The Veiled Throne, page 54
At this moment, Volyu should be at Aluro’s Basin, putting on an act of obeisance to further lull the reveling Lyucu into complacency before their journey to Taten. Now that he was fully committed to the rebellion, Takval’s uncle, Théra reflected, had turned out to be a valuable ally—at least once he realized victory was possible and that he would get something out of it. Profit and gain moved even cowards to take great risks.
“It means a lot to all the thanes and warriors to go on the hunt,” said Gozofin. “Some of the young children have never experienced a festival of ten meats until now.” He swept his arm at the hubbub behind him. “They’re grateful to you, Théra.”
Théra smiled, glad that she could do something that gladdened every heart. She picked up a small redwing drumstick and dipped it in tolyusa sauce—not too much, for she was already feeling a bit light-headed—and enjoyed the succulent, juicy flesh, which practically melted against her tongue.
She glanced over at the children’s mat, next to the pékyu’s sitting rug, where the sons and daughters of thanes and high-ranking Dara advisers enjoyed easy-to-chew delicacies better suited for tender jaws and less sophisticated palates: buttery bone marrow served in vole skulls, roasted mouflon kidneys on fish-bone skewers, redwing intestines coiled like noodles (and tenderized with gash cactus sauce), honeyed berry and fruit compote, and so on. Kunilu-tika and Jian-tika were among them, as happy as children back home on New Year’s. Thoryo, though far too old to be considered a child, sat at the children’s mat by her own choice.
She looked over at the other side of the sitting rug, where Vara Ronalek had seated her family. Vara was the oldest thane in the valley, but she still rode the garinafin every day as though she were a teenager. She was the one who had adopted Toof and Radia into her clan, and because of her age and high reputation, none of the other Agon thanes had objected to the unusual decision. The two Lyucu were now sitting with her and her children, chatting and drinking. They nodded at Théra and smiled.
“How do you feel?” whispered Takval in her ear.
Startled, Théra took a moment to compose herself. “I’m not sure. I suppose I should feel excited. We haven’t ever had such a feast. But… somehow I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t real. I’m as nervous as they act.”
She pointed to the garinafins outside the oval of sitting rugs around the bonfire. For the feast, they were also given special treats: dried long-ear grass supposedly from the shores of Aluro’s Basin (Volyu had sent a shipment in late fall, a gift from one of the Lyucu tiger-thanes to reward the Pé-Afir-tekten’s loyalty to the Lyucu), dethorned gash cactus lobes, and tender, tongue-tingling vines cut from the sheer cliffs of the valley. A few of the garinafins, infected by the mood of the humans in the settlement and the deviation from routine, had been lowing impatiently all evening and scratching at the ground.
After their defeat by Tenryo, the scattered Agon tribes generally reverted back to the ancient ways of rearing garinafins to be closely bonded to their pilots—largely out of necessity, since it was no longer possible for isolated tribes to field huge armies of garinafins with interchangeable pilots in the manner pioneered by Pékyu Nobo Aragoz of the Agon and later adopted by the Lyucu.
Takval, however, had taken this further, mandating that adult garinafins should not be separated from their young and that their training should emphasize reward rather than punishment. Many of these ideas had come from Toof and Radia, and the Agon pékyu’s general kindness toward the garinafins had been in large part responsible for their ultimate decision to be adopted by the Agon.
“It’s natural to be nervous,” Takval tried to reassure her. “In a few weeks, we’ll be launching the attack on Taten and avenging both our peoples.”
Théra nodded, trying to look assured but failing.
“I know it’s your nature to always anticipate the future, to think about the next step,” said Takval. “But sometimes it’s important to remember what you’ve done. Look around us: The warriors have new weapons and are well fed; we eat foods both grown and hunted, cooked in the manner of two lands; many children who would have died in summer drought or winter storm now sport fat cheeks and strong limbs; our two peoples are dancing and laughing around the same fire.”
“But is it enough? Most of your people continue to have no interest in learning to read and write or studying the art of farming. Most of my people won’t be able to ride the garinafins with you into war. I’m afraid that our children—”
“There will always be a thousand ways you think things can be better, my breath. But without you, we wouldn’t have survived the chase beyond the Wall of Storms. Without you, either my uncle or I would be dead, instead of working toward the same goal. Without you, there would be no Kiri Valley, our children’s home and where the Agon and the Dara are learning to become one. Your mercy and strength must not be discounted. You did this, Théra. You made the alliance work.”
Tears flowed down her face silently. She wondered if the dead spirit of her father, on the other shore of the River-on-Which-Nothing-Floats, could see this scene of celebration. She wondered if her mother and brothers, weighed down with the duty to care for the people of Dara, could imagine that their salvation was at hand. She looked up at the moon and wondered if Zomi at that moment was also looking up into the sky, and whether she was thinking of Théra just as Théra was thinking of her.
She pulled Takval into a tight embrace, and he tilted her face up to give her a kiss. In the background, Agon and Dara voices cheered.
* * *
The next person to come to toast Takval and Théra was not an Agon thane at all.
“Don’t overdo it, Çami,” said Théra as she watched Takval and the Golden Carp scholar compete to see who could finish their skull bowl of kyoffir first. Çami Phithadapu was one of the few natives of Dara who could consume garinafin milk without any ill effects.
Çami turned her skull bowl upside down first to show that she was done, and she laughed as Takval sputtered in surprise at losing the contest.
“Show-off,” said Théra with a smile. “Don’t forget that he’s been drinking all night, holding all the thanes at bay by himself.”
Çami cocked a brow at Takval. “Pékyu, then I guess I should thank you for letting me win.”
Takval shook his head. “I wasn’t holding back. You have the soul of an Agon.”
“I’ve been told that I’m a natural on the back of a garinafin,” said Çami, quite pleased with herself. “Whether it’s whale whispering or garinafin riding, I guess big animals just like me.”
“Speaking of learning the ways of the Agon,” said Théra, “how’s your research into the arucuro tocua going?”
“Not great,” said Çami. “The pékyu was right about the construction technique being limited to toys.”
Since the startling revelation from her boys, Théra could not stop thinking about the bone beasts. She had pressed Takval and Agon elders for more information, but they had not been able to satisfy her curiosity. She had thus set Çami the task of learning all she could about the engineering technique.
“So you’ve found no instances where the technique was used at a larger scale?” asked Théra incredulously.
Çami shook her head. “Arucuro tocua appears to be widely known among the tribes of the scrublands, both Lyucu and Agon, and I’ve been shown multiple impressive toy models of artificial beasts able to move on their own with the power of wind or a swinging weight. Some of these are so clever that they rival any clockwork mechanism in Dara. Similar construction techniques are used for some objects employed in religious mysteries, but of course I didn’t see any of these.”
While Théra and her Dara advisers weren’t opposed to worshipping the Agon gods, the shamans had refused to allow them to participate in many mystery rituals, claiming that only the children of Afir could commune with the gods and the spirits of their ancestors. This was a mild source of tension at the settlement, but Théra didn’t push the matter, reasoning that the shamans likely perceived the Dara advisers, with their foreign knowledge, as a threat to their power.
“In any event, it doesn’t sound like objects used in secret religious rituals are what we’re looking for,” said Théra. “I’m talking about something big.”
“No, nothing like that,” said Çami. “No one could recall any instance of seeing arucuro tocua techniques applied to build large machines.”
“I just don’t understand it,” said Théra. “How can such sophisticated knowledge be limited solely to the realm of playthings?”
“What would we build big arucuro tocua for?” asked Takval, exasperated.
“You could make… mechanical beasts of burden!” offered Théra. “If you scaled it up properly.”
“These beasts of bone would move slower and carry less weight than living cattle or garinafin,” retorted Takval. “Worst of all, they’d move only at the whim of the wind, not under the instruction of a driver.”
A few other Dara generals and scholars, seeing that Çami seemed to be engaged in some deeper conversation with the pékyu and the princess, gathered around the sitting rug to listen to the discussion.
“What about in battle?” asked Théra.
“Again, a garinafin—or even a team of well-armed warriors on foot—would make short work of them,” said Takval.
Théra was stumped. She had thought the discovery of a native tradition of machinery and crafting would give her a new way of fighting against the Lyucu, but this was turning into a dead end.
“Actually, I don’t think it’s that unusual,” said Razutana, the Cultivationist scholar. He bit into a roasted prairie partridge, chewed loudly, and smacked his lips. A loud burp followed. “By the way, I must have the recipe for the sauce on this partridge!”
“What would your old classmates say if they saw you like this?” said Théra, laughing. “Didn’t Kon Fiji say that it is unseemly for a gentleman to show his teeth during a meal?”
“I’m paying a compliment to the chef!” said Razutana. “Kon Fiji also said that good manners change depending on whether one is dining with grand lords at the court of the King of Cocru or with peasants at a village tea shack. When in the scrublands, do as the Agon do.”
He’s certainly been living up to that adage, reflected Théra wryly. The scholar who once claimed that it was unseemly for a learned and virtuous man to sully his thoughts with implements of the kitchen had become one of the most avid cooks in the settlement, having invented numerous dishes that combined Dara and Agon techniques and ingredients. When questioned about his new hobby, Razutana had indignantly insisted that there was nothing inconsistent in a Cultivationist cultivating his taste buds and growing his appetite through the breeding of new recipes.
“I’m certainly not going to debate the teachings of the Ano sages against a clever tongue like yours,” said Théra. “But we’re running away from the topic. Do you really not find it odd that the art of making mechanical bone beasts is reserved only for playthings?”
Razutana nodded his head professorially as he went on. “Back in Dara, though the ancient Ano knew the secret of firework powder, they didn’t use it either for construction or warfare. Instead, fireworks were made only as a form of entertainment or an aid to religious celebration. It wasn’t until long after the Diaspora Wars that the people of Dara began to use firework powder for excavation and in battle.”
“Why didn’t they use it for those purposes before?” asked Takval. He had been suitably impressed by the effects of firework powder during the battle against the Lyucu city-ship, and was enthusiastic about producing more of it. In fact, collecting guano from caves in Kiri Valley to produce saltpeter for firework powder was one of the few suggestions from Dara advisers that the Agon thanes were excited about.
“Because it wasn’t suited to how wars were fought,” offered Commander Tipo Tho, very visibly pregnant. Gon Nméji, her husband, stood behind her, holding their two older children by their hands. Théra offered to have Tipo recline at their sitting rug, but she laughed and shrugged off the suggestion. “Once I lie down, getting up will be much harder. I prefer standing.”
“Can you explain more about why firework powder wasn’t suitable for old ways of fighting?” Takval persisted.
“During the Diaspora Wars, most battles involved small skirmishes in open fields and duels between well-trained champions wielding rare and expensive bronze weapons,” Tipo said. “It wasn’t until much later, as the population of Dara grew and iron weapons became common, that the Tiro states began to field large armies and conduct siege warfare, at which point the explosive property of firework powder became relevant.”
“A shark doesn’t think about riding battle kites,” said Gon Nméji, stroking his beard like some learned scholar. “And a sparrow cannot appreciate the use of a diving bell. Razutana, surely some Ano sage has said something like this, no?”
Razutana chuckled. “I’m afraid that I am not nearly learned enough to know of such a quote among the Ano sages.”
Tipo punched her husband in the shoulder. “Ha, think I don’t recognize a dig against aviators from a submariner? How come you get to be a shark and I’m compared to a sparrow? I’d say a Mingén falcon and a warty toad would be more apt.”
Gon rubbed his shoulder, wincing exaggeratedly. “Well, count this toad lucky then, ’cause I have you.”
Théra looked thoughtful. Steeped in the ways of Dara, she had imagined how the engineering principles behind arucuro tocua could be adapted to build self-locomoting machines. But the people of the scrublands had no cities and no habit of accumulating possessions. What was the point then of developing fragile, life-size bone beasts when there were plenty of living beasts about?
“I suppose arucuro tocua is a dead end,” she said to Çami. “Sorry I made you chase after a mirage.”
“Not at all,” said Çami. “I found it a lot of fun to study the bone beasts. They are nothing like real living animals, and yet they show so many clever ideas that rival the designs of gods. I’m thinking of writing a treatise about them.”
“If you do,” said Théra with a wry smile, “there won’t be many who can read it in the future. I can barely get my own children to study the Ano logograms, let alone interest the Agon children. The future of the Agon lies in literacy, but I cannot seem to convince anyone.”
“Don’t give up hope,” said Çami. “It took time to convince even my parents to let a girl learn to read. I’m sure—” But she never got to finish her sentence.
“Princess of Dara, do you pretend to know the future?”
Everyone turned. The speaker was an old woman whose back was bent like the crescent moon and whose white hair was as wispy and thin as the clumps of doetail on the edge of Lurodia Tanta. As she tottered closer, leaning on a staff that was even taller than she was, made from a garinafin wing bone, she seemed so frail that the next gust of wind could blow her away. But in her severe eyes there was nothing but fiery strength and cold fury. The crowd before Takval and Théra’s sitting rug parted wordlessly to make room for her. Takval and Théra stood up in deference.
“Tongue-of-the-Every-Mother,” exclaimed Takval. He bent down, filled a skull bowl with kyoffir, and reverently raised it with both hands. “Please, drink with me.”
The old woman was none other than Adyulek, the most senior shaman among all the shamans and god-dancers and spirit-painters who had joined the settlement of Kiri Valley. She spoke for Diaarura, the Every-Mother.
Adyulek handed her cane to a young woman named Sataari, her apprentice and assistant. With both hands, she carefully accepted the kyoffir from Takval. Takval filled another skull bowl, stood up, and drank first. Adyulek watched him with expressionless eyes, and when he was done, lifted her bowl to her lips. She drank with gusto and abandon, her leathery throat moving up and down like the neck of a swallowing tortoise, and in even less time than Takval, she held the bowl upside down to show that it was empty.
Only when Takval had humbly taken the empty skull bowl from her hand did she turn to look at the princess, her eyes as cold as Nalyufin’s light.
“I never claimed to know the future,” said Théra stiffly. Adyulek had made little effort to disguise her distaste and even contempt for the Dara princess, and she, in turn, had long ceased trying to win Adyulek over. “But I do know that there are things you can learn that will help the Agon people gain more control over the future. You don’t understand what writing is, and so you—”
“Do not presume, Princess of Dara,” said Adyulek. “You think me an ignorant barbarian who cannot understand the value of your supposed gift. But we paint scenes to celebrate great hunts and victories, we carve lines and circles to enumerate the births and deaths of our herds, we tie knots on strings to remember the promises of our ancestors—we know what it is to aid memory with tangible aids.” She grabbed her cane back from Sataari and held it up to show Théra the strands of twisted leather dangling from the knob at the top. Various knots were tied in them, all of different shapes and colors.
“Writing is far more than that. The methods you describe can help you remember, but they aren’t free from memory.” She pointed at one of the strands dangling from Adyulek’s cane and turned to Takval. “What does that strand mean?”
Takval looked like he would rather be anywhere but here. “I… I don’t know. I think it records an agreement.”
“The large red knot stands for Pékyu Akiga Aragoz,” said Adyulek. “And this large black knots stands for Thane Taal Tori, the chief of my tribe in the time before all the Agon were united under one banner. The three knots between them show the three conditions they negotiated when my tribe agreed to join Pékyu Akiga and become part—”
“Yes, yes,” said Théra impatiently, “but don’t you see the meaning of these knots is tied to your mind? The knots help you remember, but they are meaningless to anyone else, including the new pékyu here. With writing, even a stranger who knows nothing of the re-remembering of the Agon will be able to know exactly what the terms of that agreement were, just by reading the words—”
“It means a lot to all the thanes and warriors to go on the hunt,” said Gozofin. “Some of the young children have never experienced a festival of ten meats until now.” He swept his arm at the hubbub behind him. “They’re grateful to you, Théra.”
Théra smiled, glad that she could do something that gladdened every heart. She picked up a small redwing drumstick and dipped it in tolyusa sauce—not too much, for she was already feeling a bit light-headed—and enjoyed the succulent, juicy flesh, which practically melted against her tongue.
She glanced over at the children’s mat, next to the pékyu’s sitting rug, where the sons and daughters of thanes and high-ranking Dara advisers enjoyed easy-to-chew delicacies better suited for tender jaws and less sophisticated palates: buttery bone marrow served in vole skulls, roasted mouflon kidneys on fish-bone skewers, redwing intestines coiled like noodles (and tenderized with gash cactus sauce), honeyed berry and fruit compote, and so on. Kunilu-tika and Jian-tika were among them, as happy as children back home on New Year’s. Thoryo, though far too old to be considered a child, sat at the children’s mat by her own choice.
She looked over at the other side of the sitting rug, where Vara Ronalek had seated her family. Vara was the oldest thane in the valley, but she still rode the garinafin every day as though she were a teenager. She was the one who had adopted Toof and Radia into her clan, and because of her age and high reputation, none of the other Agon thanes had objected to the unusual decision. The two Lyucu were now sitting with her and her children, chatting and drinking. They nodded at Théra and smiled.
“How do you feel?” whispered Takval in her ear.
Startled, Théra took a moment to compose herself. “I’m not sure. I suppose I should feel excited. We haven’t ever had such a feast. But… somehow I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t real. I’m as nervous as they act.”
She pointed to the garinafins outside the oval of sitting rugs around the bonfire. For the feast, they were also given special treats: dried long-ear grass supposedly from the shores of Aluro’s Basin (Volyu had sent a shipment in late fall, a gift from one of the Lyucu tiger-thanes to reward the Pé-Afir-tekten’s loyalty to the Lyucu), dethorned gash cactus lobes, and tender, tongue-tingling vines cut from the sheer cliffs of the valley. A few of the garinafins, infected by the mood of the humans in the settlement and the deviation from routine, had been lowing impatiently all evening and scratching at the ground.
After their defeat by Tenryo, the scattered Agon tribes generally reverted back to the ancient ways of rearing garinafins to be closely bonded to their pilots—largely out of necessity, since it was no longer possible for isolated tribes to field huge armies of garinafins with interchangeable pilots in the manner pioneered by Pékyu Nobo Aragoz of the Agon and later adopted by the Lyucu.
Takval, however, had taken this further, mandating that adult garinafins should not be separated from their young and that their training should emphasize reward rather than punishment. Many of these ideas had come from Toof and Radia, and the Agon pékyu’s general kindness toward the garinafins had been in large part responsible for their ultimate decision to be adopted by the Agon.
“It’s natural to be nervous,” Takval tried to reassure her. “In a few weeks, we’ll be launching the attack on Taten and avenging both our peoples.”
Théra nodded, trying to look assured but failing.
“I know it’s your nature to always anticipate the future, to think about the next step,” said Takval. “But sometimes it’s important to remember what you’ve done. Look around us: The warriors have new weapons and are well fed; we eat foods both grown and hunted, cooked in the manner of two lands; many children who would have died in summer drought or winter storm now sport fat cheeks and strong limbs; our two peoples are dancing and laughing around the same fire.”
“But is it enough? Most of your people continue to have no interest in learning to read and write or studying the art of farming. Most of my people won’t be able to ride the garinafins with you into war. I’m afraid that our children—”
“There will always be a thousand ways you think things can be better, my breath. But without you, we wouldn’t have survived the chase beyond the Wall of Storms. Without you, either my uncle or I would be dead, instead of working toward the same goal. Without you, there would be no Kiri Valley, our children’s home and where the Agon and the Dara are learning to become one. Your mercy and strength must not be discounted. You did this, Théra. You made the alliance work.”
Tears flowed down her face silently. She wondered if the dead spirit of her father, on the other shore of the River-on-Which-Nothing-Floats, could see this scene of celebration. She wondered if her mother and brothers, weighed down with the duty to care for the people of Dara, could imagine that their salvation was at hand. She looked up at the moon and wondered if Zomi at that moment was also looking up into the sky, and whether she was thinking of Théra just as Théra was thinking of her.
She pulled Takval into a tight embrace, and he tilted her face up to give her a kiss. In the background, Agon and Dara voices cheered.
* * *
The next person to come to toast Takval and Théra was not an Agon thane at all.
“Don’t overdo it, Çami,” said Théra as she watched Takval and the Golden Carp scholar compete to see who could finish their skull bowl of kyoffir first. Çami Phithadapu was one of the few natives of Dara who could consume garinafin milk without any ill effects.
Çami turned her skull bowl upside down first to show that she was done, and she laughed as Takval sputtered in surprise at losing the contest.
“Show-off,” said Théra with a smile. “Don’t forget that he’s been drinking all night, holding all the thanes at bay by himself.”
Çami cocked a brow at Takval. “Pékyu, then I guess I should thank you for letting me win.”
Takval shook his head. “I wasn’t holding back. You have the soul of an Agon.”
“I’ve been told that I’m a natural on the back of a garinafin,” said Çami, quite pleased with herself. “Whether it’s whale whispering or garinafin riding, I guess big animals just like me.”
“Speaking of learning the ways of the Agon,” said Théra, “how’s your research into the arucuro tocua going?”
“Not great,” said Çami. “The pékyu was right about the construction technique being limited to toys.”
Since the startling revelation from her boys, Théra could not stop thinking about the bone beasts. She had pressed Takval and Agon elders for more information, but they had not been able to satisfy her curiosity. She had thus set Çami the task of learning all she could about the engineering technique.
“So you’ve found no instances where the technique was used at a larger scale?” asked Théra incredulously.
Çami shook her head. “Arucuro tocua appears to be widely known among the tribes of the scrublands, both Lyucu and Agon, and I’ve been shown multiple impressive toy models of artificial beasts able to move on their own with the power of wind or a swinging weight. Some of these are so clever that they rival any clockwork mechanism in Dara. Similar construction techniques are used for some objects employed in religious mysteries, but of course I didn’t see any of these.”
While Théra and her Dara advisers weren’t opposed to worshipping the Agon gods, the shamans had refused to allow them to participate in many mystery rituals, claiming that only the children of Afir could commune with the gods and the spirits of their ancestors. This was a mild source of tension at the settlement, but Théra didn’t push the matter, reasoning that the shamans likely perceived the Dara advisers, with their foreign knowledge, as a threat to their power.
“In any event, it doesn’t sound like objects used in secret religious rituals are what we’re looking for,” said Théra. “I’m talking about something big.”
“No, nothing like that,” said Çami. “No one could recall any instance of seeing arucuro tocua techniques applied to build large machines.”
“I just don’t understand it,” said Théra. “How can such sophisticated knowledge be limited solely to the realm of playthings?”
“What would we build big arucuro tocua for?” asked Takval, exasperated.
“You could make… mechanical beasts of burden!” offered Théra. “If you scaled it up properly.”
“These beasts of bone would move slower and carry less weight than living cattle or garinafin,” retorted Takval. “Worst of all, they’d move only at the whim of the wind, not under the instruction of a driver.”
A few other Dara generals and scholars, seeing that Çami seemed to be engaged in some deeper conversation with the pékyu and the princess, gathered around the sitting rug to listen to the discussion.
“What about in battle?” asked Théra.
“Again, a garinafin—or even a team of well-armed warriors on foot—would make short work of them,” said Takval.
Théra was stumped. She had thought the discovery of a native tradition of machinery and crafting would give her a new way of fighting against the Lyucu, but this was turning into a dead end.
“Actually, I don’t think it’s that unusual,” said Razutana, the Cultivationist scholar. He bit into a roasted prairie partridge, chewed loudly, and smacked his lips. A loud burp followed. “By the way, I must have the recipe for the sauce on this partridge!”
“What would your old classmates say if they saw you like this?” said Théra, laughing. “Didn’t Kon Fiji say that it is unseemly for a gentleman to show his teeth during a meal?”
“I’m paying a compliment to the chef!” said Razutana. “Kon Fiji also said that good manners change depending on whether one is dining with grand lords at the court of the King of Cocru or with peasants at a village tea shack. When in the scrublands, do as the Agon do.”
He’s certainly been living up to that adage, reflected Théra wryly. The scholar who once claimed that it was unseemly for a learned and virtuous man to sully his thoughts with implements of the kitchen had become one of the most avid cooks in the settlement, having invented numerous dishes that combined Dara and Agon techniques and ingredients. When questioned about his new hobby, Razutana had indignantly insisted that there was nothing inconsistent in a Cultivationist cultivating his taste buds and growing his appetite through the breeding of new recipes.
“I’m certainly not going to debate the teachings of the Ano sages against a clever tongue like yours,” said Théra. “But we’re running away from the topic. Do you really not find it odd that the art of making mechanical bone beasts is reserved only for playthings?”
Razutana nodded his head professorially as he went on. “Back in Dara, though the ancient Ano knew the secret of firework powder, they didn’t use it either for construction or warfare. Instead, fireworks were made only as a form of entertainment or an aid to religious celebration. It wasn’t until long after the Diaspora Wars that the people of Dara began to use firework powder for excavation and in battle.”
“Why didn’t they use it for those purposes before?” asked Takval. He had been suitably impressed by the effects of firework powder during the battle against the Lyucu city-ship, and was enthusiastic about producing more of it. In fact, collecting guano from caves in Kiri Valley to produce saltpeter for firework powder was one of the few suggestions from Dara advisers that the Agon thanes were excited about.
“Because it wasn’t suited to how wars were fought,” offered Commander Tipo Tho, very visibly pregnant. Gon Nméji, her husband, stood behind her, holding their two older children by their hands. Théra offered to have Tipo recline at their sitting rug, but she laughed and shrugged off the suggestion. “Once I lie down, getting up will be much harder. I prefer standing.”
“Can you explain more about why firework powder wasn’t suitable for old ways of fighting?” Takval persisted.
“During the Diaspora Wars, most battles involved small skirmishes in open fields and duels between well-trained champions wielding rare and expensive bronze weapons,” Tipo said. “It wasn’t until much later, as the population of Dara grew and iron weapons became common, that the Tiro states began to field large armies and conduct siege warfare, at which point the explosive property of firework powder became relevant.”
“A shark doesn’t think about riding battle kites,” said Gon Nméji, stroking his beard like some learned scholar. “And a sparrow cannot appreciate the use of a diving bell. Razutana, surely some Ano sage has said something like this, no?”
Razutana chuckled. “I’m afraid that I am not nearly learned enough to know of such a quote among the Ano sages.”
Tipo punched her husband in the shoulder. “Ha, think I don’t recognize a dig against aviators from a submariner? How come you get to be a shark and I’m compared to a sparrow? I’d say a Mingén falcon and a warty toad would be more apt.”
Gon rubbed his shoulder, wincing exaggeratedly. “Well, count this toad lucky then, ’cause I have you.”
Théra looked thoughtful. Steeped in the ways of Dara, she had imagined how the engineering principles behind arucuro tocua could be adapted to build self-locomoting machines. But the people of the scrublands had no cities and no habit of accumulating possessions. What was the point then of developing fragile, life-size bone beasts when there were plenty of living beasts about?
“I suppose arucuro tocua is a dead end,” she said to Çami. “Sorry I made you chase after a mirage.”
“Not at all,” said Çami. “I found it a lot of fun to study the bone beasts. They are nothing like real living animals, and yet they show so many clever ideas that rival the designs of gods. I’m thinking of writing a treatise about them.”
“If you do,” said Théra with a wry smile, “there won’t be many who can read it in the future. I can barely get my own children to study the Ano logograms, let alone interest the Agon children. The future of the Agon lies in literacy, but I cannot seem to convince anyone.”
“Don’t give up hope,” said Çami. “It took time to convince even my parents to let a girl learn to read. I’m sure—” But she never got to finish her sentence.
“Princess of Dara, do you pretend to know the future?”
Everyone turned. The speaker was an old woman whose back was bent like the crescent moon and whose white hair was as wispy and thin as the clumps of doetail on the edge of Lurodia Tanta. As she tottered closer, leaning on a staff that was even taller than she was, made from a garinafin wing bone, she seemed so frail that the next gust of wind could blow her away. But in her severe eyes there was nothing but fiery strength and cold fury. The crowd before Takval and Théra’s sitting rug parted wordlessly to make room for her. Takval and Théra stood up in deference.
“Tongue-of-the-Every-Mother,” exclaimed Takval. He bent down, filled a skull bowl with kyoffir, and reverently raised it with both hands. “Please, drink with me.”
The old woman was none other than Adyulek, the most senior shaman among all the shamans and god-dancers and spirit-painters who had joined the settlement of Kiri Valley. She spoke for Diaarura, the Every-Mother.
Adyulek handed her cane to a young woman named Sataari, her apprentice and assistant. With both hands, she carefully accepted the kyoffir from Takval. Takval filled another skull bowl, stood up, and drank first. Adyulek watched him with expressionless eyes, and when he was done, lifted her bowl to her lips. She drank with gusto and abandon, her leathery throat moving up and down like the neck of a swallowing tortoise, and in even less time than Takval, she held the bowl upside down to show that it was empty.
Only when Takval had humbly taken the empty skull bowl from her hand did she turn to look at the princess, her eyes as cold as Nalyufin’s light.
“I never claimed to know the future,” said Théra stiffly. Adyulek had made little effort to disguise her distaste and even contempt for the Dara princess, and she, in turn, had long ceased trying to win Adyulek over. “But I do know that there are things you can learn that will help the Agon people gain more control over the future. You don’t understand what writing is, and so you—”
“Do not presume, Princess of Dara,” said Adyulek. “You think me an ignorant barbarian who cannot understand the value of your supposed gift. But we paint scenes to celebrate great hunts and victories, we carve lines and circles to enumerate the births and deaths of our herds, we tie knots on strings to remember the promises of our ancestors—we know what it is to aid memory with tangible aids.” She grabbed her cane back from Sataari and held it up to show Théra the strands of twisted leather dangling from the knob at the top. Various knots were tied in them, all of different shapes and colors.
“Writing is far more than that. The methods you describe can help you remember, but they aren’t free from memory.” She pointed at one of the strands dangling from Adyulek’s cane and turned to Takval. “What does that strand mean?”
Takval looked like he would rather be anywhere but here. “I… I don’t know. I think it records an agreement.”
“The large red knot stands for Pékyu Akiga Aragoz,” said Adyulek. “And this large black knots stands for Thane Taal Tori, the chief of my tribe in the time before all the Agon were united under one banner. The three knots between them show the three conditions they negotiated when my tribe agreed to join Pékyu Akiga and become part—”
“Yes, yes,” said Théra impatiently, “but don’t you see the meaning of these knots is tied to your mind? The knots help you remember, but they are meaningless to anyone else, including the new pékyu here. With writing, even a stranger who knows nothing of the re-remembering of the Agon will be able to know exactly what the terms of that agreement were, just by reading the words—”
