False Victory

The loud music from the platform took Mors a few seconds to trace to the hidden loudspeakers nearby.

He found these technological constructs disguised as wood, bricks, and roof tiles beneath the eaves of several houses. After marveling at the warped technological development caused by such a bizarre break in continuity, he finally turned more of his attention to the stage.

Dameks himself was not presiding over the contest, though he was present.

A person in a pale yellow robe trimmed with silver stepped forward. As one of Lokos's twelve advisers, he announced that, under the witness of Lokos's citizens, the Prince would compete against "a genius from afar."

It seemed Dameks's ties with the theocracy had truly come to an end.

Mors would not say that was necessarily a good thing, but this development left him unable to keep himself from feeling thoroughly content.

On the platform, Dameks clapped his hands. He first gave Peturabo a kindly smile, then offered his child a perfectly measured nod.

Mors noticed that Peturabo was not pleased by the tyrant's display of courtesy until Calipha was the first to turn back and look at him.

"Look at that boy's expression."

Mors spoke casually to the stranger beside him, his tone as light as wind brushing over a bird's feathers. "He is not even frowning with those perpetually unhappy brows anymore."

"Can you see that clearly?" the stranger asked.

"Of course." Mors nodded and led the stranger toward a more distant corner amid the vast crowd.

The people laughed and chatted happily, whispering with family and friends beside them. Many of them were not even discussing the contest that was about to take place.

After talking about art and noble life—things they knew little about and had only heard secondhand—they dryly praised the two protagonists of the day as peerless prodigies. Then, after silently thinking that great figures truly were different, they exchanged knowing looks and swiftly moved on, in perfect unspoken agreement, to lighter and freer topics: the new vendor at the market and the long spell of sunny weather.

"If they could hear what everyone was saying, Peturabo would surely spend an entire gloomy planetary cycle commemorating the day he failed to win everyone's affection," Mors said. "Unless he produces something refreshing. But can he?"

The stranger gloomily tried his best to ignore the crowd around them, who laughed and joked while unconsciously shifting their footing, stepping aside to make way for the two of them, all without realizing they existed.

"I do not know how you do this..." he said nervously. "Are you a messenger of some god?"

"If I were, then Peturabo probably would be too. But neither of us is, right?"

The stranger stared blankly at Mors.

Mors had only meant to find a wooden post to chat with, as he sometimes did with the tree outside his home, his handmade creations, or his psychic desk lamp.

So he did not mind leaving the question unanswered.

He led the stranger before a residence whose roof was free of drying fruit. With a light tap of his foot, he sprang onto the railing at the edge of its open second-floor balcony and slowly walked along the narrow rail, as weightless as air.

The stranger followed beneath the eaves, walking in step with Mors. Perhaps he could hear him. Perhaps he could not.

The clay jar remained in the stranger's hands.

Mors watched the platform, enjoying an unobstructed walk as he moved and paused across one rooftop after another.

On the platform, the Lokos adviser separately asked Peturabo and Andos whether they had any words they wished to address to the citizens.

This caused Peturabo's patience to plummet once more. He shook his head angrily.

"I still do not understand why so many people had to be called here to watch. Am I your exhibit?" The wind carried the boy's voice over.

Calipha gently murmured in Peturabo's ear, "By your reasoning, everyone on the platform is an exhibit for the citizens."

Then, amid another stretch of deliberately grand music, soldiers struck their spears and halberds against the ground as they escorted two works onto the platform, carefully carried by ceremonial officials who had washed their bodies clean.

The two tall statues were each covered in black cloth woven from the finest wool in all Lokos. The sheep had been washed before their wool was taken, and then, in the proper season when the fleece loosened, workers with clean hands plucked it so it could be formed into continuous felt. Though precious and troublesome, Mors would wager that the upper-class people who acquired such resources knew nothing about the entire process. To obtain a treasure, all they needed to do was turn words into commands.

"These two works were crafted respectively by Lord Peturabo and Lord Andos," the host said. "But please allow us to keep secret for the moment which work belongs to which lord. We ask all citizens to judge them fairly."

The ceremonial officials stepped forward silently and removed the black cloths from both sculptures in unison.

Andos's statue of Goddess Hefoni and Peturabo's recreated paired sculpture, "Two People Drawing Swords and Facing Each Other," appeared before everyone. The crowd below fell quiet for several seconds, then erupted into noise once more.

Mors had already reached the rooftop closest to the platform.

In his view, the two contestants were evenly matched in skill. If he absolutely had to choose a winner, he would choose Andos.

The reason was simple: in the confrontation between the paired statues, the statue of the hammer-wielding boy appeared to have the upper hand.

The ministers, scholars, and foreign guests on the platform all began offering their evaluations.

"Want to make some comments with those citizens?" Mors said.

The stranger spoke mechanically. "The statue of Goddess Hefoni is Andos's work. The statue containing two unnamed figures is Peturabo's."

Mors nodded without asking how the stranger knew this inside information.

"A few days ago, he came looking for me. I let him sleep well, and I also made sure he learned nothing anywhere."

"Of course, I have many things I could teach him, but knowledge is not what he needs. It never was. Knowledge will return to him sooner or later. Before then, he will discover the enormous void left behind after losing it."

He paused and cut off the subject. "Who do you think will win?"

"Peturabo," the stranger answered.

"Then the outcome is decided." Mors's voice carried a note of mockery.

"I am a little cold," the stranger said dully.

"Yes, because you are freezing," Mors said.

He sat down at the edge of the roof, produced a piece of wood and a small knife from nowhere, and began carving some little object that had yet to take shape.

On the platform, aside from several members of the royal family and visitors who had merely come to observe, the rest cautiously took turns praising the distinctive strengths of both works.

At times, they admired the polish of one piece; at others, they praised the texture and composition of the other. Every sentence brought a round of exchanged glances within their little circles.

As they wrote the works' numbers on pottery shards and submitted them to the host, their glances continued to pass back and forth, clinging together like sticky threads of glue.

The tyrant, the Prince, the boy—everyone was being watched.

Andos lowered his gaze gently, tacitly allowing it all to unfold, while Peturabo curled his fingers into his palm and clenched his fist.

The boy knew that the praise he received stood equal to that of the renowned Prince Andos, but that was not what he wanted.

He abruptly rose from his cushion, walked to the front of the commentators, and began loudly critiquing Andos's statue.

"What material is this stone supposed to imitate—gauze or cotton linen? Why does it have neither the flowing lightness of spun yarn nor the solidity of cotton cloth? Can no one see such an obvious flaw?"

Before Andos and Calipha could recover from their surprise, Peturabo turned toward his own sculpture. Gritting his teeth, he was even angrier than he had been while criticizing the other work. "And this statue—can none of you see how slapdash the composition formed by these two carved subjects is? Is the pose of two people facing each other with weapons not already stale and dull enough? If you cannot offer even a single criticism, then what part of your praise is real?"

His actions finally brought the sea of people into complete silence for the first time that day. Everyone stared straight at the boy on the platform who had disregarded the rules. In another form, Peturabo had gained the genuine attention of the multitude.

Peturabo did not care.

He gave a cold snort and waved his hand, angrily pointing at the last person who was about to set down a pottery shard with trembling hands. "The voting is over. Show me the results!"

After receiving Dameks's signal, an attendant immediately presented him with the tally board. Peturabo glanced at it and nearly smashed it onto the ground.

Then he raised the board high and displayed it in every direction.

"Look. So many people recorded their preferences... So many citizens gave their evaluations 'fairly and justly.' And among all these supposedly fair people, exactly half thought Andos's work was superior, while the other half plus one thought I should win? I won by exactly one vote? I demand an explanation!"

"Peturabo, we people of Lokos are fair. You deserve this honor. Your sharp words and courage to speak plainly prove your talent even further."

Someone spoke up to persuade him. Peturabo turned toward the voice. He had never met the man, but he knew who he was.

Standing beside the tyrant, richly dressed and carrying himself with ease—there was no second person in Lokos who fit that description.

Harkon.