Thinking of the former Yam Plateau animist with his hunkered pet, Esha began to remember what hope felt like. She just needed to find an animist and make a deal.
Rama's Day came, forgotten by Esha forgot about until it was upon her. Janjuman's fields rang with hymns, the workers singing together of past royals and eternal gods. The workday ended at the noon zenith and the fieldwomen took their reprieve as gladly as their pay.
Esha was glad for it, she had to admit. Songs lingered in her mouth and once she was past the guard station, she kept humming as she walked the market street. This would be a chance to fill her millet sack and butter dish, as well as reassign Gita's property token to her own imperial record. If she could find a particularly benign housing clerk, she might even ask for a listing of diplomats working currently on Yam Plateau. Esha would call her troubles a matter of public well-being and leave the matter at that.
As Esha rounded a corner, flame caught her eye. A phoenix flew above the metalworkers' homes, its stringfeathers whipping, wings flared wide as it skimmed over bamboo shingles and corrugated tin. A phoenix everywhere Esha went—
This had to be a nightmare, a delusion of her battered mind. But others in the street saw the bird, and gasped, and pointed. What if this was the same phoenix that stole her khukuri? Gods, Esha thought, what if this was the same phoenix she and Gita struck with a stone? But that couldn't be: its wings worked perfectly well, enough for it to pivot in the air and alight on a horse-headed roof pole. And it landed on one foot only: the other leg was a feathered stump.
Then a second phoenix, a whole and healthy-looking one, alighted on a roof across the road. A brass tag glinted in its tail — the mark of a tamed bird with an owner. This trained phoenix called out to the one-footed bird, a cry like a pleading song.
Around her in the market street, people murmured, gripping chunks of bamboo and brick they might need to throw. Guards gathered; one held a bow with an arrow notched but not drawn, not yet. He would shoot if either phoenix began their firestarting movements, the hammer-hard striking of iron and pyrite wielded by an unpredictable animal.
But the phoenixes made no such movements. They only watched each other, feather crests moving. The crippled phoenix considered the tame one, its hackled back feathers falling slow. It turned, hesitant, and fluttered to a farther rooftop.
The tame one stayed where it was, raising its door-hinge voice. It chattered a long string of notes. For a mad instant, Esha felt a need for bitter lungta herbs in her mouth.
The crippled bird considered the tame one's cries, fire fading from its gaze. It creaked low. Then it lifted off, circled with a spiralling of stringfeathers and flew back the way it came. The tame one followed, showing its flashing tag against the lungta-trimmed sky, and the two of them sailed away on the wind.
The crowds settled, people dropping their makeshift weapons and grumbling about the fright of it all.
Gradually, Esha turned back the way she came, as well, watching faces to be sure that none watched her back. She picked up her feet and wove between buildings, headed in the direction those phoenixes had vanished. The tagged phoenix had to report to a human animist — or maybe a noble who liked destructive pets, but far more likely an animist.
She had a hazy idea of where the birds had gone: somewhere southward. The buildings stymied Esha until a thought struck her: if an animist's trained bird was at work, someone had summoned the animist. Probably a farm protecting its crop.
She kept hurrying south, worldedgeward, until she reached the outer fence of Janjuman's neighbour farm. Their seedling yams — greenburst variety, a good crop if less flavourful than Janjuman's — stood unattended on this, Rama's Day. A few overseers stood gathered at the far edge of the field, and a soldier stood firmly restless beside them. In the middle of the dust-blown field, there were only the two phoenixes and a tall woman of strong bearing — a masked woman.
She had to be the Manyori woman, because that mask wasn't from Tselaya. It was some pitch-dark material carved in fierce ridges, a deity's face covering the mortal woman from forehead to upper lip. Revulsion and fascination gripped Esha tight: this animist must have been older than her, to have to cover most of her face like that. Older or less fortunate. Maybe both.
The phoenixes stood silent, and the animist's sonorous voice came rolling like distant thunder. She didn't sound elderly. It was hard to tell past the vowel-heavy patterns of her foreign language and the treetop rattling of her extended lungta — but that couldn't be old woman's worn throat. Whatever she was saying must have reached the one-footed phoenix — because it turned its back to her and stood patient, while the animist knelt and tied a tag onto its tail.
This stranger did in a scant afternoon what some animists took weeks to achieve. No one was hurt, and no food fields were lost, and now two phoenixes circled together like kites on strings. The animist stood there, statuesque as a story-told rogue, as the tame phoenix settled on her shoulder and its tail feathers fell like a second cloak. Then she waited.
One of the farm overseers approached her, shuffling along tilled lines. He spoke vanishingly timid words and gave a payment packet to the animist.
Her masked face bowed in a nod. She gave namaste to the overseer – and as if to accent the gesture, her phoenix bowed to match.
If nothing else, Esha needed to know. Would this Manyori speak with dignity to a low-caste, and was she truly lax enough to live together with a tar dealer? Because that sounded like someone who might stoop to help Esha Of The Fields mend her torn-rag life.
So Esha waited by the fence until the farm staff dispersed, and the animist left the yam field gates. Here she was, close enough to call out to but the two phoenixes made Esha forget all her words. She simply stood, fish-mouthed. The animist passed her by, tall and present as the mountain they stood on, her visible skin patterned with tattoos as bold as tiger stripes. Esha received a near-secret flick of eyes within the fierce mask, and matching glances from the thieving beasts. Then the animist was striding away in the street dust. Esha watched the back of her masked head — the patterned strap that held the mask on, with soil-dark skin and wavy, human hair wound into a swirling topknot. Someone different. Someone Esha needed.
“Hail,” Esha stammered. “Good animist?”
She stopped. She turned her secret eyes back to Esha and planted her feet like tree roots. “Citizen?”
Esha signed namaste as she should have already, bowing deep and feeling embarrassment hot behind her cheekbones. “I hope you'll forgive my forthrightness, but I'd like to make a deal with you.”
A smile pulled the animist's broad lips, stretching the tattoo on her chin. Her eyes' glimmer darted to Esha's shoulder, to her farming caste marker, and the smile remained. “I don't discuss business in the street. If you'd like a deal, come see me in my home. Colleagues of yours will know the way.”
With that, she kept on, her wind-flapping cloak overlaid with the tail feathers of the tame phoenix. Esha was fish-mouthed again until she hummed a decision to herself. That Manyori was strange but respectable, which was all Esha really wanted. All she had to do was find a way to talk to the animist. She walked brisk toward town, because she had a strong hunch of how to do that.
Ren welcomed her inside, returning Esha's namaste while chomping betel. He looked healthier these past days — fuller in the face, surely better fed.
“I think,” Esha told him, “you've got connections that will help me, friend.”
If Esha wished to enter the Manyori women's home and do business, there was a sequence she had to follow. Arrive after duskfall and don't draw attention: the ladies did not appreciate guards' attention.
They were glad to entertain low-castes, though, the dyemaker assured her. Esha only needed to use the special door chime and then ask for bird-nose.
It was a nonsensical passphrase, Esha thought, but a prudent way of doing business. This way, trusted friends would lead more trusted friends to the animist's door and she wouldn't fac
e anyone dishonourable — no more dishonourable than Esha was, anyway.
Night fell. Esha followed the dyemaker's directions, toward the mountainside and the shadow of the higher plateaus. The homes here were built of clay brick here but still humble in design, barely within the glow of the Empire-maintained oil lamps the higher castes enjoyed in their streets. Esha watched that distant street — set into the mountainside, firelit and hazy like the gate to another world. No one there saw her except one guard, who stared brief and then kept his eyes moving.
As leisurely as she could manage, Esha peered at the house's patch of yellow flags. One flag had a lengthly request for lake shellfish but only certain kinds of it — and below that, a black smudge on its tip. This was the Manyoris' home.
Esha circled the right side of the house and, refreshed with relief once she was out of the guard's line of sight, searched the shadows until she found a hollow pipe set into the wall.
She had brought pebbles in her satchel, like the dyemaker said. One by one, she dropped seven of them down the pipe to clatter away into the dark. Then Esha returned to the front door to wait for answer.
No light shone through the narrow slashes of windows, though. No movement showed from within. Esha stood there conspicuous, without enough eyes to watch all the shadows around her. She turned back to the door — but movement flickered above her, on the roof's edge. There sat a phoenix, staring at her with eyes as bottomless as a lake.
Esha stared back, her fright gone but her innards still glowing hot. She had seen more than enough phoenixes for this lifetime — but if the animist kept phoenixes as pets, she would need to rally her patience. This bird shifted on its feet and something flashed on its backside; this was a tagged bird from earlier and its master had to be nearby.
“Hail,” Esha called out, her voice ripping the quiet. She looked again to the shadows around, and the many building corners that might be hiding a listener. “Is anyone here?”
Silence answered her. She waited. Wind whistled over tin roofs outside and the phoenix blinked calm at her.
“Well?” Esha asked it. “Where is your owner?” She felt immediately foolish, talking to the thing, but standing around useless was foolish, too.
It tipped its head, crests moving.
“I want to see the animist,” Esha said, enunciated clearly like she would speak an order to a dog. Maybe trained phoenixes knew commands in human tongues. They were clever enough to be menaces, so it might surely be possible. After a heart-gripping hesitation, Esha lowered her voice and added, “Bird-nose.”
The phoenix stood. It turned suddenly toward the peak of the roof, hopping up the incline and over, out of sight, its two stringfeathers trailing away like knotted lengths of yarn.
Esha was alone in the street again. She grumbled a small oath, and shifted on her aching feet. She resolved to leave in another five moments and raised fingers to chance scratching under her headwrap, where her goat pelt always itched after a day of sweat.
“What do you want of bird-nose?”
Esha dropped her hand, heart turning to ice — at the sight of the tall shape around the house's corner. A tall, large-nosed figure stood in shadow. Round curves marked her a woman and her voice was low and accented just like the Manyori animist's.
“You—“ Esha spluttered on her confusion. She couldn't see a caste sigil on this woman, couldn't imagine how to ask or explain.
“Out with it,” the animist's sister said. She spoke Grewian, accent-clipped but without lungta. “What do you wish of bird-nose?”
Bird-nose wasn't a pass phrase, Esha realized. It was a name — surely not a name the Empire had on any records.
Rank was moot and Esha was here to ask someone's favour. She went ahead and pressed her hands together, offering namaste to this Birdnose. “I'd like to make a deal. There's a phoenix—“
“I know. It's fine,” Birdnose said. Her nose really did command her entire face, like a beak. “Your name?”
“Gita of the Fields.”
“Show me your payment.”
“Wh-What?”
Heart in her throat, Esha's plans all flew away on wind. She had hoped to suggest the thief phoenix as a form of reward, but that was no collateral. She couldn't offer her heirloom khukuri for the same reason, and her meagre trove of rupees was across town in her home. She had only one thing to offer right now — and under Birdnose's silent glower, Esha reached into her clothing.
“I don't know if this is enough for a first offer,” she relented, “or too much. But it's all I can show to your eyes.” Uncurling her hand, she revealed Gita Of The Fields's last remnant, her property token and the shining nameplate attached.
Birdnose's eyes flared within their deep sockets. “You're offering the property token?”
“That's right.”
Birdnose took it — with a soft hand, no laborour's hand to be sure. She drew a knife with a tooth-shaped blade and pushed its tip against Gita's property token. The token didn't yield.
“Good,” she said, “No offence meant, but I've been offered silvered wax before.”
“I wouldn't insult you before asking for your help.”
Birdnose considered her. Esha held the gaze like the honourable woman she wished she was.
“Please,” Birdnose said, “come in.”
She led Esha around the back of the house, into a door only discernible from the wall by its knotted latch string. Inside, the respectable brick home looked more like the elder relatives of Esha's shack — with walls made of unfinished bamboo and hand-splinted furniture, lit acrid by a pine candle. The hearth fire smouldered into a tin chimney, one of three openings in the ceiling.
The phoenix was there, perched on a wrought metal stand seemingly meant for it. Esha felt more eyes on her — and noticed another phoenix sitting in the corner, the one with a missing foot. She had never heard of an animist who kept multiple phoenixes but then, some people liked to stockpile.
Esha returned her attention to Birdnose, to find that she was being studied, too. By a Manyori woman dressed in porridge-plain homespun but still clearly kin to the masked woman Esha had stared at earlier. She was bigger than most Grewian men, the same broad frame as the animist, and the dark spot on her chin was the very same black-line tattoo that the animist had. Maybe a family's defining mark.
“Please, sit.” Birdnose gestured to a rough-felted stool.
Esha was bristlingly aware of her body, of her presence in this den of secrets. She lowered herself on panging knees, and she sat.
Birdnose eyed Esha then, and placed Gita's nameplate on a table between them. “About this deal you want — we may speak freely now. The walls are double-thick to hold in our voices, and one of my birds is keeping watch outside.”
“One of your birds?” Esha said. She had never heard of a tar dealer keeping pets who could start fires.
“The fellow you spoke to already.” Smirking fond, Birdnose said, “He's trustworthy. Take that on my word.”
Phoenixes were as trustworthy as gamblers, bandits, and next month's weather. Esha stifled her frown.
“And since you seem trustworthy as well,” Birdnose went on, “I'll trade for your property token. You must want quite a supply.”
“Not a supply — only one task.”
Birdnose was picking up a lockbox, a small one overwhelmed with steel bands and latches, when she froze and stared stark at Esha. “A task ...? Wait. Say it clearly. Are you here for tar?”
Esha knew now why she felt a warning in her bones. “Gladtar? No!” She never turned down an offered pipe full of gladtar — but to trade a property token for drugs would be madness. “I need someone who— There's a phoenix, I don't know what to do!”
“Animism service.”
“Yes!”
Birdnose aimed her spearpoint stare at Esha's caste sigil. “For your farm? Who sent you?”
“No one sent me. I have a bargain to offer from my own pockets.”
She lifted a hand and pu
lled a cord Esha hadn't noticed hanging against the bamboo wall. Up the chimneys, barely audible past the wind, a tin bell rang — and a phoenix swooped down through an unused chimney, to land on another metal perch.
“Farmwoman don't typically call upon animists,” Birdnose said, with tight-strung calm. “I wouldn't have met you this way if I had known.”
“That's fair,” Esha said. She should have said clear that animism services were what she wanted — but she was unworthy as a wordsmith, life had long since taught her. “I'm sure I don't seem like a patron of animism but if you'll take my payment, I need help from you. Or someone like you. I'm in no position to refuse anyone.”
Birdnose twisted her broad mouth, considering. She pushed the lockbox deep under a table, as though Esha might try to peek at the illicit things she had just been offered. “You said there's a phoenix causing you trouble?”
“I did.”
“That's why you're offering the property token ...?”
“That's right.” Esha shook inside but she held her chin high.
Squinting, Birdnose asked, “That's much too high a price for a bird bothering a patch of yams. Dare I ask what you want?”
“The phoenix took something precious from me, and I want it back. I don't know where the bird went, or if it'll covet your valuables, too. I ... I just need what's mine. If that's too far different from telling a phoenix to leave a field, that's fine — we can take a rock to its skull, or poison it.”
Birdnose raised a hand toward her face, to the peeling skin on her cheek — and she recoiled as though memory slapped her hand away.
“Or we can leave it alive,” Esha hurried out of her mouth, “If you deem that proper.”
“Wait. This isn't right.”
“What? I— Please forgive my—“
Birdnose hesitated again, her hand twitching toward her face on a taut string of habit. “Quiet. Just ... Know a little peace, Gita Of The Fields. I will return in a moment — I need to change.” She strode from the room, closing a side door firm behind her. A lock scraped.
Tinder Stricken Page 6