Tinder Stricken (11 page)

“But ... it reminds me of a cowrie.”

Esha said nothing. She had no inkling of
what a cowrie looked like.

“Gita of the Fields,” Atarangi said low,
“listen well. Cowrie shells aren’t trade goods. They’re not some
grimy coin to be passed around. These are a gift from the Sea-Many.
They're a gift from one ally to another. You didn't know that, did
you?”

“No! I only meant these as a gift. To ... to
apologize for my offending you, with the traps.”

Atarangi held silent, with the pouch
clutched in hard-knuckled hands. She glanced to the phoenix perched
across the room, the one flexing its head crests.

“You said that you released the crane,”
Atarangi finally said, “and dismantled all your traps? You're here
with an unclouded heart?”

“I suppose so? Please, I can't hunt down a
phoenix myself, you're the only animist I've ever met and if a
different animist insists on coin money, I—I can't—“

“Enough.” Atarangi's voice was soft now, a
tired rush like dropped cloth. She turned away, bringing the
shellfish pouch to her water pail. “I will make these my breakfast.
I accept your business deal, Gita. And I will consider whether we
can be allies.”

“Allies, partners in business, any similar
thing is fine,” Esha said. “I just need that khukuri. And I won’t
lodge it in your back: I will give you my promise.”

However strange a foreigner could be, and
whatever the differences life had assigned to them, no ally was bad
to have. Esha was sure of that as Atarangi filled a bowl with water
for the shellfish.

With a smile-touched face, Atarangi said,
“This must be a late hour for you. Get some sleep, Gita. We'll
discuss the bargain further when we've got sun to see by.”

Chapter 6

Esha accepted more tea from Atarangi and
shared every detail she could remember. The phoenix's
lungta-garbled words; her own panicked thoughts; the direction it
seemed to fly through the ragged-glimpsed treetops; the condition
of its feathers.

“It looked healthy enough, it had no trouble
taking flight. That's strange, isn't it? I've heard of sick or
crippled creatures desperate enough to attack humans — but this
bird? It
chose
to do it.”

“What colour were the feathers?”

“Orange.” That was the obvious answer and
Esha said it anyway.

“As bright as the worldedge flags? More of a
dead leaf colour? Something else?”

Mouth twisting, Esha asked, “Does it
matter?”

“It does. It helps if I know who I'm
speaking with, and what their motivations might be.”

“Ah,” Esha said small. “I ... think it was
more dull-coloured. Like unfired red clay.”

“Duller orange phoenixes are mostly female.
But size is the simplest part of the difference. Kin? Come here,
please.”

Atarangi beckoned to the phoenix sitting
nearest: Esha was moderately sure this was the bird that had
unknotted the door for her. It landed on Atarangi's outstretched
arm and sat tall — as though posing for Esha to admire.

“This friend of mine is a male,” Atarangi
said. “Is he smaller than the phoenix you saw?”

There was no way to be sure of anything that
happened that nightmarish morning — but Esha still felt a gathering
agreement, a visceral thought that the Kanakisipt khukuri would
look larger in this particular phoenix's claws. Esha nodded. “He's
got handsomer colours than the thief bird, too.”

“Yes, he is handsome phoenix.” Atarangi
grinned, her teeth shiningly white against her skin, while the bird
fluffed his feathers larger. Maybe he did understand the words of
the compliment — but he wasn't a person capable of wielding lungta.
But he had eaten handfuls of lungta foods from the tray.

This was a bizarre conversation, Esha's
sensibilities said.

Her merriment subsiding, Atarangi shooed the
phoenix off her arm; her visible face returned to calm business.
“Very well. We know which plants the phoenix is familiar with, and
that she'll likely have claimed a nesting territory. I still can't
be sure why she acted that way in negotiations with you — my eyes
can't see those depths yet. But my birds will aid us with their
wings and, once we find the wild phoenix responsible, they will aid
in negotiations.”

“How many do you have?” Esha asked.

“Three phoenixes who have my trust, and have
strong enough wings to search the higher winds. Also two more birds
who are newer to me, or weak of body, but still my kin.”

“So, they can find my knife and bring it
back?”

With a rueful smile, Atarangi said, “We can
hope for that. But animism is still diplomacy, Gita. You're from
Tselaya: you must be aware that negotiation doesn't always go as
planned.”

Esha thought as much, from her knowledge
pieced together out of history and gossip and criers' messages.
There had been civil war when she was too small to know it; it
lasted long enough for children to grow into men. But the diplomats
eventually brought peace, and guards instead of soldiers, and well
water and poorly-made fences for all the children of Tselaya.
Negotiation did solve problems, and solve them mostly.

All Esha could say was, “I hope it goes as
smoothly as telling a phoenix to leave a yam field.”

It took a moment for Esha to notice the way
Atarangi was looking at her — coolly, like across a chasm.

“There's no telling phoenixes to do
anything. They're not human beings, bound by shackles.”

What an unusual thing to say, Esha thought,
her eyes widening. Atarangi had a powerful love for heaven's lesser
beings — like some of the goatherds and yak breeders did. Esha held
onto that thought, considering Atarangi sitting peaceful here with
phoenixes in her home; she had thought plenty about society's
shackles, herself and there was plenty she didn't like.

“Tselaya animists,” Atarangi asked mild.
“They never begin a task without ending it, is that right? They
either intimidate the phoenix into leaving, or kill it like a
flea?”

“That's how it's done. You don't work that
way, clearly enough.”

Atarangi only smiled. “It will take me some
time to make contact with the phoenix who has your knife. You may
go about your business, Gita. You work for which farm?
Janjuman?”

“That's right.”

“And you live in the fieldworkers'
allocation?”

“Yes.”

“Then let your mind rest. I will seek you
out when I have news worth sharing.”

It was in the animist's hands now. Esha left
Atarangi's home with a lighter yet heavier heart, and found herself
she looking forward to the dust-caked simplicity of a field full of
yams.

The plants broke soil that week, reaching
sprouts toward the light like green fingers. Rain was sparse,
though. Farmwomen discussed the colour of the sunsets and the size
of the lungta particles whipping past, and everyone agreed that it
would be a slightly dry year. Esha and the others filled
uncountable carts full of water and spread it into the grasping
soil.

Women were pulled from the fields, assigned
to tearing up sod and yankvines to take back the fallow ground —
all the way to the worldedge. Esha wasn't chosen. She thanked each
god by name for that.

After three days of relative peace, it was
jarring to see Atarangi again. Her bristly cloak and artfully
twisted hair grabbed Esha's attention by the throat — because
Atarangi waited at the door of Gita's former home.

“Ah, I was early,” she told Esha. “But
still, I hope I find you well, Gita.”

Esha offered namaste, hurried and
distracted; in the corner of her eye, neighbours stared at the
masked foreign noble standing in the middle of a sand-poor
district. “Hail to you, too. Let us talk inside — ah, not this
home. I don't actually live here.”

Atarangi was tactful enough not to comment
on Esha's actual home. She looked curious at the shelf full of
bamboo dolls, and accepted the plain cup full of low-grade tea.

“My bird made contact with the phoenix who
holds your khukuri,” was her report. “First of all, we guessed
correctly: our mysterious phoenix is female, and living on
Millworks Plateau.”

“That high?” Millworks was a mid-caste
plateau, an order of magnitude up the mountain from Yam. Getting
there would take a week of travel on the spiral road — or a single
kilometre climbed directly skyward. “She couldn't find anything to
steal from her own plateau?”

“I can't explain that,” Atarangi said, “and
the dealmaker hasn't offered any reasons for her travel. The meat
of our nut is this: she feels that the Kanakisipt khukuri is
rightfully hers.”

“What?! Where did she get that idea?!”

Grimacing, Atarangi turned her teacup
between her smooth fingers. “You promised the wild phoenix
anything
in exchange for her help, Gita. She said that
despite the difficulty speaking with you, it was made very clear
that she could have anything she wanted. You didn't tell me that.
Didn't you think that was an important part of the bargain?”

“She's a
bird
— I didn't think
anything I told her would be more important than whether I can
afford to retire.”

“You must understand: phoenixes take verbal
arrangements very seriously. We have explained the problem more
than once, and the dealmaker is not interested in changing the
terms.”

“Your phoenix explained,” Esha
corrected.

Beneath the mask, Atarangi's eyes rolled
frustrated. “Fine. I accept the blame for my partner's failings.
But still, the dealmaker has planted her feet firm. We asked her
what she would trade in exchange for your khukuri, and she said she
would only accept more of what she calls purple-wordsmithing-song
flower — that means orchids, or any flower with potent speaking
lungta.”

“That's not an option,” Esha blurted. Her
voice was weaker than she would have liked. “I can't— I can't get
more of the Kanakisipt orchid, I don't think even you would be able
to get it for a price I can pay. Keep negotiating. Please.”

Her mouth twitching with held protests,
Atarangi nodded.

Two more days passed. It was nearly long
enough for the yam fields to calm Esha, for the grinding of her
digging spade to sand away her rough edges. Sprouts spread their
heart-shaped leaves toward the holy sky. Even the evening meal was
a minor joy: the cook made chapatti bread flecked with onion greens
and it was a treat everyone savoured.

Esha was feeling nearly ordinary when
Atarangi came calling. She cast a sunset-long shadow on Esha's
doorstep, and returned namaste with an unsettling sharpness in her
hidden eyes.

“I'm sorry to say,” she said once inside.
“That the discussion is over.”

“What?”

“Your dealmaker said she will not give the
khukuri back, nor trade it back for less than it's worth. My
phoenix is not welcome in her territory if he speaks any more about
it. That's all there is.”

Esha stopped over the tea kettle, leaves
clutched in unmovable fingers. “That can't be all. It can't.” Her
life had only begun climbing back upward toward something
hopeful.

“I'm afraid it is.”

“Good diplomat, that's only what the thief
bird told your
messenger
,” Esha said, with rising fear hot
in her chest. “You have to go deal with the phoenix yourself. Catch
it, strike it with a rock—“

“No,” Atarangi snapped.

“
I'll
do it! Tell me which end of
Millworks to start from!”

“
No.”

Esha had more passion roaring through her
but no more words, no more illusion that she was making sense
because time for her own foolishness to sink in, to feel her
shifting leg joints throbbing with her pulse and know that she
could never manage such a trip alone. Even if she could travel to
Millworks, she had no business trapping creatures there and the
soldiers would handle her accordingly. “I—“ She shook her head.
“I'm sorry. I just ... don't know what to do.”

She stole a glance at Atarangi. The large
woman sat like a temple statue at Esha's rough-hewn table, smiling
sadly. “However much the sky thunders, an unmoving stone still
knows peace. Please be calm, Gita Of The Fields.” She hesitated,
rolling her hands into neat fists. “There is ... one last option we
can try.”

Esha swallowed, and rubbed her eyes.
“Alright.”

“Might we have some tea?”

“Yes, yes.” The leaves were broken to crumbs
now but that would make them steep quicker, anyway. “Go on —
please.”

“Phoenixes do not like proxy discussion
about a person half a world away,” Atarangi said. “It's a trait of
their language, and therefore a guideline for how they see the
world surrounding them. They don't always name things clearly — not
in the way we think of it — and many individuals never even accept
a name as theirs. “

“Can't imagine that they would,” Esha said.
Names were for people, for heaven-blessed humans who could
understand such significance.

“Negotiating through my kin birds can save
me journeying — so it's a tool worth trying. But it makes me a
distant object in a phoenix's mind, just a speck on the ground
below. They respond better to diplomacy when I'm standing right
before their eyes. And ideally, the wronged party is standing there
with me. That means that if we both travel to the wild phoenix's
home plateau, and stand within her territory to make our request,
maybe she will reconsider returning your khukuri somehow.”

This was a punishment, Esha felt in her
waterlogged heart, in the burning tears threatening to spill. She
wasn't an old woman but she didn't have the strength to drag
herself up the mountain.

“I didn't mean it,” she said quiet, “when I
said I'd journey up there.”

Atarangi hummed, a flat stone of a
sound.