Chapter Twenty-Three Running Alone #2
T HE G OLDEN P EACH was a formidable establishment, a triple-story swallowtail-roofed teahouse decked out with strings of hanging paper lanterns at the eaves and giant pots of variegated bougainvillea at every column.
The two teahouse cats Shunvi kept liked to take naps in those pots, curling around the rim and letting their tails dangle over the edges.
The teahouse occupied an enviable location on a prime commercial street in Central, and its balconies offered the perfect vantage point to view the Harvest Parade marching through the streets.
Governor Matheranos was at the head of the parade, waving to his constituents while seated upon a traditional palanquin colored by gold leaf, carried upon the backs of a dozen men.
The ridge of the arched roof bore thirteen spikes to represent the Sunsmith and the Twelve Wardens, and the moon-shaped windows bore tribute to the Moonmachinist. Intricate carvings ran through the body of the palanquin, showcasing a medley of Ederi and Oraanu influences, fated ships sailing beneath crescent moons.
Lythlet watched quietly as the crowds enthusiastically waved back at their governor, that iconic mane of wild white hair enough for even people from the furthest edge of the throng to recognize him.
Truly the uncrowned king of Setgad , she thought wryly.
The man had been in charge of the city-state for sixteen years now, and with the polls indicating a guaranteed win for his third and final term in the coming elections, he was locked in for another eight years.
According to the Twelvemonth Sun ’s recent headlines, his opponent Corio Brandolas’s latest accusation of the governor misappropriating funds had been found utterly baseless yet again—the United Setgad Party had issued a notice vindicating Governor Matheranos, making it clear the “extremely minor” financial misconduct had been performed without his knowledge by an underling who’d since been punished.
I wonder what else Saevem and the Coalition of Hope are up to, Lythlet thought, delicately nibbling away at a puffy kaya-infused bun, the gooey filling threatening to spill out of the soft crumb.
Shunvi had done his utmost to make Lythlet as comfortable as possible, providing her balcony table with so many side dishes and pots of exquisite tisanes, there was no hope of her finishing them even with Shunvi and Ilden’s assistance.
The two men were presently leaning over the balcony to scan the procession that followed after the governor: rimmonimwen olnare warietel —the sun-blest beasts who give unto us.
Decorated horses led the parade, their long faces marked by flecks of gold, followed by packs of happy hounds with brows dusted with red ash.
Shunvi and Ilden took turns elbowing each other, whooping in excitement at the sight of Shunvi’s teahouse dog, Little Mushroom, proudly marching in the vanguard with an ashy brow.
“If only I could’ve trained his cat siblings to march alongside,” Shunvi said wistfully.
Try as she might to enjoy the show, memories of Desil continued to assault her, Lythlet trudging from one into another like an inescapable mire.
First had been the hairpins, now was the procession of children marching through the street below behind the beasts, decked out in their fineries and carrying large sunflower stalks.
“ Otara menaré, tollienimhé ristelle rimmonim, rimmonim napei gineret tollienim, ” the children chanted, a promise from one generation to the previous. You’ve worked hard. We who will not forget you, you who have come before us.
Lythlet and Desil had been thrice picked to join this procession in Southwest in their childhood days.
Forced to wake early, then to march through the streets for an hour, waving sunflowers meant to represent how they, too, would grow toward the sun.
Desil would wave to his parents when he found them in the crowd; she never bothered looking for hers, knowing they’d never be capable of attending.
Blinking back sudden tears, Lythlet looked away and into the distance, hoping for a distraction. Just behind the opposite row of commercial shophouses was a residential street of massive mansard-roofed mansions, enormous green gardens stretching out between them.
So that’s how the highborn live . Little wonder they’re happy to keep voting for Matheranos if he keeps their lives as cushy as this, with promises to make it even easier on them with tax cuts and baltascar luxuries.
Those majestic houses would dwarf her kataka flat a thousand times over.
Even just looking from a distance made her feel like a stray dog that had stumbled somewhere it did not belong.
She cocked her head at one curious sight: in the wide green gardens of one mansion stood a tree with a small wooden enclosure built into it. “Shunvi, what is that? It looks like a shorter version of my kataka flat, but why have they need for one? There’s a perfectly fine mansion beside it.”
Shunvi peered in the direction of her outstretched finger. “Those are playhouses for children—what they call a ‘treehouse’. They’re meant to imitate your kataka flats without requiring the same effort to climb as high.”
“They’re a new thing that the highborns have taken a fancy to this year,” Ilden added. “I reckon it won’t be another year before the trend dies out, though.”
She stared at him blankly. “The highborn find such things enjoyable?”
Shunvi nodded reluctantly. “The concept of living up in a tree is intriguingly foreign to them.”
It struck her hard then, that emblems of her hardships could be easily reduced into tokens of amusement for the highborn.
Something else about the mansion caught her eye then: a dark-blue Oraanu cloth talisman swaying in the breeze from the mansion’s eaves—yet another reminder of Desil.
It was an Oraanu tradition, hanging a talisman to announce to the neighborhood the arrival of a newborn child, and Ederis had long adopted it, too, as their cultures had borrowed piecemeal from one another over generations of living side by side.
Upon Desil’s insistence, the Demothis had hung one for her when she went to live with them—he had wanted her to know she had found a home away from home, that she would be family to him from that day onwards.
The memory made her heart ache, and her anxiety over tomorrow’s match heightened. With no word from Desil, she had no inkling what was to happen with her conquessorship—and more importantly, with their friendship.
“Shunvi, Ilden, I thank you for your hospitality, but I think it’s time for me to return home,” she said, rising from her seat, feeling suffocated in that thoroughly unfamiliar place. Being surrounded by highborns and Centralite luxuries made her feel like a trespasser.
“So soon?” said Shunvi, surprised. “But I was hoping to take you to the Library of Athernara afterwards—you’d love it, I’m sure. I wanted to show you some more of Yoshifero Vidana’s works besides his Gentlemen Thief series.”
“Forget libraries, you can’t leave without watching the fireworks at midnight,” Ilden argued. “They’re the highlight of the whole day!”
But she shook her head, “I’m feeling tired. I ought to go give my parents their Harvest greetings, and then have an early night. I have a match tomorrow, after all.”
Shunvi hesitated but nodded downheartedly. “Would you allow me to accompany you home at least?”
“You won’t be back in time for the fireworks then,” she demurred with a polite bow of her head. “I’ll be fine alone. Ilden was complaining last night that I’ve stolen you from him, and I think you ought to attend to your needy friend.”
Shunvi punched a sheepishly smiling Ilden in the shoulder. “Come back and join us if you change your mind.”
She nodded, forcing a smile, and left the grand teahouse behind for a journey that stretched long over the evergreen weed-strewn roads of Inejio.