The Grace of Kings (19 page)

To ensure that the ceremony gained the favor of the gods, Huno Krima had rounded up all the masons and carpenters and sculptors and priests—dedicated to every god—in Dimu and ordered them to produce eight brand-new statues of the gods of Dara suitable for the coronation banquet in three days.

“Mar . . . er . . . Sire,” the chief priest of Fithowéo in the city, bolder than the rest, had tried to object, “it's simply impossible to produce statues worthy of such an august purpose in so little time. The statue of Lord Fithowéo in my temple took ten craftsmen a full year's worth of work. It takes time to source the right materials; time to sketch a suitable likeness; time to rough cut, to carve, to smooth, to lay down gold foil, to paint; time to consecrate an auspicious day for the painting of the eyes and opening of the mouth. What you ask for is simply not possible.”

Krima had looked at the priest contemptuously and spat on the ground.
I have made the emperor quake on his throne. I am an instrument of the gods. Who is this worm to speak to me of what is possible and what is not?

“You say that ten men took a year to carve one statue. But I have given you more than one thousand men. Surely they can do in three days the same amount of work.”

“By that logic,” the priest had said, “if you have ten women, they will surely be able to produce a child for you in one month.”

The insolent tone of the priest had sent Krima into an immediate rage. The priest was called a blasphemer—for he dared to claim that the work of gods could not be done quickly—and he was executed by having his belly sliced open publicly in front of the temple of Fithowéo so that all could see how tangled his entrails had become due to his obstinacy and internal blindness.

The other priests had all then assured King Huno that his logic was sound and pledged to work as hard as possible.

And so eight gigantic statues of the gods now lined the sides of the stable-turned-banquet-hall. Given the time pressure, the priests and workmen did not do work that they were proud of. The statue of Tututika, for instance, was made from stacked bundles of straw wrapped hastily with bolts of cloth. Pits in her skin were filled in with globs of plaster, and thick layers of garish paint were poured on with moplike brushes with little concern for refinement. The final result more resembled an oversized version of some farmer's attempt at creating a scarecrow than a solemn representation of the goddess of beauty.

The other gods looked, if possible, even worse. A hodgepodge of materials was used: stones and lumber left over from temple construction, broken bits of city walls, floating debris gathered off the Liru, stuffing from old winter coats—the desperate workmen had even forcibly removed a few nearby families and wrecked their houses to get more building material. All the statues had stiff poses designed more for ease of construction than appropriateness to character, and all the features were crude and patched over with glittering gold paint that was still wet to the touch.

The statue of Fithowéo was probably the worst of the bunch. After the old chief priest had been executed, the assistant priest decided that the safest thing to do was to break the old statue of Fithowéo in the temple into pieces and then carry the pieces here for reassembly. Never mind the sacrilege of such an act—the threat of further disembowelment had a way of making doctrines flexible. Transporting the pieces here, putting them back together, and patching over the seams with buckets of plaster and a new coat of paint had been a monumental undertaking and wasn't complete until the very last moment.

The men assigned to this task were lucky in that they were able to make use of a big packhorse. Captured by Krima and Shigin along with the rest of the occupants of the stable, this outsize equine speci­men had been a wonder to the conquerors at first: Fully twice as long as the largest of Xana stallions and almost half again as tall, this gigantic, coal-black horse with flowing mane had seemed the mount of a great king, and Krima had claimed it for himself immediately.

But he soon found out why the horse had been kept in the darkest corner of the stable. Ornery and obstinate, the horse moved without grace and refused to obey orders. The Xana garrison commander explained that even the best horse-whisperers had been unable to do anything with the beast, for it was apparently too dumb to take to the reins properly. Unable to bear a rider safely, it was only useful for hauling heavy loads under constant whipping.

The disappointed Krima had assigned the dumb packhorse to help with the construction of the statues, and now it stood trembling and panting at the foot of the statue of Fithowéo, still trying to recover from a night and a morning of backbreaking labor. The human workers lying around it were in no better shape, trying to find safe places to doze off and stay out of the king's sight.

Now that King Thufi's congratulatory letter had silenced anyone who doubted the propriety of King Huno's claim, the captains and lieutenants got up in turn to toast the new king, who was already drunk—far beyond drunk. He could barely sit up on his makeshift throne—the mayor's old stuffed cushion painted in gold and set on four water barrels—and he simply touched the goblet to his lips and nodded each time someone toasted him again.

He was happy. Very happy.

No one seemed to notice anymore—or if they did, they said nothing—the absence of Duke Shigin.

Early on during the banquet, one of the king's lieutenants—one clearly about as smart as that big packhorse—had wondered aloud to his companions where Duke Shigin was on this festive occasion. His companions had pretended to not hear him and tried to cheer louder, but the man would not be dissuaded from his query.

The noise had drawn King Huno's attention, and he had glanced in the man's direction with a frown. In a minute, Huno's captain of the guards—a very clever man who seemed to always know what Huno wanted—had given the order. The foolish man's companions had instinctively ducked under the table, and the loudmouthed fool had found himself pierced through with a dozen arrows shot by the king's guards.

After that, Duke Shigin might as well have never existed, as far as the celebrants in the banquet hall were concerned.

Dafiro had the curious thought that he wasn't so much observing a king as looking at an actor playing the part of a king in a play. As boys, he and his brother had loved the shadow play troupes who toured the Islands with their colorful puppets, bright silk screens, and loud cymbals and trumpets. They would arrive at the brothers' home village in the afternoon and set up a little theater in the clearing in the middle of all the houses.

At dusk, the first spectators would arrive, having finished their work in the fields and eaten dinner, and the puppet troupe would put on a light comedy to keep the growing audience entertained. The players hid behind the elevated stage, and the roaring fire behind them cast colorful shadows of the articulated, intricate puppets against the screens, to the accompaniment of bawdy jokes punctuated by loud clashes of the cymbals.

And then, as night fell and most of the village gathered around the stage, the troupe would begin the main feature, usually a tragic old tale about star-crossed lovers, beautiful princesses and brave heroes, evil prime ministers and foolish old kings. The puppets would sing long, sweet, sad arias accompanied by the coconut lute and bamboo flute. Dafiro and Ratho often fell asleep, leaning against each other, as they listened to the haunting songs and watched the sky full of stars spinning slowly over their heads.

And in one of these plays, the one that Dafiro remembered now, a beggar had put on a whore's robes and a paper crown and pretended to be a king. He was ridiculous, and the villagers had howled with laughter as the puppet danced around the stage: a peacock, no, a rooster pretending to be a peacock.

After another flowery, barely literate speech cobbled together from clichés in history books, another captain sat down. He wiped his brow, happy that he hadn't inadvertently said anything to annoy the new king.

A new man stood up. Immediately, he drew the attention of everyone in the banquet hall: eight feet tall, a torso as thick as a wine barrel, and those eyes! Four dagger points glinted in the torchlight. He stood there and did not lift up his cup to offer a toast, and the murmurs in the banquet hall ceased.

“Who . . . who are you?” demanded King Huno.

“I am Mata Zyndu,” said the stranger. “I had come to study Huno Krima and Zopa Shigin, the heroes of the rebellion. But all I see is a monkey dressed up as a man. You're no different from any of the fools Mapidéré had elevated above their station. Neither Imperial fiat nor popular acclaim can make an ant into an elephant. A man can never fulfill a role he is not born for.”

Deadly silence.

“You . . . you . . .” King Huno could not speak from rage. The captain of the guards whistled, and all the assembled guests around Mata ducked for cover. The guards pulled their bows full as the round moon. Mata flipped over the table in front of him so he could wield it as a shield, sending bowls and flagons and cups flying everywhere.

The great big packhorse by the statue of Fithowéo whinnied and leapt from where he was standing. As he leapt, his reins, still looped around the foot of the statue, broke. But the statue had not been on a secure foundation, and with a great groan, the statue of Fithowéo began to topple.

Everything seemed to slow down in the banquet hall. The arrows were let loose; the statue continued to fall; the horse arrived in front of Mata; Mata jumped onto the horse, whose height and stature seemed designed for his own; the statue crashed into the ground; the arrows thunked into the statue; dust and broken tables and dishes and cups exploded everywhere; men screamed.

And then Mata was gone from the banquet hall, riding on top of the all-black horse, whose movements were as fluid as wind, as sleek as water, as well matched to Mata's own as night is well matched to the lone wolf.

I shall name you Réfiroa,
thought Mata as he rode back toward Çaruza.
The Well-Matched.
Wind whipped through his hair, and he had never felt such a sense of freedom or speed. He and the horse were parts of a greater whole.

You're the mount I have been seeking, just as you have been seeking your rider. For too long we both languished in obscurity, away from our true roles on the world-stage. It is only when beings of true quality are matched to their stations that the world can prosper again.

“That is what a real hero looks like,” whispered Ratho to Dafiro.

For once, Dafiro had no wise comebacks.