by Yoon Ha Lee
Cheris sighed, then looked up into her girlfriend’s eyes. “I wish,” she said, her voice soft.
“Let me help you pick,” Orua said, pointedly ignoring the sales assistant who was watching them with his arms folded behind his back.
Cheris blinked. “I thought you didn’t know anything about dueling?” she teased. Orua paid more attention to the special effects and makeup on dueling shows than the actual dueling.
“I don’t know anything about dueling,” Orua said as the sales assistant’s expression turned imperturbable, “but I know a lot about you.” Her eyes became sly, and Cheris hoped that Orua wouldn’t get too specific here of all places. Orua grabbed Cheris’s hand and tugged her to a completely different display. “Look!”
At first Cheris wasn’t impressed by the calligraphy-stroke plainness of the calendrical swords in the case. Then she made out a faint iridescence on the metal, like that of a raven’s feather. She particularly liked the one whose textured design incorporated the first digits of the base of the natural logarithm.
Orua stooped to whisper right in Cheris’s ear, “Tonight I’m going to see how many digits of that number you can recite before I get you to—”
“I’ll buy this one,” Cheris interrupted, very loudly, and pointed.
The sales assistant smiled ever so faintly.
Author’s Note
I took a semester of Classical Fencing in college, which formed the shaky basis of all the dueling in the hexarchate setting. I kept things vague because there is only so much you can learn in one semester, and additionally I was not notably good at it. As I write this, I am once again a novice fencer, this time doing electric foil at the Red Stick School of Fencing. I’ve only been taking classes for a year, and I’m pretty sure I am literally the worst student in the Advanced Adult class. I’m still working on a functional parry in four (quarte)! But it doesn’t matter, in a way. Coming to fencing at the age of thirty-nine, I don’t expect to become good at a competitive level. I love the discipline of fencing and the tactics and the lore and the drills, and that’s why I do it. And who knows? Maybe someday I’ll score a touch.
Persimmons
SERVITOR 135799 REPORTED to the kitchens first thing upon its arrival at Kel Academy—or it tried, anyway. It had asked its enclave specifically for the transfer, not least because it loved the idea of working with Kel cadets. The older servitors in its old home, a quiet village, had clicked and whirred and made concerned noises about its fascination with the warlike Kel, but in the end they had said that if it wanted the job so badly, it should see the truth of matters for itself.
135799 had a map of Kel Academy loaded into its memory by another servitor, along with a basic list of protocols and procedures. Relying on the map was what led it astray to begin with. Its village didn’t use variable layout at all. The warning on the map even said that, but 135799 was too dazzled to take heed of it until it was well and thoroughly lost.
Kel Academy, for its part, was anything but a backwater village. 135799 had passed the parade grounds, with their immense, fluttering ashhawk banners; an outdoors dueling arena where calendrical swords sizzled against each other as Kel sparred; what appeared to be the edges of a forbidding wood, used, perhaps, for survival exercises; and, most mysteriously of all, a junkyard where scrapped flitters and warmoth parts sketched jagged silhouettes against the murky sky.
A servitor diligently organizing the debris at the junkyard’s edge took pity on 135799. “New here?” it asked.
135799 affirmed that it was, in sheepish pink-lavender lights.
“Where are you trying to go?” the stranger-servitor asked.
135799 indicated that it was supposed to have reached the kitchens a couple of hours ago.
“Well, here’s what you’ll do,” the stranger-servitor said in soothing greens and blues. “Go to these coordinates. That’s a section of the Academy that’s almost never location-shifted. You will find some fruiting persimmon trees. Pick some ripe persimmons and take them to the second set of coordinates. They’ll tell you what to do from there.”
135799 thanked the stranger-servitor for its kindness. Mystified but eager all the same, it headed off toward the indicated coordinates. On its way, it was passed by clusters of Kel cadets in their black uniforms, some somber, others chattering to each other, and once, a magnificent black peacock with a train of iridescent feathers and a golden collar around its neck.
It located the persimmon trees in the gardens, not far from a collection of wilting black-and-yellow roses. The trees were indeed in fruit. It hovered up and gathered a few of the choicest, orange and plump and ripe.
An adult Kel passed beneath it, resplendent in full formal uniform, braid and all. 135799 paused, wondering if the Kel would countermand its instructions—it knew the unspoken rule that humans must never be openly defied—but the Kel merely nodded affably at it before continuing on their way. Even this acknowledgment was more than 135799 was used to, from humans, so it took that as a good sign and continued to the kitchens.
At the kitchens, a deltaform servitor welcomed 135799 and its treasure-haul of persimmons. “I was told to expect a newcomer,” it said in friendly pinks and oranges. “Hello! You’ll get used to the variable layout soon enough. And I see you brought the persimmons.”
135799 couldn’t resist its curiosity. “Where should I put the persimmons? And what are they for?”
“More like who they’re for,” the deltaform said kindly. “Go wash the persimmons. There’s a cadet named Cheris who really likes them. You’ll get a chance to meet her at high table tonight, and we’ve decided you should serve her portion of the dessert as a way of getting acquainted.”
“Don’t we avoid getting close to humans?” 135799 said, although it had often thought about doing just that.
“Even humans can be useful,” the deltaform said with a touch of cynicism. “Sink’s over there.”
135799 hovered to the sink with its persimmons and decided not to worry about human-servitor politics for the moment. Instead, it glowed happily as it washed and quartered the persimmons, daydreaming about meeting this Cheris not just tonight, but for many evenings to follow. With any luck, persimmon fruiting season would last for a while yet.
Author’s Note
When I was in high school, I once lived in a house in Seoul that had a persimmon tree. The damn thing never bore fruit that we could use because it was attacked by aphids. Even the chemical treatments didn’t do jack to get rid of the bugs.
At this point I have to confess that I don’t even like fresh persimmons. I had too many bad experiences with unripe ones when I was small; the astringency will sting your mouth unpleasantly. Strangely, though, I find the dried ones delicious.
Irriz the Assassin-Cat
IT WAS ONE hour and fourteen minutes past bedtime in the Hragoshik household, and the youngest of the little ones, four-year-old Piri, would not go to bed.
Zehun had arrived twelve minutes ago by shuttle from the starport, bringing a modest travel bag and, as usual, the friendliest and most genial of their cats, Irriz. Sometimes people looked oddly at Zehun for traveling with a cat—a cat on a harness and leash, at that—before they realized who the cat’s owner was. When it came to travel, Zehun was a pragmatist. It wasn’t true that they ordered retaliatory assassinations if people delayed them during their rare visits to family, but if their reputation allowed them to skip the lines, why not?
Besides, Irriz, like all of Zehun’s cats, was named after a notorious Shuos assassin. Specifically, Shuos Irriz had, in an earlier century, succeeded in assassinating all of a particular Andan hexarch’s children and siblings, and had been working her way through a crowd of cousins when she’d died tragically (?) young of an unexpected allergic reaction. Whether Irriz the cat would die the same way was an open question, considering how much she liked to try to eat the Shuos hexarch’s snacks.
Zehun’s second daughter, Verissen, was one of Piri’s mothers. Verissen, too, ha
d never been particularly good at falling asleep at times convenient for parents. Zehun enjoyed a moment of delicious generational revenge as they listened to Verissen trying to bribe Piri with, alternately, (1) an additional bedtime story, (2) shadow-figures against the wall, or (3) extra bits of shredded chicken in Piri’s breakfast porridge. Piri wasn’t having any of it. In the meantime, Zehun removed Irriz’s harness, then provided food, water, and a litter box for Irriz, all of which the cat availed herself of.
Irriz made her way to a black velvet armchair on which her splendid white hairs would show up magnificently, raked it with her claws for good measure, then flopped onto it. The velvet would heal itself; the hairs were another matter. The velvet was supposed to eat detritus, but for some reason it always choked on cat hairs.
Satisfied that their cat was content, Zehun poked their head into the room where Piri was sitting up in bed with her face screwed up and her blankets kicked to one side. “Why aren’t you getting one of the household servitors to put her to bed?” Zehun asked Verissen.
“I usually do that,” Verissen said, tugging on a lock of hair straggling loose from its braid, “but I thought we should spend more time together. Of course, I also thought she’d be asleep by now so I could catch up with you properly. I don’t know what the problem is!”
Zehun crouched down to bring themself eye to eye with the little girl. “Hello, Piri,” they said softly. “Remember me?”
Piri snuffled. “Gran! Gran, there are too many shadows.”
Zehun glanced at Verissen. “You take a break, Rissa. I’ll see to the little one.”
Verissen didn’t argue, just patted Piri on the head and beat a swift retreat.
Piri snuffled some more. “Gran, I looked under the bed and there are shadows there.”
“That means the candlevines are no good,” Zehun agreed, “since they’re only on the walls. Do you want candlevines under the bed, too?” Probably a nuisance to get the servitors to do it tonight, but it could be managed with the household matter printer.
“But I won’t be able to see anything under the bed,” Piri said, with perfect logic, “so how will I know it’s working?”
Zehun considered this. “I think I have a solution,” they said. “Come with me.”
The two of them emerged into the living room together. Verissen was talking to one of her wives about a dinner party she had planned for next week. She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it when Zehun looked at her.
Irriz the cat was still sprawled on the black velvet armchair, having festooned it with long white hairs. Irriz mewed in protest when Zehun picked her up, but Zehun had long practice avoiding claws.
Zehun and Piri walked back into Piri’s bedroom. “You remember Irriz, too, don’t you?” Zehun said to their granddaughter.
Piri nodded and reached out for Irriz’s tail, and Zehun smoothly diverted her hand to the cat’s head. Piri obediently began scritching Irriz behind the ears. “Irriz is a very special cat,” Zehun said. “Irriz is a Shuos cat, and beyond that, Irriz is a Shuos assassin cat.”
Piri looked at Irriz wide-eyed.
“That’s right,” Zehun said. “Furthermore, since Irriz is a cat, Irriz specializes in assassinating shadows. She will”—this part was even true—“spend the entire night chasing shadows if you let her.”
“She’ll chase the shadows away?” Piri asked, her voice trembling just a little.
Zehun nodded.
Irriz purred, which probably had more to do with the scritches than the promise of delicious shadows to pounce on, but who knew?
“Go to bed, Piri,” Zehun said, and this time Piri did just that. Irriz clambered into the bed and curled up next to her, ready to go shadow-hunting at the slightest provocation.
Author’s Note
I’m convinced that even in a future where smart fabrics eat gunk, cat hair will defeat all attempts to clean it up. I love my cat Cloud dearly, but dear sweet spork she never stops shedding. Even better, she’s a dilute tortoiseshell with calico patches, so each individual hair shades from light to dark, guaranteeing that they will be visible no matter what color clothes you’re wearing.
On the other hand, Cloud likes to climb on top of me at bedtime, make biscuits, then butt-slide off to the right and into the crook of my arm. (Unless I’m sleeping on the right side of the bed, in which case she slides off the bed entirely. It doesn’t seem to occur to her to slide to the left instead.) And then she’ll purr for about half an hour and help soothe me to sleep before going off on her own explorations. Those moments are worth any amount of cat hair.
Vacation
ONLY ONE YEAR since the marriage, and Brezan was desperate to go somewhere, anywhere, that didn’t involve smiling at politicians. Brezan had wanted to slip their handlers and visit some restaurants. Not the fancy ones that he and Tseya inevitably were treated to in the course of their duties, but the sort of grimy dive that served fried pork fritters and questionable beer.
Tseya, on the other hand, had wanted to visit an aquarium, despite the fact that she knew Brezan’s feelings about fish. In Brezan’s opinion, fish belonged properly seasoned and filleted in a skillet with lemon butter and capers, and not looming over you in a giant tank that would drown everyone if a bullet punctured it and released all that water pressure.
So they had compromised by going to the zoo.
They were admiring a Kel-oriented display of raptors—although unusually for a Kel, Brezan thought birds were best when stuffed with chestnuts and jujubes, and not staring at you. Tseya outshone the birds in an embroidered sundress and a hat trailing an elaborate confection of silk flowers adorned with crystal beads. Since Brezan had opted to wear an innocuous beige shirt and slacks, he felt distinctly underdressed.
“I don’t understand why you like fish, of all things,” Brezan said, unable to let the topic go. Tseya rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “They should give any reasonable person the creeps. Imagine falling into an ocean”—the ocean was almost as bad as fish—“and having them gnawing on you.”
Tseya gave Brezan a funny look. “Didn’t you have to pass a swim test to get into Kel Academy?” she demanded.
“Yes,” Brezan said without elaborating.
Tseya’s eyes narrowed. “How good is your swimming anyway?”
“I passed.”
“Can you swim now?”
“Oh look,” Brezan said loudly, “I’m getting hungry. The sign over there says there’s a café in another twelve minutes’ walk, over by the display of snakes.”
“You’re transparent,” Tseya said, but she obligingly moved on, casting one last speculative glance at a storm falcon whose plumage might, just hypothetically, look especially fetching as hat decorations. “You’re the only person I know who comes to a zoo for the food.”
“Eating is an important part of the life cycle,” Brezan said. “People don’t appreciate good food enough.”
“I don’t think ‘good’ is what you’re going to be finding here,” Tseya murmured. “Honestly, considering how well you cook, I’ve never figured out why you feel the need to eat mediocre food.”
Brezan simply grinned at her.
They paused so that Tseya could appreciate an enclosure whose KEEP OUT and DO NOT TEMPT WITH APPENDAGES signs had been defaced with squiggly tentacle graffiti. The enclosure’s inhabitant, an amphibious dragon-cat from some bored Nirai’s bioengineering experiment, declined to show itself. Brezan did think he glimpsed two burning yellow eyes, but that could have been his imagination.
Tseya reluctantly consented to eat two riceballs wrapped in dried seaweed and stuffed with salted plums. Brezan, to his delight, discovered that the café served crawfish pies. Tseya shook her head. “You’re scared of fish, but you eat bugs?”
Brezan finished chewing what was in his mouth, swallowed, and said, distinctly, “Crawfish are delicious bugs, is what.”
“You are hopeless,” Tseya said, but she was smiling.
Author’s Note
/> Like Brezan, I can’t swim worth mentioning. Cornell University has (or used to have) a swim test for all entering freshmen. I passed by the skin of my teeth, by which I mean that I was flailing so badly in the pool that they almost sent in a lifeguard after me. At the time I was determined to avoid taking a semester of swim class. In retrospect, I should have conceded defeat, taken the class, and learned a valuable life skill.
Unlike Brezan, I have no problems with fish or aquariums. We probably agree on the general deliciousness of fish. I grew up eating all manner of seafood, both in Houston and in South Korea. I am told that my parents liked to show off the fact that I ate raw oysters as a toddler.
As for the crawfish pies, Baton Rouge Zoo serves them. One of the great benefits of living in Louisiana is the ready availability of food with crawfish in it. Sometimes hexarchate food is Asian-inspired, as in the Kel pickled cabbages (gimchi), and sometimes it’s inspired by the Middle East (the Mwennin). And then sometimes it’s just Southern!
Gamer’s End
THE INSTRUCTOR IS intimidating enough—you know about his kill count, unmatched in Shuos history—but what strikes you as you enter the room is all the games.
Games are one of the Shuos faction’s major instructional tools. The Shuos specialize in information operations, although your particular training is as “Shuos infantry,” as the euphemism goes: assassination. You recognize most of the games that rest on the tables. A pattern-stone set with a knife-scratch across its cloudwood surface, its two bowls of black and white stones glittering beneath the soft lights. Pegboards, counters, dice, darts.
