The Veiled Throne, page 103
* * *
Outside, the wind suddenly picked up, and the sound of more energetic waves lapping against the seaside cavern entrance of Last Bite reverberated, as though a thousand tongues were speaking inside the mountain’s mouth.
Soldiers carried the small boats inside the sea entrance cave to higher ground. They retreated and barred the doors to the tunnels and honeycombed passageways against a flood.
A caravan on its way to Ginpen stopped. The drivers got out to examine the sky, hesitating. It looked like an unanticipated storm was developing, and Ginpen was still some distance away. After the drivers conferred with the occupant of the largest carriage, the caravan turned down a side road and headed for Last Bite.
- What are you doing, Tazu? Why are you leading her here?!
- Isn’t that the entire point of our improvised schemes, of this intricate closet drama, of a temporary respite from armies clashing by night, little sister? It’s best for all the secrets to be bared in a chaotic whirl, the same way I reveal my treasure at the bottom of a whirlpool.
- Are you with him in this mad scheme, Rapa and Kana?
- Yes. That boy has knowledge that would greatly aid Jia and Phyro—
—and craves knowledge that would greatly aid Tanvanaki and Goztan. It’s time to bring everything to a head.
- But the boy… he hesitates… he doubts… will he aid the Lyucu or Dara? What is his destiny? What will happen to him and Fara?
- Little sister, love untested is love unvalued. You must weigh the fish.
* * *
They reached the library. The guards doused their torches before pushing open the two sets of heavy doors that led inside. “Zomi Kidosu’s retinue” looked at one another, took deep breaths, and stepped through.
The library was constructed inside a large natural cavern several hundred yards long and fifty yards across. Shelves full of boxed scrolls and codices lined all the walls, reaching up to four or five stories above the cave floor. Shafts of white light spilled from wells in the ceiling, making the enclosed space bright as day.
“Whale-oil lamps?” Arona asked one of the guards. She couldn’t fathom how they kept the place so well lit at night.
The guard shook his head, confused by the ignorance of one of Secretary Kidosu’s attendants. “Open flames would be a bad idea with so many books around—and back when we used to work with fermented gas in the labs, they were positively life-threatening. Secretary Kidosu has always preferred mirror-directed sunlight or sealed silkmotic globes.”
Kinri looked up at the light wells, amazed. He had not thought Rati’s candles could be scaled up to be as bright as the sun.
“Good, very good,” said Widi, trying to cover up Arona’s error. “The secretary wanted to be sure that everyone still remembers the reasons behind the regulations.”
“We should not be disturbed while the secretary conducts her research,” Arona hurried to add.
The guards nodded and exited the library, closing the doors behind them.
“Let’s split up,” Widi said. “Everyone can look for the documents they’re most interested in.”
“I’ll go with Mota,” said Dandelion. “I have some experience with Imperial filing systems. Besides, I’m curious about the Marshal too.”
Mota smiled at her gratefully. He couldn’t read, and he didn’t want to deprive his friends of the opportunity to explore this treasure trove to pursue their own interests.
Kinri hesitated. By coming up to the library instead of going to the laboratories with his master, he had already given up a chance to find out more secrets of Dara’s war engines. His sense of duty as a thane-taasa told him that he should head to the section of the library devoted to weapons research, but he couldn’t bear the thought of betraying his friends. He loved them; he loved Dara; he needed to know the truth about Ukyu-taasa.
In his vacillation, he walked around the library—cautiously, as he was unused to the feminine dress and shoes, not to mention the care that needed to be taken not to damage the makeup or prosthetics Arona had used to complete his disguise.
Widi had already climbed up one of the long ladders in the corner and was strolling along a bamboo catwalk as he exclaimed over the objects on the shelf next to him.
“Look at these!” he said, awe evident in every syllable. “Prime Minister Cogo Yelu did us all a service by saving them.”
Curious, Kinri gingerly climbed up the ladder and joined him. He surveyed the objects on the shelf, confused. “They look like animal bones… And what are those? Bundles of bamboo?”
Though Master Nazu Tei had owned few physical books, he had seen many books since coming to Ginpen. Most books in Dara were written in wax logograms on silk scrolls, folded or rolled to fit inside a protective case; some were codices of sheets of paper sewn along a spine, usually filled with quick notes in zyndari letters or the shorthand that reduced the three-dimensional logograms to flat symbols. But the objects Widi was admiring were unlike any book he had ever seen.
“Books haven’t always been made out of silk or paper,” said Widi reverently. “It was said that at the time of the Ano’s arrival in the Islands, they wrote by carving logograms into animal bones or clay tablets—so that’s what you see here. And later, some began to etch logograms into strips of bamboo that were then tied together and then rolled up into a scroll—this was before silk had become popular or even been invented, perhaps. You can imagine how much more effort it took to write by carving bone or etching bamboo, compared to soft, malleable wax. That was why the earliest Ano books were so short. Every logogram had to say so much. Or, as the poet Nakipo put it, when reminiscing about the ancients older than the Ancient philosophers: ‘a logogram, a thousand breaths, a lifetime of contemplative solitude.’ ”
Kinri tried to imagine what it was like to have to write every word with so much exertion. He was used to laying down a vertical column of wax blobs and then carving out the logograms he needed with quick, practiced strokes of the writing knife. Many writing knives were made of soft wood or even ivory, which would have been useless against these earlier writing mediums.
The Lyucu derisively called Ano logograms “word-scars” because of their similarity to ugly scabs left on the bodies of warriors, but Kinri wondered if the name was more appropriate than his people realized. The logograms were indeed born as scars left in the mind, a crystallization of intense concentration and effort, of war against the vicissitudes of fickle time, against the ephemerality of life.
He climbed down the ladder and strode over to Arona, who was in a section of the library devoted to silk scrolls yellow from age.
“What are these?” he asked.
“Scripts for plays,” said Arona.
“Plays? But they’re so short.”
Indeed, some of the scrolls were so short that they barely folded over half a dozen times in their boxes.
“Oh, back then, they didn’t write down everything that actors said in a play,” explained Arona. “Mostly, we folk troupes still don’t. Classical drama was an earthy, oral art—very different from the modern plays and operas they put on in fancy theaters in Pan, based on scripts by famous playwrights that require extensive memorization by actors. Remember how I told you that when Mota and I put on a play, we never write out every word we’re going to say? Here, let me show you.”
She unfolded one of the ancient books carefully. Bamboo battens had been added between the columns of logograms at the folding seams as reinforcement to prevent the delicate wax logograms from rubbing against one another. Kinri had always thought that this was done in imitation of the sails found on large ships in Dara, but now he realized that the practice was probably derived from old books made of strips of bamboo.
The unfurled scroll revealed columns of cracked wax logograms, many of them in very old forms that Kinri found difficult to read. Some logograms were damaged or had fallen away, making the text even harder to decipher.
Arona pointed at the book. “This is the script for a play called The Queen’s Lament. It’s about Queen Tho-zu, the loyal wife of far-ranging hero Xadi and mother of the compassionate King Dacan.”
Kinri knew the vague outline of the story, which took place during the pre-Tiro Diaspora Wars. King Xadi of Aké was a wily hero who tried his best to preserve his band of warriors against utter annihilation in the bloody battles between the heroes Iluthan and Séraca, as well as the gods who intervened on both sides. For ten years he was away from home, adventuring all across Dara as he stayed one step ahead of deadly pursuits by furious Tazu and scorned Kana. Meanwhile, his wife, chaste Tho-zu, ruled his kingdom wisely and prudently as regent, fending off waves of suitors who coveted the throne through clever stratagems and contests, until he returned safely. Thoughtful Tho-zu, the Lady of Ten Thousand Excuses, was often invoked in Moralist treatises and poetry as a model of womanhood.
Kinri’s teacher, Master Nazu Tei, had suggested to Kinri that the story might be read allegorically, with the struggles of Xadi and Tho-zu seen as reflections of the wisdom-seeking soul overcoming external threats and internal temptation in the journey home to Aké, the isle of true philosophical enlightenment.
“There are only sixteen columns of logograms here,” continued Arona, “and they specify four acts with an intermission. As you can see, the text describes the scenes in broad terms: ‘Ologa debates Tho-zu on the best virtue of a woman’; ‘Tho-zu proposes three contests for the suitors: Rice, Beer, Salt; she declares no winner’; ‘Tho-zu announces Xadi is dead and ascends the throne’; ‘Invasion by Séraca and Dacan’; ‘the queen rallies the people’; and so on. There are bits of poetry that should be worked into the performance, but for the most part the actors improvise from stock characters built around the skeletal outline, guided by formulaic speeches and responsive to audience input. This is worlds away from the impossible-to-perform monstrosities that some modern scholars compose to satisfy their vanity, called closet dramas—”
“Wait, wait!” said Kinri. It had taken him a few seconds to confirm Arona’s reading of the unfamiliar ancient logograms, so different in form from the Mapidéré-Xana standard Nazu Tei had taught him. “What do you mean ‘Tho-zu announces Xadi is dead and ascends the throne’? That never happened.”
“Ah, you are talking about the standard rendition of the story,” said Arona. “But as with most legends of the Diaspora Wars, there are many versions. In this one, Tho-zu takes over as the monarch after the death of her husband, usurping the throne from her son. She then has to defend Aké against an invasion led by Dacan, her son and the rightful heir.”
“When was this written?”
Arona shook her head. “I’m not as good at dating ancient manuscripts as Widi, but I’d guess it’s at least a few hundred years old.”
“Was this version not very popular then? I’ve never heard of it.”
“That’s hard to say,” said Arona. “The plot twist you noticed would not have found favor with the Moralists, so very few copies of the script survived. But that doesn’t tell us much about how audiences reacted. Mota and I, for example, put on plays about Marshal Gin Mazoti that don’t involve her being a traitor as described in the official histories, and they’re very popular.”
Kinri nodded. The discussion reminded him of the many versions of the deeds of the gods of Ukyu. Does every story exist in multiple versions? Which version is the truest?
“Are you looking for a specific play?”
“I am! Actually, Lolotika was the one who told me about it. Among indigo-house girls, there’s a long tradition of praying to Dophino, their protective spirit. But Dophino wasn’t just a story. He was in fact one of Kon Fiji’s students. Brought up as a girl, he preferred to go about the world as a man, and he led a rebellion of prostitutes that terrorized the early Tiro kings. There’s a play about him that survives only in fragments. I want to find the full script.”
Leaving Arona to her search, Kinri wandered off again. He saw Mota and Dandelion searching in one corner of the library, hunched over, bodies tense. He realized that they had likely located where the historical records were kept. He took a few steps to join them, but stopped himself. Now that the truth was within reach, he suddenly grew even more trepidatious.
He wanted, no, needed, to stave off the moment of reckoning just a little bit longer.
* * *
He found himself in the opposite corner of the library, as far from the historical records as possible. Bookcases here were arranged around a central cubby like the three walls of a room, leaving only one side open. The cases here were relatively open and not packed with books, as in the rest of the library.
Inside the cubby, the stone floor was carpeted with sheepskin against the chill, and there was a thin sleeping mat, a small desk, and sitting cushions around it. Kinri noticed that the sleeping mat was woven out of pig’s-bristle grass, commonly found on seaside dunes. The rough material was familiar to him. It was popular among the peasantry of Rui and Dasu, and Master Nazu Tei had used it in her hut as well, but he had not seen it in houses in Ginpen.
There were multiple stands placed around the desk to hold up scrolls for reading and reference, fashioned out of bronze, ivory, or coral, clearly antiques or at least very refined, skillfully-made modern imitations. A writing set sat on the desk, consisting of an ivory-handled writing knife, a bronze wax-heating brazier, several blocks of orchid-infused whale wax, a dozen wolf’s-hair inking brushes in a bamboo brush pot, and three jade ink pots. Though Kinri was no connoisseur of fine writing implements, he could tell these were rare instruments of great beauty.
The cubby was like a pool of tranquility that calmed his tumultuous heart. It was good to be curious about something small, insignificant; it allowed him to ignore the waves of questions pounding at the very foundational myth of his being.
A tea set on the desk stuck out. In contrast to the finely crafted reading and writing instruments, the porcelain teapot and two ceramic cups were clearly crude pieces cheaply fired in a kiln for mass consumption. The teapot showed a garden scene, depicting flowers in a repetitive pattern that was meant to make life easier for the artisans who probably had to paint hundreds of the same pictures every day. One of the butterflies had a wing that was incomplete, as though the painter had been in such a hurry to finish their quota that they couldn’t be bothered to fix an obvious error.
Kinri picked up one of the teacups and turned it over. On the bottom was a crude drawing: a trapezoid with three curved lines coming out of the top.
He shivered. The design reminded him of the stylized representation of a garinafin common among the Lyucu, often carved into the handles of weapons or woven in decorative sinew patterns on kilts and vests. It was abstracted from the view of a garinafin’s head from above, and the three curving lines represented the two antlers and a sinuous tongue of flames.
How did a Lyucu design come to be on the bottom of a teacup in Dara?
He grabbed the cup, exited the cubby, and showed it to Arona.
“Do you know this sign?” asked Kinri. “What does it mean?”
Arona gave him an odd look and examined the cup closely, looking at it from every direction before handing it back. “Do you never go to pubs?”
Kinri shook his head. He had stayed away from pubs out of concern that he might inadvertently get into a fight or say something that gave away his identity when inebriated. He had even turned down invitations from Dandelion, who wanted to go to pubs for racier stories than the ones told at the teahouses.
“That explains it,” said Arona.
“What?”
“That design is called a three-legged jug. Trapezoidal jugs are drinking vessels dating from the early days of the Tiro states, reserved for nobles. No one uses them now except at big ceremonial occasions. Some pubs put pictures of them on their signs to give themselves a bit of class. The workmanship on that one, for example, is so poor that it must be from a very mediocre place.” Arona turned the cup so that the three curved lines were at the bottom of the inverted trapezoid. “See? The three-legged variety, also called a kunikin, is the most common. There are also jugs with four legs, five legs, six legs….”
Kinri sighed in relief. So it had been a case of mistaken identity. A drawing of a kunikin just happened to look exactly like the Lyucu sign for a garinafin.
He thanked her and returned to the cubby, setting the teacup back down. Arona’s explanation only added to the sense of mystery about the place. If the tea set had come from a common tavern or pub, it was completely incongruous with the rest of the equipment on the desk.
The cubby didn’t look like a storage area for books, like the rest of the library, but a place where someone could live among the books. In fact, it reminded Kinri of a poor scholar’s dormitory as Master Nazu Tei had described such places to him, where a common hall would be partitioned by thin screens into dozens of tiny cubbies to house the many impoverished scholars who went to the regional capitals to take the Provincial Examinations in hopes of attaining the rank of cashima.
What is this place? And who uses it?
Kinri couldn’t reconcile the contrasts in styles and class. The occupant of this space clearly loved writing and reading and had the resources to afford the best, and yet they slept on a peasantlike bed and used a tea set acquired or “borrowed” from a lowly pub.
He looked around at the bookcases that served as walls to the space, hoping to discover more clues.
In the middle of the largest shelf, a place of honor, there were two memorial tablets to the dead. These were common in Dara home shrines, stand-ins for the souls of revered ancestors and venerated lords, in front of which offerings of incense and food could be placed.
Both mourning tablets were of rough-hewn wood, adorned with large wax logograms, and then painted over in black. Instead of the creation of eminent monks at a large temple, these were homemade, as befitting objects of veneration in a private shrines meant for only one person.
