The Grace of Kings (57 page)

“Let me help out in here, at least,” she pleaded with Mata's personal cook in the kitchen.

The cook bowed deeply and backed away from the stove, gesturing that he was at Mira's command.

Though he had once prided himself on being able to appeal to a palate as jaded as Erishi's, the former palace chef found Mata leaving most of his carefully prepared creations untouched. Ever since the time he spent in Zudi by the side of Kuni Garu, Mata had preferred the same rough rations and throat-burning liquor that were the common soldiers' fare. The former palace chef had been worried about his own future, and Mira's offer of taking over cooking for the hegemon pleased him greatly. If the mercurial Mata continued to be displeased with the cooking, he thought, at least now he had someone to share the blame with.

The only dishes Mira knew how to make were from Tunoa: salted fish paste on twice-boiled rice; pickled vegetables wrapped in flatbread made from rough sorghum flour; fresh southern char grilled on planks made from scholar's trees, spiced with nothing but smoke from the wood and sprinkles of seawater—this last really a mix of Haan and Cocru traditions. The former palace chef looked at these homely dishes and wrinkled his nose. Erishi would have gagged on such food, and he could not imagine how a man who was said to be almost a god would deign to eat such peasant fare.

But the servants who served Mata's meals on trembling knees came back, astonished. “The hegemon finished everything. And he asked for the portions to be bigger next time.”

This only confirmed the belief held by everyone in camp that Mira knew the secret path to the hegemon's heart. Mata had left all of Erishi's wives and concubines untouched, but asked Mira to live right next to his own tent—though she didn't seem particularly pretty and was not of noble birth, she had somehow gained the favor of the most powerful man in the world. Everyone was envious.

But Mira had simply remembered the momentary look of longing when he had gazed at her on that day when they first met, when he had asked her if she was a woman of Tunoa. She understood that it was not desire for her, but for home.

Mira went out to Kiji Square, bringing with her the food that the former palace chef had prepared as a backup in case her own food found no success with the hegemon. The chef had wanted to throw it all away, but Mira had intervened and asked that the food be distri­buted to the beggars of Pan. The servants and courtiers scurrying around Mata's camp hurried to obey.

She watched as they ladled out the rich, exotically spiced dishes and filled the bowls of the line of beggars, and she felt a pang of guilt—so little food, so many mouths to feed. Had she not encountered Mata, she would probably be in their ranks by now.

A beggar in a strangely clean white cape—he probably hadn't been on the streets for long—approached her.

“Thank you for the food, miss. It's very kind of you.”

The accent indicated that the man was from Xana. Mira nodded at him coldly. She understood that most of the Xana soldiers were also poor and had suffered much, just like her and her brother, but years' worth of animosity was hard to push aside.

“You're close to the hegemon,” the beggar said. It wasn't a question.

Mira's face felt hot. “I am simply a woman he pitied.”
Does every
one in Pan already know of my awkward position?
“Do not believe the gossips.”

“I know nothing of gossip,” the beggar said.

Mira found the beggar odd. He was surprisingly bold, as if he fancied himself a lord, her superior. And there was something about his air that compelled her attention.

“But perhaps I misspoke. I should have said that you
will
be close to him.”

“Is that a prediction or a command?” Mira asked. The beggar's impudence was making her angry. She considered calling for some of the courtiers—they were always so eager for her to tell them something to do.

“Neither. Prophecies are funny things—they don't tend to come out the way I want. And so I will stick to history instead: Mata Zyndu is responsible for your brother's death.”

Mira blanched. “Who
are
you? I have borne more than enough of your insults!”

“Listen to your heart. You know my charge is true. Your brother would still be alive now, strong and brave, had he not been seduced by Mata Zyndu's promise. And what has he gained after marching a thousand miles and living on the edge of a sword to build up Mata's reputation? The hegemon does not even remember his name!”

Mira turned her face away.

“Men like your brother brought the empire down and secured the victory to which Mata lays claim. He is no better than that Kuni Garu, whom he despises.”

“That's enough,” said Mira. “I . . . don't want to speak with you anymore.” She turned and fled from the square.

“I just want you to remember your brother,” called out the beggar. “Just remember him when you are with the hegemon.”

The next day, Mira decided to tidy up Mata's tent.

The legends surrounding Mata had grown to the point where the maids whispered to one another that he was so temperamental that a single misplaced pillow could cost the one responsible her head, and none dared to take up the duty, though being so close to a powerful man seemed a good way to curry favors. But Mira was unafraid: Her brother had left home to follow this man, believing that he would make the world right again, freeing it from injustice. She would not dishonor Mado's memory by being frightened of Mata.

The tent was a mess, she saw. Papers were piled on multiple desks haphazardly arranged around the tent, as though new ones were brought in as soon as old ones had been filled; pillows and cushions for sitting were scattered around, the detritus of ad-hoc meetings with his advisers; the bed where he slept looked like it hadn't had its sheets changed in weeks.

Mata was sitting at one of the desks, his back to her, his legs folded under him in
géüpa
. He did not turn as she entered, perhaps thinking that she was one of his personal guards who had come in to help him get ready for bed, as none of the maids dared to come in.

Quietly, she went about her business: collecting the pillows and cushions into one corner of the tent; rearranging the desks into rows so that their papers could all be accessed; stripping off the sheets and putting on new ones; sweeping up the accumulated trash on the floor.

In his presence, fear and cowardice disappear like darkness before light,
Mado had written to her after the Battle of Wolf's Paw.
He will sort this upside-down world out and put everything in its rightful place.

Mado died because he believed,
thought Mira.
He had no regrets
as he laid down his life. I cannot tarnish his memory with doubt.

But the hegemon evidently had difficulty putting everyday objects in their rightful places. And Mata's personal guards, it seemed, were ignorant of the basics of housekeeping. A small smile appeared on Mira's face.

She looked up from her tasks from time to time, and saw that Mata had not moved. Even in repose, his presence was powerful, otherworldly. Mira could see why he had exerted such a pull on her brother—she could feel the pull herself.

Mata continued to admire something in his hand, rubbing, caressing it obsessively.

She couldn't help but speak up. “If you keep on rubbing that thing, you'll make all the corners on it rounded and smooth.”

Mata turned around and paused. He had not been expecting her.

He put the seal he was admiring down. The remark, if it had come from one of his advisers, especially that doddering Pering who seemed to disapprove of everything he did, would have enraged him. But he wasn't going to get angry at Mira. What did she know of the affairs of the world?

“I'm observing the reward I'm about to bestow upon those who do not really deserve it. There are so few worthy of being called noble.”

Nobility had been important to Mado, Mira remembered. He had written to her of Mata Zyndu's peerless nobility, a quality that overflowed and inspired those around him.
I cannot describe to you how it felt,
Mado had written.
But for a moment I was touched by the gods, transported into a higher realm of existence as we charged behind him. He is the ocean that lifts up all of us.

The beggar's words seemed to do battle with Mado's in her head. She bit her bottom lip and shook her head.
Mado was not stupid. He saw the good in this man, and so will I.

Mira continued to sweep the floors. When she was done, she left with the sweepings and a tray of empty dishes and bowls that had held Mata's dinner. Then she came back with a pitcher of water that she sprinkled on the uncovered part of the tent floor to keep the dust down, humming an old Tunoa folk song.

Come for me, my darling, come for me in your fishing boat;

Come before dawn, for I don't wish to marry the duke's son.

I'll come for you, my sea rose, 'fore the rise of the sun;

We'll never be apart, so long as ships remain afloat.

She looked up and saw that Mata had been staring at her. She blushed. Trying to find something to say, she saw that the thing Mata held in his hand glowed with the soft light of precious green jade.

“It's hard to give up a treasure, isn't it?” she blurted out. Then she silently cursed herself for saying something so foolish, and she went back to her work with redoubled effort.

Mata frowned. Suddenly it seemed very important to him to make this woman admire him. Her implied accusation made him ashamed, as though he himself was not worthy either.

“I kept very little of the treasure taken from the emperor's palace,” he said stiffly. “Much of it I gave away to the families of soldiers who died fighting for me.” He did not add that he had done this after meeting her, after realizing how little he had done for his men.

Mira paused. “You're a generous lord.” The silence grew awkward again, and she tried to cover it up by more humming and quicker work.

“Would you like to touch it?” Mata Zyndu held up one of the seals.

Mira knew that this was a symbol of kingship, whose impression on wax could launch a hundred ships, ten thousand men, a hundred thousand arrows, and endless slaughter.

The beggar's words came to her again.
The hegemon does not even remember his name.

She saw Mado's body again, wrapped in a shroud like thousands of others, at the bottom of the pit that was to be their final resting place.
Is this what you called nobility? Is this what you died for?

Mira shook her head and backed away from the seal, as though it were a hot lump of coal. “It's beautiful,” she said. “But I do not think it as beautiful or worthy as my brother's life.”

She finished her work, bowed, and left the tent.

Mata Zyndu stared at her departing figure in silence. Then he put the seal down, gently.