… 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 doesn’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.