Arachne

Why had Mors rejected me again?

A week ago, when Peturabo woke on the ground and looked up at the back of Mors's chair, that question had kept leaping through his heart, even eclipsing the exhaustion in his body.

He deliberately brushed the question from his mind, trying to preserve some precious shred of pride for himself. Yet all his self-encouragement merely polished that question until it became brighter and clearer.

Peturabo had no choice but to throw off the thick white cloth keeping him warm and ask loudly, "Mors, why can't you teach me how to win?"

Then he heard the answer, exactly the same answer he had received before falling asleep.

"You have already studied under the local stonemasons of Lokos." Mors's voice came from beyond the back of the chair.

That was the entirety of the answer he received.

Peturabo did not know whether his irritation had been too obvious, because for the rest of the day, wherever he passed, people around him immediately clamped their mouths shut and avoided his gaze, as though he might tear them apart alive and swallow them.

He viciously cursed the cowardice of others in his heart. Was he truly such a brutal and heartless person, so violently unrestrained in temperament?

At least, up to now, he had not done anything excessive.

And he never would.

At that thought, he deliberately added a note to himself: the little wound he had inflicted on Mors several months ago definitely did not count.

He wandered all around, visiting every corner of the capital of Lokos, and everywhere he looked, he saw only ordinary things.

Before long, Peturabo had to return to his workshop quarters to inspect the source of the scorching pain caused by his sandals rubbing against the soles of his feet.

He should have long since grown accustomed to the frailty of his flesh-and-blood body, but it seemed he had forgotten his present condition once again.

This fault born from himself turned part of his anger back upon his own mind. When he dissected his behavior with the gaze of a judge passing sentence, reason naturally returned as well.

Why had Mors rejected me again?

Peturabo sat cross-legged on a soft cloth cushion—both he and Mors had tacitly rejected the tyrant's brocade rugs. Mors favored his wicker chair, while Peturabo had sewn himself a cushion with stitches tight enough to fasten thirteen layers of leather together.

The soreness from his ankles to his calves gradually eased. He counted the seconds as countless thoughts circled in his mind like schools of fish in the sea.

He had done nothing wrong. He had not violated any rule Mors had given him; then again, Mors had never given him any clear rules.

Whether it was the cold remarks about transactions or the urging and demands for honesty, they were all parts of some vague overarching rule. Those indistinct conditions together formed an untouchable boundary. Peturabo always knew it existed, yet he could not precisely define it in words.

He could not say how many measures of grain Mors's patience amounted to, nor could he tell how many drachmas were needed to buy Mors's tolerance.

He felt his way forward, testing cautiously, but whenever Peturabo thought he had earned Mors's favor, that boundary—like spider silk, like a web—would abruptly descend.

Did Mors not want him to win? Did Mors no longer think highly of him?

Peturabo brooded, catching the cushion's stitching with the edge of his nails and gloomily fiddling with the most insignificant of his countless creations. His gaze slid over the many scattered blueprints and models around him before settling on the work he had crafted with the greatest care.

The remade double stone statue.

Supporting himself against the wall, he rose and walked over to the statue.

Born from his original conception of the stone statue depicting his struggle with Mors, he had applied every piece of knowledge and technique he had learned in recent days to it. Every line and every curve had been rigorously calculated, from blueprint to wax model.

Yet his heart still beat anxiously against his chest.

Peturabo lightly touched the warhammer held by his likeness in the statue. Waves of uncertainty carried the boat of anger, lifting it high at times, then drowning it again.

He sensed a vague deficiency in the object he had so carefully constructed, but could not find the barrier he needed to break through.

What essential knowledge had he lacked during the carving process?

The craftsmen of this backward land could not complete his education.

And if Mors could only come take a look, everything would surely be resolved.

Just one piece of guidance. He clearly wanted only one piece of guidance.

He selected an awl from among his tools and was about to make pointless alterations in a few places when a thin, folded sheet of snow-white paper revealed itself beneath the awl.

He immediately knew where the paper had come from. The waves in his heart instantly calmed, leaving behind only a trace of embarrassed annoyance that made his hand tremble.

Peturabo hurriedly unfolded the paper toward the light.

Then he witnessed just how sparing with words a man could be who constantly claimed that everything should be spoken aloud, that no one should have to guess another's thoughts, so that communication between them could achieve peak efficiency.

Mors might have many qualities that could not be measured, but his handwriting surely came at a steep price—worth the gold reserves of several city-states.

On the paper, a short, exceedingly short line read: "Who is Arachne?"

"He's completely incomprehensible!" Peturabo blurted out.

"Who?"

Andos, seated opposite Peturabo and observing the various ways of life among the citizens gradually gathering below the raised platform, was pulled back to reality by Peturabo's sudden outburst.

Andos answered instinctively, then turned his head and saw a boy whose face had been reddened somewhat by the summer morning sun, tormenting the edge of his cushion with his fingernails.

Peturabo clamped his mouth shut and told himself Andos must have misheard.

Soon, Andos's puzzled face slowly turned away. Just as the boy breathed a sigh of relief, Calipha exchanged a few whispered words with an attendant, then personally placed a drink upon a round platter with three concentric inlaid rims, its center painted with mythological designs. She walked toward him, bent down, and held the fruit drink out two feet before him.

Peturabo expressed his refusal with an unbroken stare. Calipha did not get angry.

"We should set up parasols here," the daughter of Lokos said with a smile. "Even though there are no priests here today to preside over a religious rite, everyone still follows the custom of not blocking the gods' view with canopies."

"You are too backward," Peturabo said bluntly.

"Perhaps." Calipha held the tray in both hands and straightened gracefully once more. A soft strand of hair had been caught against her cheek by the breeze. "Perhaps there truly lies a river-wide distance between the knowledge we possess and the learning your teacher holds."

Peturabo felt his hands gradually tense atop the brocade cushion. He did not know what had gone wrong, so he could only attribute it all to his lingering frustration over Mors.

After all, he did not even know whether the figure of a man in black would appear among the spectators' seats on the platform today.

"That is the truth of the matter. Mors's knowledge is an inexhaustible treasury." Peturabo suppressed his tangled emotions and spoke with certainty. "But you may set your worries aside. I will win Lokos's recognition, lead the people of Lokos through thorns to build their legacy with my abilities, and grant them new life."

Calipha looked toward the vast sea of people below the platform. It was getting late; the sun was rising higher, and people had already filled the streets before the palace with their bodies and voices.

Countless vivid, distinct faces chatted happily among themselves, boasting of recent experiences, sharing the wonderful happenings at home, and wondering about the platform. Square patches on robes, newly made simple ornaments, yellow clay water jars, cloth wraps for gathering hair, fruits still wrapped around their pits that would be sold at the market, seed-bearing vegetables, and all manner of living things from the soil spread themselves splendidly beneath the bright sky.

Her eyelashes fluttered lightly. The shadow of a white vulture passed across her face, as though ripples had stirred upon her features themselves. Once the shifting light and shadow had passed, she was as composed and elegant as before.

"Lokos will thank you," Calipha said. "If that day comes, your statue will replace that of the former king at the city gate. But everyone has arrived. I must return to my place first."