The Veiled Throne, page 87
You want to change the hearts of the people. You want to rouse them from the slumber of peace to the frenzy of war. You want to force my hand.
But you haven’t thought it through. You don’t understand the consequences, and the consequences of the consequences.
She dripped a clump of red wax at the end and carved DENIED.
There was a letter from Gori Ruthi. Like most letters from Moralists, it was prolix and tedious. Forcing herself to be patient, Jia read all the way through.
There were two things of interest. The first concerned Aya Mazoti. As she had suspected, the princess was no military genius, but that didn’t make her useless. Despite all of Gori Ruthi’s attempts to slant the narrative, Jia could discern the truth between the lines. Yes, Aya was insecure and burdened with the weight of her lineage, but even so, she cared about the lives of the people she was charged with leading. Despite multiple errors, no one had died under her command. Her first instinct wasn’t to gain herself the greatest glory by capturing pirates, but to rescue the survivors of the pirate raid on the wrecked ship—certainly Gori Ruthi neglected to mention the precautions she must have taken so that the booby trap didn’t kill anyone. All in all, she was rather satisfied with the young woman’s performance.
The second was the point about no evidence of pirate abductions of people of skill near Dimu and Dimushi. This required more thinking. Tanvanaki could not be underestimated. She had to figure out what was going on… not just because the Lyucu must not be allowed to steal Dara’s people and knowledge, but also because the answer could be the solution to another problem that had been plaguing her.
She sat by the desk, lost in thought, until dawn peeked through the window.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE A CURSE
GINPEN: THE SIXTH MONTH IN THE NINTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF SEASON OF STORMS AND THE REIGN OF AUDACIOUS FREEDOM (TWENTY-THREE MONTHS UNTIL THE REOPENING OF THE WALL OF STORMS).
Sixteen-year-old Pénozy yawned and pushed opened the doors of the Splendid Urn just as the sun peeked over the walls of Ginpen.
Though she still had the physique of a healthy peasant girl used to heavy labor, she was already finding it difficult to get up as early as she had a few months ago, before she left her parents in the village to take this job her cousin had found for her. There were just so many more fun things to do in the city, and she and her friends had once again stayed out late last night for drinks and street snacks after ogling the gaudy edifice that was the Treasure Chest.
Pénozy smiled at the memory. Laborers were trying to install a strange kind of lamps in the restaurant—silkmotic torches, she heard others say—very expensive and delicate. Tiphan Huto, the boss of the Treasure Chest, had been screaming at the workmen to be careful. Through the open windows of the restaurant, she and her friends had giggled at the sight of the rotund man jumping up and down like a spooked rooster, his face bright red and his voice so high-pitched that the neighborhood dogs barked.
She sighed, hoping that Grand Mistress Wasu would figure out a way to beat that nasty man and his palace-like restaurant—though it did look so impressive.
The early morning summer air was pleasantly cool, and the clean tables and benches behind her gleamed in the dawn light. Time to get to work.
Pénozy squinted against the bright sun and bowed. “Welcome to the Splendid Urn, masters and mistresses.”
Breakfast service wasn’t a big moneymaker for the Urn, as most wealthy patrons didn’t hold parties or schedule meetings in the morning. In fact, most of the breakfast patrons who came to the Urn tended to be poor scholars who wanted to get an early start on a long day of studying and unmarried laborers in the neighborhood on their way to work. Living in cramped tenements with communal kitchens meant that breakfast was always a chaotic affair, requiring one to get up early to secure a place in the crowded kitchen and then cook under the impatient gazes of latecomers. Those who preferred to avoid the stress sometimes went hungry.
Widow Wasu had always insisted that her restaurants all across Dara serve this clientele with affordable options. Besides having a natural sympathy for men and women who reminded her of her own humble origins—(“The lonely stevedores and morning-soil maids especially need someone to hand them a warm bowl of bean milk with a smile”)—she also thought it was smart business to be in the good graces of neighborhood residents. One never knew when the restaurant might need to call on those same laborers and poor scholars to help put out a fire or to sign a petition to the magistrate in support of the restaurant’s application for a bigger carriage parking lot and guest stable.
Thus, although most of the Urn’s breakfast patrons wouldn’t dream of paying the kind of prices charged for lunch and dinner, they were happy to stop by the Urn for a bowl of sweet bean milk and a couple of hot knot fritters before going off to work. Mati always made the bean milk smell so good with a sprinkling of Cocru herbs and flowers, and the knot fritters were so crisp that they cheered you right up when they crunched against your teeth. Lodan also made sure that the waiters and waitresses treated these one-copper customers with just as much respect as they did the twenty-gold customers later in the day.
Pénozy straightened up and realized that no one was lined up in front of the restaurant. Surprised and confused, she stepped out into the street and looked around. A group of laborers and scholars stood around the large parasol tree that shaded the entrance to the Splendid Urn, pointing up and chatting amongst themselves anxiously.
“… not a good sign…”
“… never seen anything like it… only on this tree…”
“… a curse, I heard. Didn’t believe it at first…”
Gingerly, Pénozy shuffled closer and shaded her eyes to get a clearer look. The parasol tree did look a bit odd. There was a kind of haze that softened the clean outlines of the leaves and branches….
And what are those dangling strands that look like tassels at the rim of a real parasol? Oh, wasn’t that a pretty parasol Tasana and I saw at Temple Square the other day? That lady was so elegant. Anyway, let me take a closer look at these strands. They’re so silky and thick…. I didn’t know parasol trees had flowers or fruits like that…. Huh, something heavy, like beads, seem to hang from the end of each. There’s a breeze passing through now. Feels so nice… wait, are the beads wiggling on their own? Oops, I think one of them just fell on me—
She screamed. The creature that fell on her neck was as long as a finger, and covered by fuzz. Frantically, she tried to brush it away, and it ended up on her arm. Wherever it touched, she felt as though she had been pricked, and then a burning sensation spread across the skin.
Hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of caterpillars dangled on silk strands from the parasol tree. The entire tree was covered in a gauzy gossamer cocoon.
* * *
By the time the torches had singed away most of the caterpillars and hired laborers had trimmed off most of the silk-choked branches, it was long past time for lunch service. Mota Kiphi had led the workers, fearlessly lopping off thick branches with a single swing of the axe. Without his example, it was doubtful if the others would have dared to approach the evil-looking cocoons.
Lots of caterpillars still remained on the tree, but short of cutting the tree down, it would be hard to completely eliminate them. Lodan paid the laborers—several of whom had suffered painful, ugly rashes from caterpillars falling on them—and called a stop to the extermination effort. A crowd had gathered around the Splendid Urn to witness this horrific sight, though few came in to eat.
“This is the third day something strange has happened at the restaurant,” fretted Widow Wasu. She sat in her bedroom, and a young maid gently massaged her tense shoulders.
“It could just be coincidences,” offered Mati, though she didn’t sound at all convinced. Lodan, who sat next to her, held her hand.
Since Teson Wasu, the manager, was busy dealing with the crowd of onlookers and trying to reassure spooked staff, and Néfi Ézugo, the head chef, was still too weak to get out of bed, Widow Wasu was convening this meeting with Mati and Lodan, who she thought of as her two generals in this war. Just as Mati was in charge of the food competition, Lodan would be in charge of the service competition.
“I don’t think so,” said the widow. “The day before yesterday, two vegetable vendors’ carts had their axles break just as they turned the corner for our delivery door. Yesterday, a pack of feral dogs just happened to surround the restaurant around dinnertime, barking up a storm and leaving their shit everywhere. And today, caterpillars ruined that old parasol tree and breakfast. How could so many unfortunate things be happening all at once?”
“Grand Mistress, do you think Tiphan Huto is behind this?” asked Lodan.
“Of course he is!” said Widow Wasu. “It’s just… we can’t prove it. That man is slimy but careful.”
“But what does he hope to accomplish?” asked Mati. “Sure, he’s disturbing our customers, but that’s not going to help him win.”
The Treasure Chest’s renovations were almost complete, and the second round of the competition was scheduled to be held in a week. In order to isolate the competition to service and remove food from consideration, Lolotika Tuné and Séca Thu had drawn up rules that dictated that the two restaurants would serve the same dishes to capacity crowds. The judges—a different panel from the last time and whose identities were secret—would be divided between the two venues. Mixed in with the customers, they would observe the staff to determine which was most worthy of the title of Best Restaurant in Ginpen in the manner they took care of their diners.
“I’ll talk to Kinri and the Blossom Gang about some ways to keep watch and prevent more sabotage,” said Mati.
Mati was confident of victory. As much as the kitchen crew liked working for her and Head Chef Néfi Ézugo, she knew that the waitstaff respected and liked Lodan. The Splendid Urn’s turnover was low because a job there was coveted. Not only did Teson Wasu pay well, but there were generous bonuses at New Year and High Autumn, and Widow Wasu even loaned money to former staff members who wanted to start their own businesses or learn a trade. To be part of the Splendid Urn was to be part of a family.
Lodan took the time to train her staff, and everyone knew what to do when it got busy. Teson, the manager, had also always followed his mother’s direction to keep standards high and to make sure every customer felt like they were welcome and got the best service, no matter how much or how little they bought. To be sure, for the competition, the staff would have to learn a new menu. But considering how often Néfi and Mati changed the menu throughout the year based on the availability of ingredients—both of them believed in buying local as much as possible to ensure the freshest taste—it shouldn’t be a big deal.
The Treasure Chest, on the other hand, was working with a green crew who hadn’t been together long enough to develop trust and routine, and Tiphan Huto seemed to have a reputation as an impatient manager who liked to meddle in things he didn’t understand. The soft opening of the Treasure Chest a few weeks earlier, a sort of trial run for the competition, had been a disaster. The place had been filled with curious diners who wanted to sample the amazing dishes that had defeated the Splendid Urn at the first round of the competition, but Mozo’s kitchen couldn’t keep up, and the waitstaff, many of them hired because they asked for the lowest salaries, was unfamiliar with the complicated menu and got many orders wrong. An enraged Tiphan had fired the shift manager on the spot and threw a tantrum in the middle of the restaurant, ending dinner service rather ignominiously.
“If these weird disruptions really were planned by Tiphan,” said Lodan hesitantly, “then they might be having an effect already.”
Widow Wasu sighed. “I was worried about that.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mati.
“There are rumors that the Splendid Urn is cursed, which is why we’re being plagued with unclean dogs and bad accidents,” said Lodan. “A lot of the staff are worried and think we should ask the monks at the Temple of Lutho for an exorcism.”
Mati was surprised. She had never believed in curses and evil spirits. Her attitude wasn’t too unusual in the big cities. The scholars who studied the Ano Classics generally followed Kon Fiji’s precept that the learned should respect gods and spirits but not rely on them to explain everything. Ocara ça pihu ügi i adinagacaü phi ki crudiçadi i ané co caça-ga ki radotré lunagaü (“Keep the gods at arm’s length lest you yield your free will”), as the One True Sage put it in his Meditations. Or, as Poti Maji glossed in a less diplomatic manner later, “Studying Moralism will yield a thousand times the benefit of burning incense and chanting mystical nonsense.”
Mati, not being a scholar herself, had come to reject superstition by another path. Her family, poor tenant farmers in Cocru, had lost everything due to drought, heavy taxes, and constant warfare. Repeated prayers to the gods had yielded no discernible benefit, and Mati had come to the conclusion that the gods were no more likely to help an ordinary person than to actively seek their destruction. It was simply too arrogant to presume that the gods would bother with cursing or blessing mere commoners. If the gods cared about people at all, they only cared about the grand lords and ladies.
Upon reflection, Mati realized that many of the waitstaff had come from poor but pious families particularly susceptible to superstition. They had neither the scholars’ privilege of wealth and status nor her experience of losing everything despite prayers. To them, the idea that prayers to the gods could offer some influence over the vicissitudes of daily life was a source of comfort.
“I’ll go to the Great Temple of Lutho right away,” said Mati. “Maybe an exorcism will restore the faith of the staff and get them to focus on preparing for the competition.”
“No!” said Widow Wasu, shaking her head vigorously. “That is the one thing we must not do.”
“But why?” asked Lodan and Mati together.
Widow Wasu didn’t get to answer their question because Pénozy rushed into the room at that moment. “The monks are here!”
* * *
Kinri and Dandelion stood on the side of the street in front of the restaurant, slack-jawed at the spectacle.
Eight nuns dressed in somber black robes were dancing and chanting in front of the Splendid Urn, holding ritual implements that invoked the power of Lutho. Behind them, a team of novitiates played wooden instruments, which were dedicated to Lutho: clappers, rhythm sticks, xylophones, singing casks filled with different amounts of water. And behind them, a still larger team of lay assistants held aloft incense braziers on bamboo poles, saturating the street with fragrant, thick smoke.
The crowd murmured.
“That’s an impressive exorcism team!”
“How much do you think Widow Wasu paid to get eight nuns to come?”
“Do you see how many turtle-patches are on that one’s robes? She must be very senior in the temple.”
“Why did the temple send nuns instead of monks?”
“Have you forgotten that the owner of the Urn is a widow? It would be improper for monks to enter her private quarters, should that become necessary.”
The nuns chanted louder, their voices eerie and strident, careening all over the musical scale. Several in the large crowd that had gathered to watch the exorcism shivered and held their hands together as they prayed.
Go éphy othé kri-é-ga-mu-a
Patemé po gé tha pa-pi-za-ü!
Go éphy othé kri-é-ga-mu-a
Patemé po gé tha pa-pi-za-ü!
“Do you have any idea what they’re chanting?” whispered Kinri. “Something something wild seas? Something praise something begone?”
Dandelion shrugged. “No idea. I’m not even sure it’s really Classical Ano. But I’m no expert on temple rituals.”
Through the smoke, the nuns danced toward the parasol tree—which now resembled less a parasol than a fork, as most of the branches had been pruned away.
Four of the nuns carried a large machine in the shape of a turtle by its four feet. The machine appeared to be fashioned out of some dark-colored wood, and the features of the turtle were carefully carved to be lifelike but also to display an august wisdom. As the nuns carried the turtle through the smoky fog, dancing three steps forward before pulling back two, it seemed to be swimming through a turbulent sea.
“An aunt of mine would have enjoy watching this,” whispered Dandelion. “She was a smokecrafter and knew all about how to stage good shows with vapor and fumes.”
Kinri was about to ask for more, but the team of nuns had reached the parasol tree. While the four nuns holding up the turtle swayed and rocked in place, one of the other nuns ducked under the turtle, inserted the snake-shaped staff in her hand into a hole in the plastron, and began to crank it rapidly.
The eyes of the turtle glowed with a strange blue light. The crowd grew more excited.
“Is that really magic?” whispered Kinri.
“Maybe,” said Dandelion. “But… let’s just watch.”
The three other nuns danced near the head of the turtle, waving their ritual implements, which resembled long-handled whips or short flails. Then, as they sped up their chant, they attached the “whips” to the turtle’s head—the tips of the thin, soft thongs went into the turtle’s mouth, while the nuns held on to the handles.
Then, waving the long handles like wands, the nuns quickened their chants, now sounding like war cries. As they twirled the wands about, they peered through the thick smoke in every direction, searching for evil spirits.
With a loud cry, one of the nuns leapt at the parasol tree. She reached into the lapel of her robe with her left hand and sprinkled something on the trunk of the parasol tree, then she touched the wand, still connected to the giant turtle, to the same spot.
A blinding explosion lit up that part of the trunk. Through the thick incense smoke, it looked like the eruption of a tiny volcano. The crowd gasped, and some of the young children began to cry as their mothers tried to reassure them.
