Abeni’s shock was clear on his face. “The Queen of the Djin seeks to divide her own people?” But Shaleen shook her head.
“No, such is not her aim. The Queen does not seek to divide Djin from Wasketchin, nor House from House. She sees no further than her own wants, and what she wants is to join herself to power.”
“It is true,” Zimu said. “Our King is but a chalice, filled with the liquor of his Queen’s ambition.”
Shaleen sighed, shaking her head sadly. “I had hoped when we named him to the throne that he would have time to grow into his wisdom,” Shaleen said. “We did not know he would need it so quickly upon the heels of his Oath. His love has closed his eyes to her hunger.”
“It makes him thin,” Zimu said. “And now we see through him, to the hand of an ambitious Queen upon his spine. She sees her chance of greatness held out before her eyes by the hand of the Gnome King, and she cannot look away from it. If we are to bend Mabundi at all, we must first bend the Queen.”
“Or oppose her,” Abeni said, but Shaleen shook her head.
“There is nothing to be gained from opposing,” she said. “Not alone. We must seek the mood of the other Houses. Many think as Mabundi does—that we must appease Angiron now, and draw out for time—but all do not agree. We must find another way.”
“And we must find it quickly,” Zimu said. “Before the true hand behind the King is revealed, and found to be clenched about the spines of all Djin.”
“The Queen,” Abeni said, and the others nodded. Except for Tayna.
“No,” she said, surprised that they had missed it. “The real hand is Angiron’s.”
And slowly, three pairs of eyes around the table began to widen in understanding. House Kijamon had finally recognized its true foe.
* * *
“They dare stoop to such tactics? For a ‘Ketch girl?”
Mabundi watched as his wife raged across the floor. The Gnome Ambassador stood by as well, watching quietly now that his news had been delivered.
“And you’re sure there has been no mistake? They’ve Included her? Offered the Keshwa-Ji?”
“That was their answer to my petition,” Quishek replied. “No unbound has been found on their holdings, they said. And when I asked about the girl who arrived yesterday, they informed me that she has been formally accepted into House Kijamon. She is bound. And so the matter falls to the King to decide.” Quishek bowed and stepped back.
“They mock you, my husband!”
Mabundi turned from the Ambassador to look at his wife. She had stopped her pacing and was now twisting and clenching her hands in fury.
“Do you not see? Having been told that you would let the matter be settled by traditional laws—between their House and our esteemed neighbor Gnomes—they seek to defy your wisdom! They’ve Included her simply to show you that they can do whatever they wish. They forge laughter from your crown!”
“They do seem to have twisted the King’s intentions…” Quishek added.
Mabundi frowned. Could House Kijamon really be making such mockery of him? He hadn’t thought the Master of the Wind Forge capable of such low politics, but then, maybe he’d never seen the true face of Kijamon’s ambition before. Still, he must not rush to judgment.
“Summon her,” Mabundi said, waving at an attendant who had been standing near the door. “Have her brought to me. Here. After full sun, tomorrow.”
“Here?” Yoliq shouted. “You would honor their treachery by receiving the girl in the Hall of Flame?”
Mabundi raised his palms, trying to ward off the worst of his wife’s temper. “She has been Included. She must be welcomed in a manner suited to her House,” he said.
But his wife’s fury only deepened. “Oh, of course,” she cried. “You sent a plain and simple message only to have it flaunted in your face, so now that you send another, by all means, permit them all the privileges their deviousness has earned them. Concede defeat before they even come.”
Was she right? Had Kijamon really been playing him the fool?
“Whether the Keshwa-Ji has been performed or not, who can say?” Quishek said. “Were the proper forms observed? Has the Inclusion been recorded in the Hall of Histories?” Then he stepped forward and knelt formally before the Anvil Seat, and Mabundi pulled back just a trifle. “Can a Wasketchin even be Included?” the Gnome continued. “If not, it would be a dangerous precedent to establish. But none could fault the King of all Djin for receiving a common Wasketchin in the Hall of Wind. That he received her at all should be honor enough.”
Mabundi sat back in the Seat and pondered. Had there ever been a Wasketchin Included before? He could not recall. Perhaps Yoliq was right. It was a minor enough concession to keep peace in his marriage. And besides, she might be right about this matter as well. She had a much better head than he for these kinds of subtleties. Mabundi waved his hand. “So be it,” he said to the attendant, who had been standing there, waiting for a final decision.
“Have her summoned to the Hall of Wind.”
* * *
When word reached Kijamon that Mabundi had summoned a member of his House to a meeting in the Hall of Wind, the old man did something entirely unexpected.
He closed the Wind Forge.
For the first time in memory, the great manufactury that hung suspended over the Djin’s prized city of artisans and craftsmen stood silent in the morning sun. All assistants, porters, suppliers, and tradesmen were sent away. No forges burned. No hammers rang. No voices called out in the friendly camaraderie of creative production. House Kijamon was closed for the day.
Then Kijamon did a second unexpected thing. He called his family to attend him upon the great balcony that surrounded their now-silent home.
To speak of politics.
In order to understand the full import of these two events, one must be reminded of Kijamon’s history. On three separate occasions in the past, a cluster of aging Djin had made their way up the Trail of Sky to stand before Kijamon in his forge. Each time, their mission had been the same. They had come to offer him the crown, to make him King of all Djin. And each time he had refused.
Kijamon had no patience for the petty squabbling of critics and cowards. “Politics is chickens in a hen house,” he often said, “writing policies and protocols for the governing of foxes, when only the chickens can read.”
More importantly, each time he had refused them, he had done so with a single word—“No”—after which, he would refuse to speak any syllable more on the matter. He had not even done his guests the courtesy of turning away from his work to hear their pleas. The forges ran, messengers and helpers came and went, and all around the wise heads, the foxes of Kijamon’s enterprise continued their pace of production.
But today, Kijamon had closed the forge.
To speak of politics.
Tayna and Abeni arrived just behind Zimu, and followed him out onto the sweeping terrace that emerged from the buttress ramps on either side and stretched outward, surrounding the Wind Forge in a grand gallery. They found Kijamon waiting for them near the middle, gazing up along the shoulder of the Anvil at the Bloodcap, which towered above them, a deep red wedge holding up the sky. Shaleen stood quietly by his side.
“It comes to my mind,” Kijamon said, not looking away from the mountain’s peak, but beginning to speak as soon as the family was gathered around him, “that the time has come for the House to take action.”
And with those words, Kijamon began to outline his plan for securing the honor of the Anvil Seat and all Djin.
This was not the kindly and somewhat distracted father figure Tayna had seen around the family table. This was the imposing Kijamon she had observed when she’d first arrived. This was the Kijamon of legend. The Kijamon who had three times been offered the crown. Questions and answers swirled around him as he drew each member of his House into the web of his penetrating intellect. Once more, Tayna felt as though she had been plugged into some vast computer system that extracted
information from her and hundreds of other sources with surgical precision, sorted it all together, analyzed it, sought new updates, refined it all, and ultimately, shaped it into a vast and glittering whole. A sculpture of understanding.
When he first began to speak, Tayna had been surprised that he did not want to talk about the snub Mabundi had offered his House by summoning her to the Hall of Wind. “It is a sign only,” Kijamon had said. “A sign of how gravely Mabundi stumbles. To respond to the sign would be folly. We must seek the cause of his stumble and attend to that instead.” So this is what he had proceeded to do. And when he was finished, House Kijamon had a plan. Six people, each with a task, and each task uniquely suited to their skills and to their current situations.
Sarqi, appropriately, was charged with remaining in the Throat and serving as Ambassador. The family had no illusions as to their son’s true status in Angiron’s Court, of course, so there was no point in setting him any task that his captivity would preclude him from performing. But as Ambassador, it was possible that he might gain access to useful information, so it only made sense to confirm him in that duty. Unfortunately, it was beyond Kijamon’s power to appoint Sarqi as Ambassador to the Anvil Seat, so he had made the appointment that he was empowered to make, and had declared Sarqi to be House Kijamon’s ambassador to the Gnomes.
To Shaleen was given the daunting task of trying to establish communication with the House’s new ambassador. “Not much point in acquiring the information if he can’t get it back to the rest of us,” Kijamon had said. Upon being given the task though, his wife had simply nodded, announcing that, while she had no idea how this might be accomplished, she would put her question to the Dragon and see what answers might come. To Tayna, that sounded an awful lot like praying for help, but it was Kijamon himself—the ruling champion of reason and self-sufficiency—who corrected her. “Shaleen does not appeal to a higher power to solve her problems for her,” he said with a laugh. “No, putting a question to the Dragon is simply a way of focusing the mind on a single problem, and then opening yourself to the solutions that are being whispered at every moment by the world around you. It is a practice rich with inspiration, and one that every artist uses, whether they know it or not.”
But if Tayna had been surprised by his support of prayer, she was doubly startled when he had turned his gaze next on her, and given her a project too. And it was not some little “keep busy” task either.
“The Anvil Seat has shown its misguided back to its friends and neighbors for too long,” Kijamon said. “While it is understandable that the weight of a new king’s crown might sometimes cause him to stumble, we who are loyal to that crown must not let it strike the ground if it should bobble from his head as a result.”
The upshot was that Tayna had been charged with seeking out maps of the undertowns. In the old days, before the Dragon’s Peace, many Djin had lived in stone caverns, dug into the rocky bulk of the Plateau. But since the terms of the Peace had ceded all holdings lower than the surface of the Plateau to the other Peoples, most of the subterranean villages had long been abandoned by the Djin. Rightfully, they now belonged to the Wasketchin. But aside from a few wanderers—scatterlings, the Djin called them—those neighbors had never taken up their claim, because the undertowns could only be accessed from the surface of the Plateau, which was entirely within Djin territory. Those difficulties now seemed trifling, of course, so the time had come for the rightful owners of the undertowns to take possession, even if only for a short while. And to do that, they would need maps and information.
Tayna gulped when the duty was assigned to her, but she accepted it. Nobody had ever trusted her with something important before, and her skin was buzzing with excitement as Kijamon’s attention swept past her, and the plan continued to unfold.
To Abeni had fallen the task of reaching out to the Wasketchin King. Not as an official emissary of the Djin People, but as another ambassador of House Kijamon. While Tayna was busy acquiring the necessary maps, it would be up to Abeni to outfit a relief mission, and to that end, Kijamon had pledged the full resources of the House. With such backing, Abeni would be easily able to produce whatever goods or equipment he might deem necessary for helping their scattered neighbors to their new lodgings. Once the maps and the equipment were ready, Abeni and Tayna would then seek out the Wasketchin King, where they would present him with the support of at least House Kijamon, and help him to get his people to safety.
And defend them.
Kijamon himself took a task, as well, and one that only he could accomplish. It would be his delicate job to survey the great Houses of the Djin. Discreetly, and at all times with the firm intention of aiding their struggling King. But it was imperative that he learn the hearts and minds of the other Houses, and ensure that all moved as one to protect the honor of the Crown. In all likelihood, most of the Houses did not even know of the King’s struggles and would no doubt be dismayed by the news. Coming from any lesser messenger, they would surely waffle and debate over how much credence to give the news, and there was simply no time for such chicken-talk. Therefore it was of utmost importance that it be Kijamon himself who made this contact with them. The very fact that he had stepped out from his forge to engage in the politics of the realm would speak with far greater urgency than any other courtier or emissary could hope to convey.
And this left Zimu, to whom Kijamon had charged the direst of burdens, because to him was given the task of finding ways and means by which Mabundi might be removed from the throne. In all the long years of the Dragon’s Peace, it had never before been necessary to unseat a ruling King, and while there were many rumors and stories of how this had been done in the distant days of warring and strife, none of the family could recall with certainty which of those stories were true and which had only been fancy. Nobody wanted it to come to this, of course, which was why so much of the plan must be rooted in supporting the throne. Or at least, not working openly against it. But if necessity should demand it of them, House Kijamon must be both willing and prepared to take that loathsome step. Zimu accepted the bond with wide searching eyes, scarcely able to believe the words as his father spoke them to him. But accept it he did, and all around the group, Tayna felt a shudder of dread ripple among them.
“So that is our plan,” Kijamon concluded, casting his gaze over each of them in turn, making sure everyone understood the import of what they were about to do. “We must gather what information we can,” he said to Shaleen. “We must rush to the aid of our friends, before Mabundi’s stumble in this regard becomes a great fall.” This he spoke to Tayna and Abeni, and then his eyes glittered darkly as he turned to his eldest son.
“And if strife demands it of us, we must be ready to pull down a King. If we are to save the world.”
Kijamon raised his hands and spoke a phrase in a rough and guttural tongue. When he finished, Tayna heard a series of metallic clanks around the table and felt the weight of an iron ring magically drop onto her own wrist too. She looked down at it in wonder.
“My own bond ring?” she asked. Abeni smiled and nodded, raising his own arm to point to the ring of dark metal that had been added to his own arm.
“Let none among us bear the shame of rust,” Shaleen said. And with that, the official meeting was over. It was an ominous thought to end on, but Tayna couldn’t help but ask one more question. “What about tomorrow?” she said. “What should I do about Mabundi’s summons?” Kijamon’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Mabundi is King,” he said. “You must attend him.”
“And if he orders me to leave with the Gnomes?”
Kijamon’s face split into a happy grin. “By the time you have entered the Hall, your name will already be written into the Scroll of Houses, so again Mabundi must bring his petition to me. And while I debate him on the wisdom of his actions, you will continue with your assigned duties.”
Now it was Tayna’s turn to grin. “Which just happen to take me away from the House for
a while, where I won’t be able to receive a summons.”
Kijamon nodded. “Clever, aren’t I?”
Tayna nodded in agreement, but inside, she couldn’t manage to calm the trembling of her nerves. Nothing that seemed good for her had ever worked out the way it was supposed to.
Especially when kings were involved.
Chapter 21
“I haven’t seen any of these nuns before,” Sue said, as she snapped a photo of the group of nuns now scurrying up the front steps.
“That’s Sister Inquisita at the front, I think,” he said, peering through his binoculars. “She runs Holy Terror. The high school. The others are probably her staff. See how they all sort of cringe behind her? Looks like a submissive posture to me. Like underlings.”
Sue turned away from her camera to look at him. “Submissive posture? They just look like women on a staircase to me.”
DelRoy shrugged without taking his eyes off the steps. “I’m good with body language,” he said.
Sue’s gaze held on him for a moment, before turning back to the activity at the orphanage. “So that’s the mortuary and the high school both accounted for then,” she said.
“And that woman getting out of the taxi looks like Judy Chan,” he added, swinging his binoculars around for a better look.
“The one who brought you to this party? Your social worker friend, from Children’s Services? ”
“Director of Children’s Services now,” he replied.
“Oh,” Sue replied. They were both getting punch-drunk from the repeated surprises of just who was attending these parties.
By the time the parade had ended, they were both exhausted from the shock. The list of party-goers seemed more appropriate to a high-society wedding or a red-carpet gala somewhere. Not some tawdry little elbow rub with a roomful of cloistered nuns.
In addition to the Mayor, they had counted thirty-seven other guests, including a Bishop, the Superintendent of the School Board, and to DelRoy’s own utter despair, the Chief of Police and two of his most senior aides. There had also been a good smattering of people that neither he nor Sue could identify, but given the company they were keeping, something told him that those folks were probably equally powerful players in the city’s infrastructure. Perhaps just not as visibly so.
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