From the Editor:

The Underground City, Dear Reader, is a strange and wonderful place. It does not serve as the city sewer; let me just divest you of that notion.

Originally there was no sewer at all – just an efficient system of chamber pots, collection carts, and hardy entrepreneurs who sold fertilizer to farmers cultivating the flatlands south of the city.

But the Emperor of the Great Purple Dynasty is nothing if not an idea-man. He ordered a series of troughs cut into the streets, ordered them connected to (the nicer) houses and commercial establishments, ordered them neatly covered with a brick casing, and ordered them to drain into the two rivers that embrace Pearl City to the west and to the east.

I will leave it to you to decide which system you think superior.

//Oriole Burdee

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The Story Begins:

The Air in the Garden of Mistaken Pleasures

The Imperial Palace reflects the tastes of the Emperor of the Great Purple Dynasty, Son of Heaven, etc…After all he had given a hand with the design (and had used a heavy hand with the architects).

And that is why the Imperial Palace was modern. A picture of soaring spires, marble halls and teak trellises poised atop the terraced hill of Pearl City like a preserved plum atop a cake. Except it was white.

On this particular day the Emperor was sat amongst the calla lilies in the Garden of Mistaken Pleasures. It was one of his pet designs – craftily planted on the flat roof of the Imperial Library and easily reachable by 8 flights of steps.

As I was saying, on this particular day the Emperor was sitting in repose, breathing in the rarified air above 10,000 priceless scrolls and listening to the faint sounds of commerce drift up from the city below.

Morality, discipline, and a refined appreciation for sophisticated cuisine unlike the crude meat/bread combinations of barbarian cultures – these were the Three Virtues of a Virtuous Person.

Pearl City had these virtues in spades. And if the rest of the world was properly civilized they would admit it, as well. The Emperor began to mentally tally the pros and cons of spreading this civilizing “influence” (there are generally weapons involved) to the ungrateful outside bounds of his Empire.

But his calculations were rudely interrupted by the sound of silk shoes, scurrying.

“A thousand Eternal Apologies, Your Imperial Majesty…” the Imperial Secretary had grown plump of late, and was puffing a little. (He would have to remind the Imperial Secretary to stress the Second Virtue of the Three Virtues of Virtuous People, while going a little easy on the Third.) “…but it is urgent: news from the South,”

“I am sitting in repose, Secretary Spangle, as you see. So the news will have to wait until it is just a little less new, as it were.”

Persistence was, in general, futile. But Secretary Spangle’s dimpled chin was firm. “Ten thousand apologies, Your Imperial Majesty, but the southern caravan will be arriving in three days’ time –”

“Ah. Well, at least we’ll be back on the abalone.” He closed his eyes and reached mentally for the place he had been before the scurrying.

“–and the notable note, Your Imperial Majesty, is that our runners report it has a certain cargo for you. Uh, well of course everything in the Empire belongs to Your Imperial Majesty. But this cargo is exclusively for you. It is…a woman.

The Emperor opened an eye, raised an eyebrow (in that order). “We didn’t order a woman, did we? We seem to have a ready supply down in the city.”

“It is…” Secretary Spangle’s chin was set like a vice, “…rather, she is a gift. Courtesy of the Phoenix Throne.”

“Ah,” this was a notable note. “Well, call up my ministers – we will need to discuss the implications for inter-empire relations, protocol of rejection, etc… And I need to ponder, so let’s make it an after-supper gathering in the Hall of Eternal Food.”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty. I will call up the Assembly.”

“No, not the whole blasted useless lot. Call the Privy Council.”

Secretary Spangle scurried out of the Garden of Mistaken Pleasures backwards (this can be tricky), and was about to launch himself down 8 flights of stairs when the Emperor called after him.

“…and I don’t want to see you touch anything but a good wholesome broth for the next month.”

The Air in the Underground City

A party of three trotted through the weird and wonderful labyrinth that twists beneath Pearl City. On two feet. That is because one of the three was carrying the other two.

Broken Arrow came to with a huge sneeze that sent her head in motion, cracking it smartly against her sister’s. The crack echoed down the corridors of the Underground City, and hurt…a lot.

She groaned. Fire Fade gurgled.

“Hey!” She could only see the small of Foreigner’s back, and his black tortoise belt. “I thought you said she was dead.”

“I said I thought she was dead. That’s different.”

He didn’t have much by way of personality, but no doubt about it he was strong as a yoked water buffalo.

“Let me down why don’t you?”

His steady gait slowed, then stopped.

“I admit I’m struggling to navigate down here.”

She twisted her head for a painful look around. Great. Foreigner had taken them about a quarter hour off-course.

“Well, don’t go right, you’ll catch the miasma down there so best to stay away. My suggestion is to put me down!”

Battle Axe gave a wrench and tumbled off his shoulder – all tangled hair, stuffy nose and floured mess.

Once on her feet (like a proper operative) the first thing she did was check her sister’s pulse. Weak, but ticking away doggedly. Foreigners knew very little about pulses, obviously, or he wouldn’t have gone jumping to horrid conclusions.

The second thing she did was check their bread supply.

“Hey! There are four sweet yolk buns missing –” she broke off because he was staring at her again, inky-black eyes and all. Battle Axe, fierce rebel and storyteller most brilliant, decided not to press the point. “It’s left here, and up those stairs.”

“These tunnels have their own illumination. But for all the pearls in the sea I can’t figure out the source.”

“It’s the walls. They have a little light of their own. Long Spring says these stones once were above us – once were the walls and buildings of the Old City. There they sat for a thousand thousand years, absorbing the radiance of the Gods. Now they are giving it back, little at a time. Suits us, though. Carrying torches isn’t always healthy down here.”

“You seem to know your way around.”

Battle Axe reached out to where Fire Fade was dangling over Foreigner’s shoulder and smoothed the hair out of her pallid face. “So…what’s your name?”

“Emery.”

“What’s ‘ehmree’?”

“My name.”

“Yes I heard you say ‘ehmree’. But what does it mean? What is an ehmree?”

His face took on a look of profound resignation – the first spontaneous expression she had seen on him. “It doesn’t mean anything; it means me.”

(Hah! Definitely from foreign stock – careless, even the way they named their children.) “Well, you have to have a rebel name.”

“I do?”

“Yes, because now you are a rebel.”

“I am?”

“Anyway, I’m going to call you Inkstone.”

“Do all of the…rebels have rebel names?

Battle Axe sucked in her cheeks. “Guess not.”

“Well, how many do?”

“Uh, just me. And…and maybe Captain Kneecap, least I don’t think that’s his birth name.”

“Right. Well, I prefer Emery.”

“FINE.” A pause while she rallied. “I’ll call you Emery Inkstone. Inkstone for short.”

He didn’t answer that, he was very good at not answering. She would have to learn how to do that.

“It’s left here and up the stairs.” She relieved Inkstone of the bread sack, and gave Fire Fade’s shoulder a quick inspection. He had snapped the fletched end off the arrow and bound the stump in place with what looked like a piece of Battle Axe’s shirt (she would have to figure that one out later, discretely). The splintered end stuck out, red and sticky. “It’s a climb now – we’re heading north for the palace, which means up. We’ll go right under it, then straight into God’s Teeth.”

“How far?”

“About an hour and a half.”

“An hour and a half, for bread??”

She sucked in her cheeks. “When you get there you can build us a bakery, how’s that? Save us a trip. ANYWAY, what I was going to say was – isn’t there a way to carry her, more healthy-like? Can’t be good to have her hanging like that for long.”

Emery Inkstone was staring again, unnerving as a pair of matched swords.  But the words came out soft, “This is the best I can do. We can stop every so while to put her upright for a bit.”

Battle Axe nodded, shouldered the bread sack, and started to climb.

One Bad Egg and One Unfortunate Wretch

If you were a little bird (too little to tempt an enterprising cook) and wanted to stretch your wings over Pearl City there would be more to see than you could take in during a warm afternoon.

But let’s give it a quick try, anyhow. Start in the southern half of the city where the streets are worn cobblestone and the vegetable pairings plenty.

Spend some time flitting through the crush of grey brick courtyard houses with their industrious matrons washing a soiled tunic, frying up a wok of jasmine rice, stitching a torn cloth shoe, shouting at a naughty child.

Take your pick of the delicacies hawked by street vendors – maybe some roast watermelon seeds or a candied haw-on-a-stick. Stop to watch the laborers strain at their shoulder poles, shuttling bricks and wrapped parcels up and down the streets. Maybe you will spot a humble calligraphy teacher, or proud City Guard. No matter the profession, all will stop for a hearty mid-day meal of rice or noodles, washed down with a jug of hot tea.

Wing your way north towards the glinting peaks of God’s Teeth and the scene changes, dramatically.

This part of Pearl City is dominated by the Imperial Palace and all its fine trappings. Of course only relevant staff, officials, the Imperial family (and birds) are allowed entry. In a phrase: streets of polished granite, fragrant and fresh, quiet as a monastery. In a word: civilization.

For our story purposes, shed your feathers and take on the shape of a hungry Palace employee. Let’s visit the Café of Courtly Contemplation – an airy retreat with a spacious courtyard draped in bows of pink bougainvillea.

Here the customers have an opportunity to (quietly) ruminate on the subtle distinction between a fire chili, a death chili, and a ghost chili. It is said the Emperor himself approved the Café’s business license. He was impressed by its mission to build discipline amongst the ranks of Palace staff.

True to its name, the only sound to be heard within the four walls of the bougainvillea courtyard is the wail of the two-stringed fiddle and the hushed weeping of the clientele.

Today it is a bit noisier than usual. One of the backrooms (used to store the numbing flower peppercorn) has a square hatch in its floor. A fine metal grating has been pried off the hatch, and the whole place is humming with activity.

Two officials are supervising this hum from just outside the service door, standing on the polished granite street like pillars.

The first official, slightly more elevated in stature, is supervising the carting of slag from the Number 8 Municipal Coal Works. The second official, slightly more elevated in status, is supervising the dumping of slag into the square hatch.

Each cartload of slag that slides down fills the air with a new layer of dust and the sound of tiny pebbles bouncing down stone steps – clacking and ringing out as they go.

Now we will slip back into our narrative. The scene begins with a conversation between the two officials (two friends you have already met, Dear Reader):

The less-tall official said, “I think southerners are bad news. It is as our ancient poet Pokey Pennant once said:

In the west a White Tiger prowls
A Green Dragon eastward growls
The Red Phoenix of the south heeds only her own
Beware the north: the Black Warrior’s home

The less-important official said, “You’re right, there. The esteemed Pokey Pennant also said:

If the sybaritic flame consumes a temperate heart
The ruck will rise and wrench a kingdom apart

“Hmm. So how would you interpret that one Vice-Minister?”

“Couldn’t exactly say, Minister, but those southerners are sybarites to a man. Everybody knows that.”

The Municipal Minister of Sanitation whacked a passing worker crossly with his horse-hair fly whisk. “Whose potty idea was this anyway?”

The Municipal Vice-Minister of Excavations maintained a discrete silence.

“According to my calculations, Vice-Minister, this “Filling-In Campaign” will take us exactly 44 years to complete – an inauspicious number. Not to mention it will require so much earth that we will be obliged to remove one of God’s Teeth.”

“My feeling, Minister, is that it was meant to have not a physical, but a more…morale-affecting effect on those rats.”

“Foolishness! Rats don’t have any morale to begin with. And the “Filling-In Campaign” is hardly my only responsibility. As a matter of fact, after we wrap up here for the day Secretary Spangle has arranged for me to de-bug the royal gardens. With a pair of chopsticks. I ask you, while we are enduring these punishments who is taking care of the real business of the Empire?”

“Or the sewers?” The Vice-Minister wrinkled his nose meaningfully.

“Yes, well I simply can’t deal with two subterranean systems at the same time.” The Municipal Minister of Sanitation swung his horsehair whisk in tight circles.

The Municipal Vice-Minister of Excavations sighed.

Far, far below them a party of three was navigating the tunnels on two pairs of feet. “Inkstone,” said one of the pairs, trying to make conversation, “I think the air is getting a little gritty. What do you think?”

The other pair didn’t answer.

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Please come back next week, Dear Reader, for more about Battle Axe, Fire Fade, Inkstone, and the Emperor. They will continue to surprise, delight and sometimes horrify you.

Editor’s Note: special thanks to my good friend, Cat. You see, although this is chiefly Battle Axe’s account of things, sometimes I need to fill out the story with bits of Palace politics or goings-on. And Cat has never let me down. In particular, he is a mine of information on culinary policy of the Purple Dynasty. Thank-you, Cat! And stay out of trouble.

//Oriole Burdee