Tinder Stricken (3 page)

This earthquake subsided quickly. Silence
and stillness returned — with no one thrown down, nothing ruined
except a few spilled meals. In the dusty air, Janjuman's overseers
flowed in the door to count heads while field workers crept back to
their food.

Gita tugged Esha's hand. “Auspicious,
hmm?”

Esha had to untangle their hands to swat
her.

Gita volunteered them for perimeter check.
Earthquakes did little damage to bare fields and fallows, but
volunteering to scout for damage still showed a prudence that
overseers liked well enough. Esha and Gita walked as brisk as Esha
could manage, around the south-eastern side of Janjuman's estate to
the edge of the grass-buried fallow lands — a long way to uselessly
walk, but necessary to act out their lie. Then they returned to the
overseers' office.

To one stone-faced overseer, Gita reported
that that they saw a phoenix — in the fallow south-east, moving
like it was striking its pieces of iron and pyrite. The two of them
wished permission to chase that phoenix for the preservation of
Janjuman.

The overseer brought her before the clerk.
Under two sets of scrutiny, Gita repeated herself. A phoenix on
Janjuman's land. Fire-starting behaviour. They wished to chase
it.

The clerk eyed them like new-bought yaks,
while inking and wax-sealing the permission form. He said, in
accented Grewan, that the two of them had absence verification for
this day only: if they brought the phoenix in, they would need to
make report on their own time but they would be honoured in the
records. And they might be subject to a monetary reward.

He didn't specify how much of a reward.
Surely two or three rupees that could be earned easier by cutting
bamboo.

“I will advise you,” the clerk added, “that
based on measurement of this evening's earthquake, the earthreaders
do not predict aftershocks until tomorrow at the earliest. However,
there have been reports of a windsickle demon attacking an
individual near the worldedge. Your safety is your own
responsibility.”

Esha and Gita agreed, and ink-stroked their
signatures onto the forms.

“Truthfully,” Gita said while they walked
edgeward, “I've never heard of anyone making good on a pest animal
capture. It's more trouble than it's worth.”

“I saw some clause about replacing personal
property that gets damaged in Janjuman's service,” Esha said.
“Maybe I'll try claiming that.”

“You'd need a diplomat to convince them, I'm
sure.”

“If my khukuri blade finally meets the
Makers today, I'll blame the phoenix. Who will defend some
bird?”

“Yaah, I don't know. Just make sure there's
phoenix blood on the blade, if you're really going to try it.”

“I thought we were just capturing it in a
sack? Keh, it doesn't matter.” Knowing Esha's luck, her khukuri
would wait to snap while cutting her morning yams.

Gita said nothing out loud, just kept up her
smirking convoy of clever thoughts while she watched ahead. These
fallows would be ready for replanting next year: bamboo stood
taller than Esha did, its young leaves rattling in the wind.
Carmine beetles crawled knee-high pine saplings, searching for
magic-laden resin that wasn’t flowing yet. Movement snagged Esha's
eye — but it was only a lone gwara, rolling through the grass in a
mindless, seeking pattern.

“What about those aftershocks,” Gita said
with a flat voice and a monkey's wry smile. “The clerk is good to
warn us about those. Knowledgeable as he is about the mountain's
soil.”

It
was
a little absurd. Carrying a
permission form in her pocket, Esha was free in this moment; the
tiers of human birthright were a smoky, distant thing. “And what
does
a clerk know about dealing with the earth?” she obliged
Gita.

“Plenty! He must struggle mightily to keep
his inkwell upright during an earthquake.”

“You think so?”

“Well, that's more lifting than a clerk
usually does.” She peered sidelong at Esha. “Isn't it?”

Esha was the only one of the farming women
who had seen the gloried heights of the mountain, and the lavish
homes that looked more like temples, and the lungta showering down
like petals from heavens' blooms. The taste of her smile changed.
Only Gita was allowed to ask about these bitter memories.

“Gita Of The Fields,” Esha said firm, “mind
your tongue and honour your betters. Clerks transport more tonnes
of useless paper forms than you could ever know.”

“Yaah,” Gita cried, “I thought you were
serious!”

“They're stronger than yaks, these
clerks.”

“Esha!” One of Gita's flailing hands found
Esha's, and she squeezed it brief and fond.

“Alright, I'll speak truth now,” Esha
laughed. “Clerks are in the same caste as earthreaders, so they're
informed of an earthquake an hour before anyone else. But that's
all.”

“There aren't any earthreaders on Yam
Plateau. Why would a scholar come this far down the mountain?”

Esha waved the question away. “They
wouldn't: they'd send a messenger. Fah. Tell me something fresher,
sister — where did you see the phoenix? You
did
actually see
one, didn't you?”

“It was here, right here!”

They walked from bamboo thicket to gumgrass
field, the knee-high stalks sticking to Esha and Gita's homespun
clothes. Something delicate grew among the resinous undergrowth —
one herb sprout with pale, bent leaves — and Esha took care not to
step on something so potentially precious.

“But the bird didn't seem to like anything
it found. I saw it moving edgeward, so I think we'll find it
there.” Gita slowed her pace, placing her sandals careful and
silent as they rounded a thicket of bamboo. Her hand slipped into
her satchel for a throwing stone. “This is where I saw the bird
before. Scratching for seeds, I think.”

The winds blew stronger with every step, and
the flag-strung fence crept into view — bamboo rails with
white-and-orange striped flags too bold to ignore. Beyond there,
the lee side of Tselaya Mountain fell away and there was only empty
sky. A bird would surely feel safe here, so close to the sky,
perched on the edge of a human-owned plateau. Esha combed her gaze
over the surroundings, too — searching for red imperial guards as
much as red feathers.

She followed Gita around a head-high stand
of bamboo — and suddenly, Gita stopped, throwing an arm out to bar
Esha’s way.

“Over there,” she whispered. She reached
into her satchel and wrapped a fist around a second stone.
“Scratching at the dirt.”

“You think you can strike it in one try?”
Gita was the better shot of the two of them: she could have been an
archer if she had been born to a better caste.

“Yes, just go around and flush it out.
Toward me.”

After a heartbeat of hesitation, Esha bent,
to grip some gumgrass and yank it up roots and all. “Don’t kill
it,” she told Gita. Some fools thought phoenixes were more valuable
alive.

“I won’t.”

Esha took a final glimpse around and saw no
guards, no witnesses at all. Grass clump held tight, she crept away
from her friend around the bamboo stalks.

The field slid into view, more dusty leaves
and sun-bleached air — then a sliver of orange feathers, bright as
fire. The phoenix faced away from Esha, bent and focused on the
soil. Its long neck lifted.

Esha held still, avoiding its gaze.

The phoenix paused. Its feather crests
lifted, then fell back into three sleek points. It shuffled its
feet, and its wingtips. Then, warily, it bent again toward the
earth.

That would be the last mistake this bird
made. Esha lunged and threw, and her root clod sailed wide but the
phoenix startled all the same, hurrying onto its wings. It flew
past Gita and there was a hard whip of movement as a rock struck
the bird’s wing. It screeched and faltered, its knotted
stringfeathers grazing the grass tops — but it still flew, limping
airborne toward the worldedge fence.

“No!” Gita cried. She ran and was gone past
the bamboo.

Esha hurried the opposite way around the
bamboo stand and caught a glimpse of Gita running so her blue sari
edges flew, toward the phoenix that whisked over the worldedge
fence like a torn-free flag.

“Ah, gods’ spit,” Gita sighed, her voice
like dust on the wind. She slowed, rubbing at the edge of her
headwrap. She had always sweated a lot under her head coverings;
Esha felt a prickling at her own hairline in this fallen
moment.

“Come on, sister,” Esha called. “It can't be
helped.” She walked the chasmic distance between them, gumgrass
crackling under her sandals. “Did you loose any feathers from it?”
They might at least get a few rupees for good wing quills, or for
durable stringfeathers with the phoenix's fire-striking metals tied
in.

“Don't believe so. Damnit! I struck it true
and it still flew away.” She reached the fence and laid both hands
on the bamboo rail’s curve. “Like the cursed thing had— Esha!
Esha
, look! It’s still here!”

Esha hurried to the fence, and with the wind
moaning around her she looked down — where Gita pointed, at the
vanishing, concave rock face. Down there was the phoenix, clinging
to the craggy rock and staring up with eyes like hot embers. One of
its wings fanned rough, like it could no longer close.

“We can still get it!”

Esha eyed her friend; the doubts surged
back. “You think so?”

“If it could fly, it wouldn’t be simply
sitting there — isn’t that true?”

“You didn't bring a net, did you?”

“I haven't owned a net in years. We've got
our ropes — what if we snare it? At that angle, though ...” Her
face as determined as ever, Gita unwound her selfrope from the
loops strung diagonal around her body.

“Here.” With hope heavy in her gut, Esha
bent for a small stone. “Weight the string. If anyone can catch
this thing, it's you.”

They spent long moments bent over that
fence, squinting into the wind. Yam Plateau was the second-largest
plateau on all the tiers of Tselaya, built wide by the gods and
expanded even wider by metalworkers; the plateau's underside
receded so deeply toward the mountain's core that the phoenix was
sheltered underneath. Gita threw and threw her makeshift snare,
grumbling oaths to herself. Holding fistfuls of Gita's sari and
bearing some of her friend's weight, Esha watched the clouds and
craned sometimes to see the fallows behind them, once again fearing
guards' colours.

“Is it even still there?” she asked in a
breathless grunt.

“Still clinging.”

“Amazing that it's got a grip at all.”

“They've got good claws,” Gita said. “Harder
than steel. Part of why the whole bird gets a good price.” She
wound her throwing arm back, and paused, and threw with limp
resignation. “Let go, sister — thank you for holding on.”

Esha didn't hear her own replying voice; it
was drowned out by the liberation of letting go and stretching her
hands, her arms, her ever-troublesome ankles.

“I could throw until Martyrs' Day and not
get the rope around it,” Gita grumbled.

“We tried, sister.”

Gita flicked tongue over her lower lip,
considering. “Let’s not give up. We’ve done enough giving up. What
if I just climb down and grab it?”

“What?!”

“We're good mountain children: we brought
ropes.” She looked to her own hand resting on the top fence rail.
“And the Empire provides us with somewhere to tie them. I'll just
climb down there. We've come this far, Esha.”

This wasn't a leisurely trip down-mountain
on climbing spires: there was an enormity of open air below them,
hundreds of meters to the edge of Betel Plateau far below and far
more open space below that. But the phoenix was only a few
arm-lengths away. Well within a selfrope's reach. In the bitterest
crevice of her heart, Esha agreed: she didn’t want to give up
anymore. She didn't want to carry a burden of disappointment back
to the clerk's office, to file a truthful report of their
failure.

“Fine.” Esha unwound selfrope from her own
body. “Fine. Use two ropes, though.”

Their shadows stretched in the golden
evening. Gita tied a stout knot around her waist; Esha looped and
tied Gita's rope around the fence's two rails. The bamboo poles
looked unblemished and the iron nails untouched by rust — but to
ease her mind, Esha tied her own selfrope on the next pair of rails
over.

“I’ll tie the phoenix onto your rope,” Gita
said. “Pull it up and get it inside a sack, then give me back your
rope.”

“Will that work? It can’t burn though jute
rope, can it?”

“Not unless we sit here like lard lumps,
letting it strike sparks.”

Clever plans were sounding less clever by
the moment. Esha pressed her mouth, and pulled her knot tighter.
“You know best, sister. Be careful.”

“Always.” With her selfrope tied between the
fence post and her own body, Gita wound Esha’s rope around her arm.
She set her pouch aside, and toed off her sandals. For a moment,
she met Esha's eyes like a real sister, as honest as their shared
sweat.

And then with bare feet spread for grip,
Gita stepped onto the fence and over it, off the edge of
civilization. The ropes pulled taut. Esha could only watch as Gita
dangled, creeping downward in the open air. The phoenix stared hot
steel at her, huffing through an open beak, its warning keen rising
louder than the wind. Gita shifted, leaning, and testing her own
balance. Her earth-brown hand stretched toward the phoenix’s fiery
feathers and its snapping beak.

Then Esha's feet slid from under her, the
fence rail catching her and stunning her breathless as the earth
roared. She gasped and struggled upright, grabbing the tied loops
of Gita's ropes. Another earthquake was upon them — with no warning
this time, not so much as a humming in the soles of Esha's feet,
this couldn't
be
.