by Jo Clayton
“Tell you what?”
“A story, Bramble, tell me a tale of of ‘Tungjii. It’s a lovely night, there’s nothing much to do, get drunk, sleep, watch the wind blow. I’d rather hear you talk.”
She laughed. “Such a compliment. Your tact is overwhelming, Danny Blue. Why not. A warning tale, my friend. Heesh is an amiable sort, but you don’t want to underestimate that little god. So. There’s a land a long way east of here, a land that was old when Popokanjo walked the earth, before he shot the moon. In that long long long ago, in the reign of the emperor Rumanai, a maretuse whose maret was a broad domain at the edge of the rice plains came to consider himself the cleverest man in the world, yet he had to keep proving his cleverness to himself. Every month or so he sent out mercenary bands to roam the silk road and snatch travelers from it to play games with him, games he always won because he set the rules and because he really was very clever in his twisted way. Each of his conscripted guests played game after game with him until the miserable creature lost, his nerve or, was killed or began to bore the maretuse. His landfolk did their best to keep him entertained with strangers because that meant he wouldn’t turn his mind to testing them. And they were loyally discreet when Rumanai’s soldiers came prying about, hunting the bandits interfering with the Emperor’s road and the taxes it brought to his treasury.
The land prospered. In their silence and because they took the spoils he passed out among them, the horses, the dogs, the tradegoods, even some of the gold, the landfolk also shared his guilt. But the peasants on the land and the merchants in the small market towns told themselves that their hands were clean, they shed no blood, they did not lift a finger to aid their master in his games. That they profited from these was neither here nor there. What could they do? It was done and would be done. Should they starve by having too queasy a stomach? Should their children starve? Besides, the travelers on the silk road knew the dangers they faced. And no doubt they were little better than the maretuse if you looked into their lives. Thieves, cheats, murderers, worst of all foreigners. If they were proper men, they would stay home where they belonged. It was their own fault if they came to a bad end. So the Ambijaks of maret Ambijan talked themselves into silence and complicity.
The day came when the mighty Perran-a-Perran, the highest of the high, lord and emperor of all gods, took a hand in the matter of the clever maretuse.
Old Tungjii was sitting on a hillside munching grapes when a messenger from the high court of the gods came mincing along a sunbeam, having a snit at the common red mountain dirt that was blowing into every crevice and fold of his golden robe. Old Tungjii was more than half drunk from all the grapes heesh had been eating because heesh had been turning them to wine before they hit hisser stomach. Heesh was wearing common black trousers like any old peasant, the cloth worn thin at the seat and knees and a loose shirt heesh didn’t bother to tie shut, letting the wind and grape juice get at fat sagging breasts with hard purple nipples. Heesh was liking the warm sun and the dusty wind that sucked up the sweat on hisser broad bald head. Heesh was liking the smell of the dust, of the crushed grass and leaves underneath him, the sounds of the grape pickers laughing a little way off and the shepherd’s pipe someone was playing almost too far away to hear. Heesh certainly didn’t want to be bothered by some sour-faced godlet from the Courts of Gold. But old Fishface (which is how Tungjii privately thought of the god-emperor Perran-a-Perran, how heesh muttered about him when rather too drunk to be discreet) was nasty when one of his undergods irritated him, especially one of the more disreputable sorts like the double-natured Tungjii. So heesh spat out a mouthful of grapeskins and lumbered to hisser broad bare feet.
“‘Tungjii,” the messenger said.
Tungjii smiled, winning the bet heesh made with hisserself that the godlet’s voice would whine like a whipped puppy. Heesh nodded, content with the perfection of pettiness old Fishface had presented him mer with.
“The maretuse of maret Ambijan is getting above himself,” the messenger said, his lip curled in a permanent sneer that did odd things to his enunciation even while he spoke with a glasscutting clarity. “The foolish man is thinking about plotting against dearest Rumanai, the beloved of the gods, the true emperor of Hinasilisan. He has convinced himself he deserves the throne for his own silly bottom.” The messenger made a jerky little gesture with his left hand meant to convey overpowering rage and martial determination. Tungjii reminded hisserself sternly that old Fishface didn’t like his subgods to giggle at his official messengers. “Perran-a-Perran, Lord of All, Lord of sky, sea and earth, Emperor of emperors, Orderer of Chaos, Maker of man and beast, Father of all…”
Tungjii stopped listening to the roll of epithets, let hisser senses drift, squeezing the last drops of pleasure from the day. Even old Fishface’s eyes glazed over during one of these interminable listings of his attributes and honors, finishing with the list of his many consorts, the only one of them of any interest to Tungjii being the Godalau with her moonpale fingers and her saucy fishtail. The two of them had played interesting games with hisser dual parts. Horny old Tungjii was a busy old Tungjii in spite of hisser unprepossessing outer envelope and found hisserself in a lot of lofty beds (the messenger would have been shocked to a squib to know one of those beds belonged to Perran-a-Perran). A girl’s laughter came up the hill to himmer and heesh blew a minor blessing down to her for the lift of pleasure she’d given himmer.
… of all gods, Perran-a-Perran commands Tungjii the double god to go to Ambijan and stop this blowfish from poisoning the air and punish his overweening folly for daring to plot trouble for the God of all god’s dearest dear, the emperor Rumanai.’
‘
Tungjii yawned. “Tell him I went,” heesh said and was gone.
Some time later a fat little man was riding along the silk road on a fine long-legged mule, drowsing in a well-padded saddle, content to let the mule find the way. If anyone had asked, the little man would have blinked sleepy eyes and smiled, showing a mouthful of fine square teeth, and murmured that the mule was smarter than him and the questioner combined so why bother the good beast with such foolishness.
The snatchband came down on him as the day reached its end, rode round him in the dusk, demanded he follow them which he did without a murmur of protest, something that troubled them so much they rode through the night instead of camping some miles off the road as they usually did. And two of them rode wide, scouting the road again east and west because they suspected some ldnd of ambush. None of their victims had exhibited such placid good humor and it made them nervous. The scouts came back toward morning and reported that nothing was stirring anywhere. This should have reassured them, but somehow it did not. They gave their mounts grain and water, let them graze and rest a few hours, then were on their way again when the dew was still wet on the grass. The little man rode along with the same placid cheerful acceptance of what was happening, irritating the snatchband so much that only their very great fear of the maretuse kept them from pounding him into a weeping pulp.
So uneasy were they that after they delivered the little man and his mule to the maretuse, they collected their belongings and rode south as fast as they could without killing their mounts, intending to put a kingdom or two between them and Ambijan. The horses survived and ran free. Tungjii liked horses. A tiger ate one of the men. Another fell off a bridge into a cataract and eventually reached the sea, though mostly in the bellies of migrating fishes. A third helped to feed several broods of mountain eagles. Tungjii liked to watch the great birds soar and wheel. The fourth and fifth stumbled into the hands of trolls and fed a whole clutch of trollings. All in all, the snatchband contributed more to the wellbeing of the world that one summer than they had in years.
The maretuse had the little man brought before him. “What is your name?” he said.
“Guess.”
“Insolence will get you a beating. That is a warning.”
“A wild boar can tromp and tear a hunter. It d
oesn’t mean he’s smarter or better than the hunter, only that the hunter’s luck has turned bad.
“Luck? Hunh. It doesn’t exist. Only degrees of cleverness and stupidity.”
“Old Tung j ii might argue with you on that.”
“Tungjii is a fat little nothing men dream up so they won’t have to face their inadequacy at dealing with the world and other men. Tungjii is nothing but wind.”
“Heesh wouldn’t argue too much on that point. Wind and the random crossing of separate fates, that’s chance not luck, but there’s a tiny tiny crack there where Tungjii can stick hisser thumbs and wiggle them a bit.”
“Nonsense. A clever man scorns luck and reaches as high as his grasp will take him.”
The little man tilted his head to one side, clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Cleverness is a war, but a soldier is a soldier.”
“What do you mean by that? If anything.”
“You’re the clever man. Tell me.”
“Wind!” The maretuse settled back in his chair. -It is my custom to invite a traveler into my house and match him at a game or two. Be aware that if you lose, you will be my slave as long as you live. And you will lose because you are a fat little fool who believes in luck. But you will choose a game and play it or I will peel the hide off your blubber and feed it to you strip by strip.”
“And if I win, what will I win?”
“You won’t win.”
“It’s not a proper contest if there isn’t a prize for both players.”
The maretuse forced a laugh. “You won’t win, so what does it matter? You name my forfeit.”
The little man clasped his hands over his hard little belly, closed his eyes and screwed up his face as if thinking were a struggle for him, then he relaxed, smiled, opened his eyes. “You will feed my mule.”
“Done.” The maretuse waved his servant over with the Jar of Lots. He was rather disappointed when the Lot did not turn up one of the more physical games. His guest was such a plump juicy little man he’d looked forward to chivvying him through the Maze of Swords or hunting him in the Gorge of Sighs, but he was pleased enough with the chosen game. He was a master strategist at stonechess and no one in the Empire, even the masters in the capital, had ever defeated him. Sometimes he won with only a few stones left, sometimes he crushed his opponent under an avalanche of stones, but always he won. Five years back when he was in Andurya Durat for the Emperor’s Birthday, one of his games passed into legend. It lasted fourteen days and less than a dozen stones were left on the board and both players had to be carried off and revived with tea and massage.
He didn’t expect the game to last long, a few hours at most, then the guest would lose and he would dip again into the Jar and lose again and dip again until he lost his nerve entirely and was only good for tiger feed. The maretuse was a trifle annoyed at his snatchband. The little man had an amiable stupidity that was apparent to the bleariest eye; they should have let him go on his way and found someone more challenging.
He had the board set up, along with bowls of ansin tea, bowls of rosewater and hot towels, piles of sausage bits, sweet pork, seven cheeses, raw vegetables, finger cakes and candies. Honest food to give this fool some spark of wisdom if anything could and keep the game from being too short and boring.
Hours passed.
Servants lit lamps, replenished the food, moving with great care to make no sound at all to disturb the concentration of their master. At first they were pleased to see the game continue so long because a hard, taxing contest kept the maretuse quiet for a long time. But when dawn pinked the hills they began to worry. The maretuse had never lost before and they didn’t know how he would take it. Experience of his moods when he was irritated made them fearful. The next pot of the guest’s tea had a dusting of dreamsugar in it. The little fat man took a sip, grinned at them, then emptied the cup with a zesty appreciation and continued to sit relaxed, looking sleepily stupid and unremittingly cheerful. And the servants grew sick with fear.
Midafternoon came; sunlight fell like a sword across the table.
The maretuse watched his guest drop a stone with calm finality to close the strangling ring about the largest portion of his remaining stones. He could fight another dozen moves if he chose or he could capitulate. “Who are you?” he said. “No man this side of the world is my match. Or yours.”
The little man grinned and said nothing.
“I’m not going to let you leave here, win or lose.” A nod. That inane grimace was still pasted across the round stupid face.
“Feed your mule, you said. I will pay my forfeit. What does the beast eat? Oats? Straw? Grass?”
“You’ll see.”
The mule came titupping daintily across the marble floor though no one saw how it got from the stables into the house.
The youngest daughter of one of the gardeners was playing among the bushes, content to watch caterpillars crawl and ladybugs whirr about, lines of ants marching frantically to and fro and a toad like an old cowpat blinking in the shade of a flowering puzzlebush, flicking out his white tongue when it occurred to him to snatch and eat a hapless bug that fluttered too close. Crawling about among the bushes and gathering smears of dirt with a total lack of concern, she passed the long windows of the gameroom where the maretuse and his guest were concluding their match.
She stopped to stare inside and saw the mule come titupping in and giggled to see a beast in the great house coming to tea just like any man.
The little man waved at her and she waved back, then he turned his head over his shoulder and spoke to the mule. “The maretuse,” he said, “has agreed to feed you, Mule.”
The mule opened his mouth. Opened and opened and opened his mouth.
The maretuse struggled to move but he could not.
The little man swelled and changed until heesh was Tungjii male and female in hisser favorite wrinkled black. Ignoring the terrified man, Tungjii walked over to the long window. Heesh opened it and picked up the gardener’s daughter.
“Dragon,” she said.
-Yes, ‘ Tungjii said, “a very hungry dragon. You want to come with me?”
“Uh-huh. Dada too?”
“Not this time. Do you mind, little daughter?”
She looked gravely into hisser eyes, then snuggled closer to himmer. “Uh-uh.”
Tungjfi began walking up the air, grunting and leaning a little forward as if heesh were plodding up a steep flight of stairs. At first the gardener’s daughter was afraid, but Tungjii’s bosom was soft and warm. She relaxed on it and felt safe enough to look over hisser shoulder.
Fire spread fron one edge of the world to the other. “Dragon?”
“The Dragon Sunfire. He is living there now.”
“Oh.”
And to this day Ambijan is a desert where nothing much grows. The few Ambijaks left are wandering herdsmen and raiders who worship a dragon called Sun-fire.
* * *
“Dragons too? What a world.” He rose from the coil of rope where he’d been sitting, stretched, worked his shoulders, glanced at the black sea rolling ahead of them. The Godalau was still out there, swimming tirelessly along. “Barbequed peasant. Rather hard on those who disturb the status quo, don’t you think? I’ve known a few emperors who needed a bit of disturbing.”
She hitched a hip on the rail, took hold of a handy shroud. “It’s a story. Probably didn’t happen. Could happen, though. Don’t go by heesh’s looks, Tungjii is dangerous. Always. The one who told me that story, he was a dancer whose company I was traveling with right then; Tungjii was his family patron. That gardener’s daughter, you remember? When she was old enough Tungjii married her into Taga’s family and promised to keep a friendly eye on them. They learned fast not to ask him for help. Heesh always gave it, but sometimes that help felt like five years of plague.” She ran her eyes over Daniel Akamarino, looked puzzled. “Which makes me wonder why he fetched you here. Him or some other god.”
-Why not accident? The god s
natched for whatever he could reach.”
“You haven’t met tigermen or ariels or some of the more exotic demons sorcerors can whip into this world with something less than a hiccup or a grunt. And that’s nothing to what a god can do when he, she or it makes up its corporate whatever to act.”
“Don’t tell me it’s him,” Daniel jerked a thumb toward the cramped quarters belowdeck. “Just because our names match?”
“Who knows the minds of gods, if they’ve got minds which I’m not all that sure of, or why they do what they do?” Her hands had long palms, long thumbs, short tapering fingers; they were strong capable hands, seldom still. She ran her fingers along his forearm, feathery touches that stirred through the pale hairs. “Why you?” Her mouth had gone soft, there was a thoughtful shine to her eyes.
He trapped her hand, held it against his arm. “Why not.” Still holding the hand, he moved around so he could sit on the rail beside her, relaxing into the dip and slide of the boat. He slid his hand up her back, enjoying her response to his touch; she leaned into him, doing her version of a contented purr as he moved his fingers through the feathery curls on her neck.
Lio Laux came up on deck, moved into the bow and stood watching the intermittently visible Godalau, then he drifted over to Daniel and Brann. “I thought you were swinging it some. Not, huh?”
“Not. When do we make the Cove?”
“Hour or so before dawn, day after tomorrow.” His ear dangle flashed in the moonlight, brown gleams slid off his polished bald head. His eyes narrowed into invisibility. “Given there’s no trouble?” There was a complex mixture of apprehension and anticipation in his voice.
Brann’s head moved gently in response to the pressure of Daniel’s fingers. “I haven’t a notion, Lio Laux.” Her deep voice was drowsy, detached.-“We have… eyes out… should something show up… we’ll go to work… no point in fussing… until we have to. ‘