Revolutions

71 - Paxilche

It's been days, and every day has seen the same routine, and the same result.

"Nothing to report," the young warrior, Iachaqe, says at our meeting spot around the corner from the palace. Then he puffs out his chest and strides over to the gates to begin his day's duty as a sentry posted at the entrance. Pomaqli and I continue to stand at the same place just out of sight of the gates, with the hopes of finally having a breakthrough moment, yet our efforts, up until now, have been fruitless.

"I grow tired of this, Paxilche," Pomaqli grumbles. Each day after our encounter with Iachaqe, he says this. But I pay him no mind. Certainly, the trite daily contact leaves much to be desired, and I'd be speaking untruths if I said I wasn't bored with this procedural interaction.

"We need to stay vigilant," I remind Pomaqli. "There could be a break in the monotony at any moment. But if we deviate from the plan, we may miss a vital opportunity. After all, the finest blade is not forged in haste, but from the patience of the flame."

Pomaqli rolls his eyes and groans at my recital of the cliche Qiapu saying. "The plan that involves deceiving a young Qiapu palace guard into believing he's assisting us in a just cause regarding palace politics," he says dryly. "That plan, you mean?"

Now it's my turn to roll my eyes. "Yes, there may be a little deception involved, but it's going to get us access to the information we seek. We must be patient, Pomaqli."

I ask for patience more so from myself than Pomaqli. Pressing Iachaqe to expedite the process, I believe, will either raise his suspicions as to our true motives or cause him to conduct himself sloppily and bring suspicion unto himself, or both. Our plan is already risky to begin with; adding more risk feels like taking the matter a bit too far.

Pomaqli restlessly paces about the street like a caged puma, shaking his head and mumbling to himself out of frustration. This situation is a tremendous test for the proactive warrior, and I have no doubt that he's formulating an alternative plan while we wait. If such an achievement is possible, I find myself becoming frustrated at Pomaqli's frustration, fighting the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shout at him to relax. Realizing that taking such measures would be counterproductive, I instead bide my time by delving into a woven sack I'm holding in one hand, fingers brushing against the plump, cool mora. I pluck a berry, its dark skin glossy under the low highland sun, and toss it into my mouth, savoring the burst of sweet, tart juice that follows.

There's a sudden commotion at the palace gate that draws my attention. In their bright white-and-red tunics and gleaming bronze helmets, the guards shout down to the four men approaching them. The guards' halberds and swords are drawn, the archers' bows taut. However, the strangers walk casually up to the gates with a confident swagger, no regard for the commands being shouted down at them. Their garments, while not in the standard deep sea blue and bronze, certainly possess many of the similar traits to Sanqo attire: the unkempt and disheveled appearance, accessories made of sea glass and shells, outfits designed to appear as fish scales with their oily, rainbow sheen.

"Is this how you welcome all your guests?" a Sanqo warrior asks mockingly.

Another one of the Sanqo warriors announces above the shouts from the young and nervous palace guards, "We've been informed by your esteemed general, Qumuna, that our Sanqo princess, Walumaq, can be found beyond these gates. Allow us to retrieve the princess so that we can return her to Haqiliqa, and she may be reunited with her father, Siunqi. After we've been granted this, we will be on our way."

"We've been ordered to not allow any outsider through these gates," one of the more decorated guards yells.

"Then let your leader step out here and meet with us," says the first of the four warriors. "We promise not to bite."