Ken Liu - The Grace of Kings

At dusk, the first spectators would arrive, having finished their work in the fields and eaten dinner, and the puppet troupe would put on a light comedy to keep the growing audience entertained. The players hid behind the elevated stage, and the roaring fire behind them cast colorful shadows of the articulated, intricate puppets against the screens, to the accompaniment of bawdy jokes punctuated by loud clashes of the cymbals.

And then, as night fell and most of the village gathered around the stage, the troupe would begin the main feature, usually a tragic old tale about star-crossed lovers, beautiful princesses and brave heroes, evil prime ministers and foolish old kings. The puppets would sing long, sweet, sad arias accompanied by the coconut lute and bamboo flute. Dafiro and Ratho often fell asleep, leaning against each other, as they listened to the haunting songs and watched the sky full of stars spinning slowly over their heads.

And in one of these plays, the one that Dafiro remembered now, a beggar had put on a whore’s robes and a paper crown and pretended to be a king. He was ridiculous, and the villagers had howled with laughter as the puppet danced around the stage: a peacock, no, a rooster pretending to be a peacock.

After another flowery, barely literate speech cobbled together from clichés in history books, another captain sat down. He wiped his brow, happy that he hadn’t inadvertently said anything to annoy the new king.

A new man stood up. Immediately, he drew the attention of everyone in the banquet hall: eight feet tall, a torso as thick as a wine barrel, and those eyes! Four dagger points glinted in the torchlight. He stood there and did not lift up his cup to offer a toast, and the murmurs in the banquet hall ceased.

“Who… who are you?” demanded King Huno.

“I am Mata Zyndu,” said the stranger. “I had come to study Huno Krima and Zopa Shigin, the heroes of the rebellion. But all I see is a monkey dressed up as a man. You’re no different from any of the fools Mapidéré had elevated above their station. Neither Imperial fiat nor popular acclaim can make an ant into an elephant. A man can never fulfill a role he is not born for.”

Deadly silence.

“You… you…” King Huno could not speak from rage. The captain of the guards whistled, and all the assembled guests around Mata ducked for cover. The guards pulled their bows full as the round moon. Mata flipped over the table in front of him so he could wield it as a shield, sending bowls and flagons and cups flying everywhere.

The great big packhorse by the statue of Fithowéo whinnied and leapt from where he was standing. As he leapt, his reins, still looped around the foot of the statue, broke. But the statue had not been on a secure foundation, and with a great groan, the statue of Fithowéo began to topple.

Everything seemed to slow down in the banquet hall. The arrows were let loose; the statue continued to fall; the horse arrived in front of Mata; Mata jumped onto the horse, whose height and stature seemed designed for his own; the statue crashed into the ground; the arrows thunked into the statue; dust and broken tables and dishes and cups exploded everywhere; men screamed.

And then Mata was gone from the banquet hall, riding on top of the all-black horse, whose movements were as fluid as wind, as sleek as water, as well matched to Mata’s own as night is well matched to the lone wolf.

I shall name you Réfiroa, thought Mata as he rode back toward Çaruza. The Well-Matched. Wind whipped through his hair, and he had never felt such a sense of freedom or speed. He and the horse were parts of a greater whole.

You’re the mount I have been seeking, just as you have been seeking your rider. For too long we both languished in obscurity, away from our true roles on the world-stage. It is only when beings of true quality are matched to their stations that the world can prosper again.

“That is what a real hero looks like,” whispered Ratho to Dafiro.

For once, Dafiro had no wise comebacks.

A dangerous precedent, Fithowéo, my brother.

Kiji, I’ve done nothing unusual. What mortal have I actively or directly harmed?

You shielded him with your statue—

To prevent harm is not the same as causing harm. Our agreement stands.

You argue like one of Lutho’s paid litigators—

Leave me out of it, brothers and sisters. Though I do note that the distinction between acts of omission and commission has troubled philosophers for—

Enough! I will let this one go, Fithowéo. This one time.

A week later, Duke Shigin’s body was found floating in the moat outside the walls of Dimu. The king mourned the death of his friend publicly and loudly and cursed the drink that had caused Shigin to fall into the water and drown himself.

Everyone calibrated their grief by the king’s. If King Huno cried for half a minute, no one dared to cry for longer. If the king never mentioned a certain name when he spoke of the discovery of the Prophecy of the Fish, then no one else was going to either. If the king reluctantly explained that he had worked hard to try to cover up for Duke Shigin due to their friendship even though the duke was always a bit cowardly and tended to exaggerate his own role in the rebellion — he was just a follower — and couldn’t resist the drink… then the historians and scribes carefully edited their records to match the king’s hints.

“Could you and I have remembered things so wrongly?” asked Ratho. “I could have sworn—”

Dafiro put his hand over his brother’s mouth. “Shush, Little Brother. It’s easy for men to be friends as close as brothers when they’re poor and struggling, but much harder when things are going well. Friends are never as close as blood. Remember that, Rat.”

And of course, no one ever, ever mentioned the faint red circle that had been found around the neck of Duke Shigin’s corpse, which matched the impression made by a rope.

“You don’t see anything wrong with this?” Mün Çakri asked gruffly, his eyes bulging from his round face. “You really don’t see anything wrong with a King of West Cocru created out of thin air?”

Kuni Garu shrugged. “I am the Duke of Zudi by popular proclamation. How is that any more legitimate than his coronation by prophecy?”

“Once this is accepted, you’re going to see kings and dukes springing up like mushrooms after the rain,” Cogo Yelu said matter-of-factly. He shook his head. “We’re all going to rue this day.”

“Well, let them,” Kuni said. “Getting a title is easy. It’s keeping it that’s hard.”

While King Huno promoted many people, none of them were from the group of thirty corvée laborers who had started the rebellion with him. Indeed, after the death of Duke Shigin, none of the laborers would even admit to having been there with him. Ah, the story of the fish. Yes, yes, it’s a very good story. I heard it from someone else.

King Huno slept more easily at night.

ZUDI: THE THIRD MONTH IN THE FOURTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF RIGHTEOUS FORCE.