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4
Going to Kusi-O was the only way for him to stay alive, Jory could see. No matter how many ways he factored the equation, the outcome was always the same. Die here for sure, or risk dying there, but take a chance of living. Maybe escaping to the stars? Could one hope?
"Master, let's stop here for food and drink." Yedy leaned on his stick and pointed to a row of multicolored balls that glowed with fungal light—paper lanterns above a road shop.
"In my haste, I forgot to bring money," Jory said. The truth was, he was famished, and he must either die of hunger by the road side, or steal a cloak and start begging.
"My master has provided," Yedy said with a wink. "What is your taste? No expensive castle fare here."
"Any of the usual foods will do. You know what not to buy." Humans and Shurians could eat certain foods—the white tubers that were staple; the rice that grew in moon pools; many vegetables and pale night fruits; the meat of most quadrupeds on the island, which included dogs, cats, monkeys, and horses (so called by humans based on mythological animals of the supposed ancient Earth that had most likely never existed and was a fiction of groups like the Twelve Moon Society). Humans could die or get sick from certain things the Shurians ate with gusto—small legged fishes with saw beaks that hid under rocks, spiders that pulsated and hummed to draw their victims in; batbirds that flew at night and sucked blood; these were just some of the most deadly poisonous animals that Shurians ate raw. There were many dangerous fungi dishes also.
"Sit down and rest, Master. I will be back in a moment."
As the stranger walked with billowing robes toward the stand, Jory gauged the situation carefully. If Yedy planned to turn him in for a reward, he could already have done so. If he did not trust this brigand from the sewers of Anamo, what other way was there? Yedy disappeared like a phantom into the swirling mist. Jory watched his dark figure before the glowing stand as Shurians contemptuously slammed his purchases on the counter and took his coins as if they were dirty. Minutes later, Yedy returned holding a stiffened, folded paper tray with fragrant noodles and cooked white worms and some shreds of steamed meat in papered-rice wrappers. He also carried paper shells of soup, and from his wrist by a holder hung a disposable water jug.
"Thank you," Jory said sincerely.
"I thank you," Yedy said. "We must get you fixed up so that you will be safe and well. Here, Master, drink."
Jory drank deeply, noting a pleasant spicy taste, for the roadside inns often added a complementary taste to cover the staleness of water that had sat for a while. Jory, as the warmth and satisfaction began to fill his stomach, felt the lightheadedness going away. For the first time in hours, he wasn't panting breathlessly. He began to notice that Yedy kept looking furtively over his shoulders, and had there been time, he would have asked him why. But Jory's thoughts were on Ramy, with grave concern. She boiled in his stomach, as a Shurian might say.
The fog drifted by, and figures passed silently leaning on sticks. The scene reminded Jory of a 1000-kjir-old pictagoem he'd learned at the court:
roadside shop in evening fog—
paper lantern pale—no breeze.
Yedy rose.
"What is it?" Jory asked, noticing his own voice sounded funny—distant.
Yedy ignored him, stepping away as if expecting someone.
Jory knocked his tray of his lap in an effort to rise quickly, but he was paralyzed. He could not even speak in his anger and betrayal. He sat as if glued on the rock, and watched as several shadowy figures stepped out of the darkness.
Through blurry eyes, he saw the cloaked and hooded Yedy extend his hand. He saw a hand come out of another's cloak and place a bundle of imperial road money in Yedy's hand—the rustling paper notes tied with a string were unmistakable. Jory could not distinguish who the several big, cloaked figures were but he did notice two things—they all carried swords hidden by their cloaks, and the sleeve of the arm that had paid off Yedy was dark velvety brown, with silver Obayyo police officer's cuff-buttons indicating the Imperial service.
If Lord Ramyon's agents suspected a conspiracy, Jory thought as the light in his head faded, they had been right. But they had been wrong about the nature of the conspiracy—it wasn't about Jory escaping to Kusi-O or meeting with the Twelve Moon Society. If this involved the road police, it surely involved the Imperial palace.
No matter anymore to me, Jory thought dimly as he slipped helplessly sideways, landing on the damp gravel that smelled of horse droppings and rotting vegetables. No matter anymore to me or Ramy, he thought as her pale face shimmered in his memory, never again to be approached. The last things he was aware of were the bottoms of Yedy's feet as the latter ran away, having done his work, and a stick being roughly pushed into Jory's ribs. The Imperial police would treat him no better than would Lord Ramyon's soldiers, had they caught him first. He slipped into darkness, welcoming death if it should choose this moment to take him.
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