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Authors: Heidi C. Vlach
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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.
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.
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