographed at all:
“I am the rock, and the rock does not move. We will stand with you, but we must speak in private.”
Brother Ono almost spilled the wine.
23x01
Wind flickered the torches that lined the city streets as the pageant ended and the audience spilled out of the theater, chattering about Brother Ono's heroic stature and the Adept Nyoko's grace. Next, on this long summer night of Ehkt's Judgment, families and friends would gather for dinner parties that would last until dawn.
It was past Savina's usual bedtime, and yet the most important part of her day was yet to come. With the pageant over and first contact successfully made with Brother Ono, nothing now remained to distract her from her two goals, both nerve-wracking. First, at the Peerage's most important dinner party, for which she had worked weeks to gain an invitation, she must now secretly persuade the head of the Peerage to join their cause. As if that weren't enough, this was also the best chance to humiliate Aga Aki-san publicly, the task they must perform to win the support of Borders. Twiggy had proposed a plan to do just that. It was a good plan, if everything went well, but it required Savina to be deceptive, and she wasn't sure she'd be good at that. Worse, Twiggy had given some credit to Arden for the initial idea, and Savina was sure her father would frown upon her humiliating a fellow noble with a slave's prank.
But duty called. Surely he would understand that much.
To Savina's chagrin, as she got dressed for dinner back at the Inn, Arden spotted her nerves. "It'll be easy, Blessed Daughter. You won't even need to act," Arden said, kneeling to place silk-embroidered slippers at Savina's feet. "I imagine this Aga Aki will actually annoy you."
"Fresh water for the washbasin, Arden," Savina said, as distantly as she could manage. Arden nodded and whisked away at once, leaving Savina in peace to select jewelry.
"Can we bring weapons to this shindig?" she heard Kormick holler down the hall.
"I'll wear a dress if I must," Mena called back, "but I'm not going without a sword."
Then Tavi's voice, off-handedly puzzled: "Twiggy, I thought you bought yourself a new dress, like Rose."
"I did, but – I assume I'm going to this party as a subordinate, so it wouldn't be appropriate—"
"You're a member of House di Raprezzi. Why not dress like one?"
Forty-five minutes later, their carriage entered the long curving drive of the estate of Lady Funaki Chinatsu, head of the Ring of Peerage. The estate was high on the outer ring of Cauldron's crater city, a sign of the power, riches, and longevity of the noble family that owned it. The main house, framed by balanced clusters of straight-trunked trees, was not quite as large as the entire Adept House, but it was close. The grounds were manicured, the torches burned with delicately scented and colored flames, and well-groomed servants swarmed among the glittering guests.
Savina lost herself for a moment in the refined beauty of the scene and—to her mild surprise—a little real pride as she saw her own companions handed down from the carriage. The di Raprezzis, especially, were elegant in their traditional Hennan court garb.
Savina smoothed her flattering Sovereign-style skirts: she had elected to compliment her hosts by taking her chaperone's advice on local fashion. Mena, Kormick, and Arden wore more subdued clothing: in order to gain admission to the party, Mena and Kormick were humbling themselves to the status of "attendants" on the di Raprezzis. Not quite a lie, Savina reflected. After all, they are employees.
A footman took their names at the door and announced them to the crowd within. Nyoko caught their eyes from across the room, no doubt checking to make sure they were bowing properly, as she'd taught them.
They swept through the receiving line and found themselves bowing to Lady Funaki herself. "Signor Octavian," she greeted Tavi, pronouncing the foreign name with care. Tavi greeted her in the name of his family. Next was Savina's turn: Lady Funaki smiled and said, "Ah, one of the most surprising and spoken-about young ladies of the summer. I look forward to learning more about you."
Her curiosity was, indeed, evident as her eyes discreetly took in Savina's dress and hair. Savina answered, "It is a pleasure to spend a few months in your fair city, in such elegant and civilized company." Then the line swept on. Soon, a chime rang for dinner. Savina willed her pounding heart to settle. I don't have to do anything until after dinner, she reminded herself firmly. And dinner is twenty-nine courses long.
###
Dinner was served at a long, low table, with the guests sitting on silk cushions. Lady Funaki had spaced her heathen guests out among the Sovereign dignitaries, who were—in their soft-spoken way—eager to acquaint themselves further with the exotic foreigners. Personal servants stood along the perimeter of the room, out of the way of the servingpeople carrying dishes to and fro, but each within reach of his or her particular charge. Arden found herself standing several feet behind Savina and only one Sovereign servant away from Kormick, who was continuing to "attend" Tavi.
Arden knew it'd be hours before she and her fellow servants got to eat, but as the first course—some kind of cold, fishy lump resting on a frilly leaf—arrived, she decided that she wasn't going to have much trouble with temptation at this meal. Maybe the fishy lump was delicious. Maybe not. But give me sweet corn and ale over that any day, Arden thought. And then: uh oh. Now I'm hungry.
She shot a glance at Kormick, who was already shifting with impatience. He caught her look and sidled around behind the servant between them to mutter in her ear.
"How many courses are there?"
"May Kettenek's strength be with us both," Arden whispered back, deadpan.
"That's what I was afraid of. Hoo-kay. Here's the plan. While we stand here, we identify as many young ladies who appear to be single as possible. Once the dancing starts, we funnel them all at Tavi. The exertion will do him good."
Arden hiccupped to contain her laughter. She didn't dare look too comfortable. Even here, in case any Tidesmen were present, she needed to maintain her public persona as Savina's horribly abused slave. But that didn't mean she couldn't allow herself any fun.
"Done," she agreed. Kormick stepped back to his proper place and the second course appeared.
The elegant formality of the room was stifling: the conversation was all lilts and murmurs, trills and poetry. But Savina seemed at home in this glittering sea; she shone, radiating interest, compassion, and sociability. Arden struggled to remember to jump as if terrified at her polite requests. Savina's hand rose in the most delicate of gestures and Arden raced to supply her with the rosewater bowl to clean her fingers, then turned back to the row of servants and tried to let her eyes burn with resentment. How convincing can I hope to be? she wondered.
By the seventh course, she noticed a well-dressed Sovereign servant across the room watching her with a frank, understanding expression on his face. Maybe her act was working, after all. He caught her eyes and Arden didn't see pity—she saw comprehension and support. To pass the time, she began studying him and his master. Their interactions seemed comfortable, even friendly. He's not abused, Arden concluded, wondering why he seemed so understanding. She liked his face. She hoped he wasn't a Tidesman.
Sometime during course number twelve, after fumbling Tavi's napkin, Kormick leaned over again. "If I had to stand behind these people all the time, I'd be a murder slave, too," he growled. Arden risked a low chuckle. The servant between them hemmed disapprovingly and shot a glare at Kormick. In response, Kormick flashed his dagger and asked the servant with his eyes, "wanna make trouble?" The servant's eyes widened and he drew himself up stiffly. He didn't look scared. He looked like only the distastefulness of making a scene was preventing him from slugging Kormick in the face.
As the courses dragged on, Arden could tell she wasn't the only member of their group fighting exhaustion. It wasn't just that they'd had a long day, it was that the meal itself was endless and tiring--an Ehktian endurance challenge in its own right.
Course twenty-one, however, woke everyone up. It consisted of perfectly square plates each containing one large, staring, quivering eyeball. From a deer? Arden wondered. She wasn't sure. But from the smattering of "ooh"s and light applause, Arden guessed that this was a much-prized Sovereign delicacy. And from the way Savina's back stiffened, Arden guessed that all the girl's diplomatic skill wasn't going to get her past this.
At the far end of the long room, Arden glimpsed Nyoko pointedly exclaiming over the dish, raising the eyeball neatly between two chopsticks, and sliding it down her throat with a single motion. She was trying to demonstrate how the deed ought to be done. Tavi attempted to mimic her, and Arden could have sworn she even saw Twiggy attempting to cast some minor spell in Tavi's direction to enhance his effort, but it was all for naught: there was an unseemly, gooshy noise as the eyeball entered Tavi's lips, and his face looked exactly as it had looked in the stench of the derro caves. He didn't seem able to swallow.
Meanwhile, Savina cast Arden a subtly pleading look. Arden stepped forward and, as Savina fluttered a fan in front of her face with graceful flamboyance, Arden palmed the eyeball. She stepped back.
Tavi still looked like a choking man, but Kormick lunged in with a towel to dab awkwardly at Tavi's face. From the way he held the towel as he stepped back, Arden assumed the towel now contained the remains of the eyeball.
"I did work in a bar once," Kormick muttered.
Without further incident, the courses marched onward. At last, at five in the morning, their host arose. It was time for the dancing.
In the crowded ballroom, as the music began, Arden and Kormick went to work, politely approaching young women "on Signor Octavian's behalf" and asking them for a dance. Tavi was as mobbed as he'd been on the very first night of their quest, at the ball in Rose's honor. Mena, figuring out what they were up to, shrugged and, with a twinkle in her eye, said, "He's trained for this."
Twiggy was caught in an intense Go-related conversation with a cockily handsome young man. As Arden slid past in the background, she saw Rose skillfully step in, seize Twiggy's hand, and rescue her, whispering, "All anyone asked about at dinner was you!"
Twiggy grinned.
Arden linked up with Kormick on the far side of the room, near Nyoko, just as an extravagantly dressed man enfolded the Adept with a robed arm. Arden and Kormick both overheard the words "Tanaka" and "Seven-fold Secrets" and saw the blush that swept over Nyoko's face. Kormick sidled closer; Arden followed. The man was offering a proposition to Nyoko, asking if she knew how to dance "The Dance of the Seven-Fold Secrets" and if she would be willing to perform it for Lord Tanaka, the Head of Lands. Kormick flashed Nyoko a thumbs-up and a big grin. Presumably this would gain her access to one of Tanaka's famous indulgence parties and, thus, to the Lord himself. Nyoko grimaced, nodded, and told the man, "I would be delighted." Her face didn't look delighted. Arden trusted that Nyoko had not just agreed to prostitute herself—Nyoko had explained that she did not specialize in such arts—but clearly the dance wasn't exactly for public performance, either.
Arden left Kormick firing enthusiastic questions at Nyoko and headed on around the perimeter of the room. Suddenly, a hand grabbed her arm and tugged her behind a column. Looking up, Arden found herself staring into the face of the Sovereign servant she had made eye contact with during dinner.
Damn, he's a Tidesman after all, was Arden's first, paranoid thought, as she read his furtive expression. I wish he weren't. She really liked his face, and up close…
He pressed a pair of gloves into her hands and leaned in to whisper in her ear. "I was once in your position," he murmured. "Abused, uncared-for. These are magic, and they helped. I don't need them now. I hope they'll help you."
Arden looked up into his dark eyes. Not a Tidesman, then. She swallowed back a swelling oceanic urge to kiss him and, instead, gripped the gloves more tightly. "I'll make good use of them," she said.
"Glad to hear it," he said, and with a flashing smile, he vanished into the crowd.
She might have stayed behind the column longer, musing over the things she wasn't allowed, or didn't allow herself, but there was a stir nearby. A boisterous man strode into the room with a retinue of followers. He held a rice wine cup unsteadily in his hand, and even Arden could tell that the sash on his robe was tied incorrectly.
Aga Aki-san had arrived.
Wind flickered the torches that lined the city streets as the pageant ended and the audience spilled out of the theater, chattering about Brother Ono's heroic stature and the Adept Nyoko's grace. Next, on this long summer night of Ehkt's Judgment, families and friends would gather for dinner parties that would last until dawn.
It was past Savina's usual bedtime, and yet the most important part of her day was yet to come. With the pageant over and first contact successfully made with Brother Ono, nothing now remained to distract her from her two goals, both nerve-wracking. First, at the Peerage's most important dinner party, for which she had worked weeks to gain an invitation, she must now secretly persuade the head of the Peerage to join their cause. As if that weren't enough, this was also the best chance to humiliate Aga Aki-san publicly, the task they must perform to win the support of Borders. Twiggy had proposed a plan to do just that. It was a good plan, if everything went well, but it required Savina to be deceptive, and she wasn't sure she'd be good at that. Worse, Twiggy had given some credit to Arden for the initial idea, and Savina was sure her father would frown upon her humiliating a fellow noble with a slave's prank.
But duty called. Surely he would understand that much.
To Savina's chagrin, as she got dressed for dinner back at the Inn, Arden spotted her nerves. "It'll be easy, Blessed Daughter. You won't even need to act," Arden said, kneeling to place silk-embroidered slippers at Savina's feet. "I imagine this Aga Aki will actually annoy you."
"Fresh water for the washbasin, Arden," Savina said, as distantly as she could manage. Arden nodded and whisked away at once, leaving Savina in peace to select jewelry.
"Can we bring weapons to this shindig?" she heard Kormick holler down the hall.
"I'll wear a dress if I must," Mena called back, "but I'm not going without a sword."
Then Tavi's voice, off-handedly puzzled: "Twiggy, I thought you bought yourself a new dress, like Rose."
"I did, but – I assume I'm going to this party as a subordinate, so it wouldn't be appropriate—"
"You're a member of House di Raprezzi. Why not dress like one?"
Forty-five minutes later, their carriage entered the long curving drive of the estate of Lady Funaki Chinatsu, head of the Ring of Peerage. The estate was high on the outer ring of Cauldron's crater city, a sign of the power, riches, and longevity of the noble family that owned it. The main house, framed by balanced clusters of straight-trunked trees, was not quite as large as the entire Adept House, but it was close. The grounds were manicured, the torches burned with delicately scented and colored flames, and well-groomed servants swarmed among the glittering guests.
Savina lost herself for a moment in the refined beauty of the scene and—to her mild surprise—a little real pride as she saw her own companions handed down from the carriage. The di Raprezzis, especially, were elegant in their traditional Hennan court garb.
Savina smoothed her flattering Sovereign-style skirts: she had elected to compliment her hosts by taking her chaperone's advice on local fashion. Mena, Kormick, and Arden wore more subdued clothing: in order to gain admission to the party, Mena and Kormick were humbling themselves to the status of "attendants" on the di Raprezzis. Not quite a lie, Savina reflected. After all, they are employees.
A footman took their names at the door and announced them to the crowd within. Nyoko caught their eyes from across the room, no doubt checking to make sure they were bowing properly, as she'd taught them.
They swept through the receiving line and found themselves bowing to Lady Funaki herself. "Signor Octavian," she greeted Tavi, pronouncing the foreign name with care. Tavi greeted her in the name of his family. Next was Savina's turn: Lady Funaki smiled and said, "Ah, one of the most surprising and spoken-about young ladies of the summer. I look forward to learning more about you."
Her curiosity was, indeed, evident as her eyes discreetly took in Savina's dress and hair. Savina answered, "It is a pleasure to spend a few months in your fair city, in such elegant and civilized company." Then the line swept on. Soon, a chime rang for dinner. Savina willed her pounding heart to settle. I don't have to do anything until after dinner, she reminded herself firmly. And dinner is twenty-nine courses long.
###
Dinner was served at a long, low table, with the guests sitting on silk cushions. Lady Funaki had spaced her heathen guests out among the Sovereign dignitaries, who were—in their soft-spoken way—eager to acquaint themselves further with the exotic foreigners. Personal servants stood along the perimeter of the room, out of the way of the servingpeople carrying dishes to and fro, but each within reach of his or her particular charge. Arden found herself standing several feet behind Savina and only one Sovereign servant away from Kormick, who was continuing to "attend" Tavi.
Arden knew it'd be hours before she and her fellow servants got to eat, but as the first course—some kind of cold, fishy lump resting on a frilly leaf—arrived, she decided that she wasn't going to have much trouble with temptation at this meal. Maybe the fishy lump was delicious. Maybe not. But give me sweet corn and ale over that any day, Arden thought. And then: uh oh. Now I'm hungry.
She shot a glance at Kormick, who was already shifting with impatience. He caught her look and sidled around behind the servant between them to mutter in her ear.
"How many courses are there?"
"May Kettenek's strength be with us both," Arden whispered back, deadpan.
"That's what I was afraid of. Hoo-kay. Here's the plan. While we stand here, we identify as many young ladies who appear to be single as possible. Once the dancing starts, we funnel them all at Tavi. The exertion will do him good."
Arden hiccupped to contain her laughter. She didn't dare look too comfortable. Even here, in case any Tidesmen were present, she needed to maintain her public persona as Savina's horribly abused slave. But that didn't mean she couldn't allow herself any fun.
"Done," she agreed. Kormick stepped back to his proper place and the second course appeared.
The elegant formality of the room was stifling: the conversation was all lilts and murmurs, trills and poetry. But Savina seemed at home in this glittering sea; she shone, radiating interest, compassion, and sociability. Arden struggled to remember to jump as if terrified at her polite requests. Savina's hand rose in the most delicate of gestures and Arden raced to supply her with the rosewater bowl to clean her fingers, then turned back to the row of servants and tried to let her eyes burn with resentment. How convincing can I hope to be? she wondered.
By the seventh course, she noticed a well-dressed Sovereign servant across the room watching her with a frank, understanding expression on his face. Maybe her act was working, after all. He caught her eyes and Arden didn't see pity—she saw comprehension and support. To pass the time, she began studying him and his master. Their interactions seemed comfortable, even friendly. He's not abused, Arden concluded, wondering why he seemed so understanding. She liked his face. She hoped he wasn't a Tidesman.
Sometime during course number twelve, after fumbling Tavi's napkin, Kormick leaned over again. "If I had to stand behind these people all the time, I'd be a murder slave, too," he growled. Arden risked a low chuckle. The servant between them hemmed disapprovingly and shot a glare at Kormick. In response, Kormick flashed his dagger and asked the servant with his eyes, "wanna make trouble?" The servant's eyes widened and he drew himself up stiffly. He didn't look scared. He looked like only the distastefulness of making a scene was preventing him from slugging Kormick in the face.
As the courses dragged on, Arden could tell she wasn't the only member of their group fighting exhaustion. It wasn't just that they'd had a long day, it was that the meal itself was endless and tiring--an Ehktian endurance challenge in its own right.
Course twenty-one, however, woke everyone up. It consisted of perfectly square plates each containing one large, staring, quivering eyeball. From a deer? Arden wondered. She wasn't sure. But from the smattering of "ooh"s and light applause, Arden guessed that this was a much-prized Sovereign delicacy. And from the way Savina's back stiffened, Arden guessed that all the girl's diplomatic skill wasn't going to get her past this.
At the far end of the long room, Arden glimpsed Nyoko pointedly exclaiming over the dish, raising the eyeball neatly between two chopsticks, and sliding it down her throat with a single motion. She was trying to demonstrate how the deed ought to be done. Tavi attempted to mimic her, and Arden could have sworn she even saw Twiggy attempting to cast some minor spell in Tavi's direction to enhance his effort, but it was all for naught: there was an unseemly, gooshy noise as the eyeball entered Tavi's lips, and his face looked exactly as it had looked in the stench of the derro caves. He didn't seem able to swallow.
Meanwhile, Savina cast Arden a subtly pleading look. Arden stepped forward and, as Savina fluttered a fan in front of her face with graceful flamboyance, Arden palmed the eyeball. She stepped back.
Tavi still looked like a choking man, but Kormick lunged in with a towel to dab awkwardly at Tavi's face. From the way he held the towel as he stepped back, Arden assumed the towel now contained the remains of the eyeball.
"I did work in a bar once," Kormick muttered.
Without further incident, the courses marched onward. At last, at five in the morning, their host arose. It was time for the dancing.
In the crowded ballroom, as the music began, Arden and Kormick went to work, politely approaching young women "on Signor Octavian's behalf" and asking them for a dance. Tavi was as mobbed as he'd been on the very first night of their quest, at the ball in Rose's honor. Mena, figuring out what they were up to, shrugged and, with a twinkle in her eye, said, "He's trained for this."
Twiggy was caught in an intense Go-related conversation with a cockily handsome young man. As Arden slid past in the background, she saw Rose skillfully step in, seize Twiggy's hand, and rescue her, whispering, "All anyone asked about at dinner was you!"
Twiggy grinned.
Arden linked up with Kormick on the far side of the room, near Nyoko, just as an extravagantly dressed man enfolded the Adept with a robed arm. Arden and Kormick both overheard the words "Tanaka" and "Seven-fold Secrets" and saw the blush that swept over Nyoko's face. Kormick sidled closer; Arden followed. The man was offering a proposition to Nyoko, asking if she knew how to dance "The Dance of the Seven-Fold Secrets" and if she would be willing to perform it for Lord Tanaka, the Head of Lands. Kormick flashed Nyoko a thumbs-up and a big grin. Presumably this would gain her access to one of Tanaka's famous indulgence parties and, thus, to the Lord himself. Nyoko grimaced, nodded, and told the man, "I would be delighted." Her face didn't look delighted. Arden trusted that Nyoko had not just agreed to prostitute herself—Nyoko had explained that she did not specialize in such arts—but clearly the dance wasn't exactly for public performance, either.
Arden left Kormick firing enthusiastic questions at Nyoko and headed on around the perimeter of the room. Suddenly, a hand grabbed her arm and tugged her behind a column. Looking up, Arden found herself staring into the face of the Sovereign servant she had made eye contact with during dinner.
Damn, he's a Tidesman after all, was Arden's first, paranoid thought, as she read his furtive expression. I wish he weren't. She really liked his face, and up close…
He pressed a pair of gloves into her hands and leaned in to whisper in her ear. "I was once in your position," he murmured. "Abused, uncared-for. These are magic, and they helped. I don't need them now. I hope they'll help you."
Arden looked up into his dark eyes. Not a Tidesman, then. She swallowed back a swelling oceanic urge to kiss him and, instead, gripped the gloves more tightly. "I'll make good use of them," she said.
"Glad to hear it," he said, and with a flashing smile, he vanished into the crowd.
She might have stayed behind the column longer, musing over the things she wasn't allowed, or didn't allow herself, but there was a stir nearby. A boisterous man strode into the room with a retinue of followers. He held a rice wine cup unsteadily in his hand, and even Arden could tell that the sash on his robe was tied incorrectly.
Aga Aki-san had arrived.
Kuritaki
First Post
Brilliant! I love this story and Kormick and Arden are my favorites.
Thanks, RedTonic! (And I like your avatar!)
The gloves are level 7 Feinting Gloves. Arden remains very fond of them. More important to her, she enjoyed having such a supportive encounter with a stranger, equal to equal. In her world, strangers are (almost) never allies.
Now, whether that's because she's paranoid or because she's realistic, I'll let you decide.
In more mundane terms, we can say that Fajitas devised a particularly poignant (to my character) way to hand me a new magic item!
The gloves are level 7 Feinting Gloves. Arden remains very fond of them. More important to her, she enjoyed having such a supportive encounter with a stranger, equal to equal. In her world, strangers are (almost) never allies.
Now, whether that's because she's paranoid or because she's realistic, I'll let you decide.
In more mundane terms, we can say that Fajitas devised a particularly poignant (to my character) way to hand me a new magic item!
