Hello all! I hope you're enjoying your summer. Yet again, I have to apologize for taking so long to update. I'm trying to work on my dissertation – I need to graduate at some point. But after a day spent reading and writing for my job, I often find it hard to write more. This chapter grew a sentence or two at a time – or a word or two at a time – in five to ten minute snatches before bed every night. After all this waiting, I hope you enjoy it at least a little bit.
You've all been more consistent about reviewing than I have been about posting. I don't deserve the reviews…but if you leave them anyway, I'll be very happy indeed.
Chapter 4 – Crossroads
The old man was seated in a sliver of shade, leaning back against the wall.
Azula jerked her head to the right, toward the short, swinging doors. "They say this is the place for a person to get a drink."
Dark juice was dribbling down his chin. He turned his head and spat; the wooden planks at his feet were already dark and spotted with old tobacco stains.
"They say."
She didn't think about him anymore, but pushed through the strange doorway. Inside she could see dust motes floating in the sunlight. Azula watched them for a moment and felt the daytime heat beating at her back.
She took another step, out of the light and into the dark interior. She stopped again, to let her eyes adjust.
Then she knew she had made a mistake. This was a place for men. They were grouped around tables and playing cards, mostly. Some just talked or drank. Or did all three.
Voices stopped, cards stilled, and heads turned as she entered. Only the musician in the corner missed his cue, and kept on strumming his chords. Azula stood her ground, meeting stare with stare, mildly. She couldn't back down now, and couldn't afford to start a fight.
A hand snaked out to pat the rump of a passing serving-girl. She laughed; the shrill sound was too bright for the dull room, and too brittle to be sincere. But it broke the spell. Having decided that she was neither a threat nor easy prey, everyone forgot about Azula and went back to their business.
Azula walked slowly, deliberately, weighed down by a huge and heavy weariness. The shoes she bought from Aunt Kei fit her badly, chafing her poor, abused feet. She must no limp though – not ever, and not in front of this crowd.
There were too many of them for the small space, too many for the whole town. And they had the stale, unwashed smell of soldiers on the march.
She sat down on a stool. The man behind the bar put on his best smile: it was oily and full of crooked teeth. A woman was seated nearby – another employee, to judge by her tight, plunging dress. A gigantic feather curled from one side of her head down the other. The face beneath didn't suit the gaudy finery. It was lined and hard to the point of brutality, its mouth a jagged slash with a cigarillo dangling out the corner.
The bartender's snaky grin stretched itself wider. "What will it be, sweetheart?" He flourished his cleaning rag.
"Wine. Hunan red, if you have it."
He stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. "Hunan red! Very good! Very good!" Even the brick-faced whore twitched her lips.
He poured something brown into a small glass. "Would the young lady like something to eat?"
She glanced at the woman's half-eaten meal; her empty stomach rose in revolt. It looked almost as bad as it smelled. A man to Azula's right was peeling an apple with a wicked-looking knife. He seemed to have the right idea.
"Fruit. Do you have any fruit?"
When he had set it in front of her, she saw that it was bruised. Azula had bought a small knife from Aunt Kei. She took it out now and began to cut away the rot. And considered her next move.
She tried to look bored. It wasn't hard. After many minutes she said, casually, by way of killing time, "You're a long way from anywhere, soldier."
The man to her right grunted.
Azula decided to insult his superiors. Soldiers always loved that. "What idiot sent you to this mudhole?"
"Money."
A mercenary. She wasn't surprised: he had the look about him.
Azula waited. Her skin itched under its days-old coating of grime. A fly hovered over her plate of fruit. When she caught herself staring at it, she shook away the blank stupor. But Azula could still feel it flitting at the edges of her mind, like a whole swarm of buzzing flies.
"Must be good money."
"Good enough."
Her exhaustion betrayed her. She actually closed her eyes for a moment; a tiny sigh slipped out into the hot, still air. Of course this wouldn't be easy. Nothing was anymore.
"Do you need a job, sweetheart? I might be able to find something for a pretty, young girl like yourself. I'm the soft-hearted sort."
The bartender fixed his crooked smile on her, and his unwavering, protuberant eyes. On the second floor, one of the many doors opened and closed. Azula caught the swish of a skirt, the deep sound of masculine laughter.
"I'm not the staying-sort. I follow the call of Lady Fortune." She turned to the mercenary. "It's the Fire Nation isn't it? Hassling them always pay better than picking on dirt-civvies."
That was bold, but necessary. Azula had come to a crossroads, and needed to make a decision – for herself and for her nation. Before she could do it, though, she needed information. She had been dodging companies of soldiers for days.
Azula knew troop movements when she saw them.
He considered her for the first time. His face was still and placid, almost bovine. But Azula had seen his big, blunt fingers wielding the wicked-looking knife – with a cool precision that any surgeon might envy.
The lazy eyes under their sleepy lids never left her face. "Why would a little girl like you want to know something like that?"
She realized how she must look to him. How young and weak. She allowed herself a tight smile. "Even little girls like money. And this one has a very special skill set." Then, for good measure, Azula knocked back her entire glass of brown alcohol.
It immediately came back out – all over the bar. Azula coughed and wheezed as the burning liquid stung her throat and dribbled out her nose. When she was done, she saw that the others were staring at her.
"I need a war," she said, as if nothing had happened, "you understand how it is."
The bartender jumped in. "You're not like to get one, if the hearsay is true. The new Firelord ain't one for a fight."
The merc knew better. "I've never met a firebender who wasn't game for a fight." He still had Azula in the corner of his eye. "Man or woman."
"Still, they say," the bartender persisted, "they say that this one is peacable as a monk."
"More like a sheep. If he ignores the barons much longer, then he's a coward or a fool."
"It's just the barons?"
"Barons, dukes, kings, any so-called 'lord' of the shithole with big plans and coin to spare."
"They're after land."
"Fire-nation land," the merc agreed. "My noble employer says he's reclaiming what belonged to his family. He just smells easy pickings, like the rest of them. Actually thinks he can take what the Fire Nation doesn't want to give him."
"But he won't get it?" the bartender pressed. "It's hard, in these parts, to know what to do. We've got to stay on the right side."
"He won't get it. None of them will. They'll all lose their little kingdoms, and probably their heads besides. Unless the firelord is a sheep instead of a man." The merc took a sip of his drink, thoughtfully. "And unless the big players decide to join the party. They might, too, just to beat up on the Fire Nation. More the fool them."
The bartender wiped his clean counter again, with short, spastic strokes. Maybe the motion soothed his nerves. His voice was vague and distracted. "More the fool them. If…"
He never finished the thought. He didn't have to. They silently filled in the awful conditional, all the shattering if's and then's and their terrible ramifications.
"I can't imagine his nobles will stand for it," Azula prompted. "I've heard there's unrest in the Fire Nation."
"Plenty. It's only a matter of time before someone busts out the old man. The boys and I are placing bets on it."
A spidery, many-fingered fluttering crept up Azula's chest and clutched at her heart. She realized it was her own hand. A very important question.
Icy shock froze her thoughts and numbed her limbs. A very basic question.
Doctor Soong warned her, but she hadn't listened. There's a very, very important question you haven't asked yet. A very basic question.
What happened to my father?
"…may have been a dangerous man to serve, but Ozai never gave an inch to the other nations. Bet his people never thought they'd want him back."
He's still alive.
"We been lucky. The informers never bothered us here. Not enough money in this whole town to make it worth their while"
He's waiting for me. I'm supposed to win his throne back. She just knew it, like the girl in the story knew that it was waiting for her, right behind the forbidden door.
"We've been lucky too. Ozai was good for business."
Azula had been dropped into the void and couldn't find herself again. The whole world with all its actors seemed very distant. She could only sit – silent and unmoving – as the great tragicomedy played itself out around her.
"Thing is, the question-"
The question, whatever it was, hung unanswered on the gritty air. A group of men had claimed the bartender's attention. They smelled like pack animals and crushed pine needle. One of them drummed his fingers against his thigh.
When they left, the bartender said, "What about General Iroh?"
"What about him?"
"Think he'll get involved?"
"Does it matter?"
"Guess not."
There was a shriek from upstairs, and something crashing against the wall. Downstairs, in the boisterous swell of rough hedonism, barely a ripple marked its passing.
The bartender went on polishing his glasses. "Wasn't there another one?"
"Another what?"
"Royal brat."
"Lu Ten?"
"No, Ozai's."
The merc paused. "A girl."
The conversation was starting to bore them. The bartender applied his cloth to an imaginary spot, arranged and rearranged his glasses minutely before asking, idly, "What was her name, again?"
They stared at each other, shrugged, and settled into mutual indifference.
Azula opened her mouth to tell them her name, but choked on it.
"Boss, one of the girls is saying she won't work today. Not after the last one roughed her up." A woman had appeared behind the bar.
Rage wiped the oil-slicked geniality from the bartender's face. "Well she ain't getting paid for nothing!" He turned to the other woman. "Go straighten her out!"
She looked at him. Only the thin wisp of tobacco smoke moved, curling up in lazy tendrils past her left ear.
"Go on! Get!" He raised his hand in threat.
She looked at him still. The plank she wore instead of a face betrayed nothing. Finally she stubbed the cigarillo in the greasy remains of her food. She rose slowly and made her slow way across the floor, limping badly on one leg. A mystery in a cheap dress with eyes like black diamond.
That one knew her name, even if no one else did.
The bartender watched her go. "I'll say this, your boys have been good for business. The girls and I can hardly keep up."
"War is usually good business, if you play it right."
"Dangerous business."
"Learn or die. There will always be some royal bastard grabbing what he can get. They're all alike."
The bartender still looked doubtful. He poured himself a drink.
The mercenary raised his. "To endless war."
The other shrugged. "To endless coin." They drank.
The bartender went back to his work and the mercenary to his reverie. Rough customers came and went; Azula stayed in her one-man wasteland, gathering dust. It settled into the planes of her skin and hugged the curves. Sweat dripped down her temples and slid between her breasts and pooled at her lower back. She didn't bother to wipe it off: the man in the corner was playing her song. It was joyless, pointless, and nameless.
When she finally moved, it was late afternoon. Fat, buttery light oozed through the dingy windows and left streaks on the floor, like lard slathered in gigantic swathes over the grey boards.
Someone touched her wrist. She shuddered, and focused her eyes. It was the bartender.
The smile and the teeth were still there, but sharper and harder. "You gonna pay for that honey?" He nodded towards her empty plate. "I ain't running a charity outfit."
He had touched her. That was unforgivable. "I'm not your honey, and I'll pay you when I'm good-and-gods-damned-ready."
"Aw, no money, sweetheart?" The smile grew wider, more predatory. "Well I can't just let anyone come in here and drink for free, can I? I'm an honest businessman. I've got people to think of. I've got responsibilities. We'll just have to find a way for you to work off your debt."
His hand closed around her wrist. And stayed there.
Azula rose out of her seat. "I always repay my debts, peasant. All of them. There's a dead man in hell who will tell you so, if you want to meet him."
He froze, staring into her face.
She smiled, and let him see her own teeth.
He was still holding her wrist. Azula reached over with her other arm and clasped his offending limb. "You'll get your coin, but I want this hand."
A restraining hand fell on her right shoulder.
She forgot about the bartender and turned to the interfering mercenary. Before he could do anything about it, Azula had sunk her knife deep into the bar top – right between two of his splayed fingers.
Before she could do anything about it, he had driven his fist hard into her diaphragm.
He was a strong man, and she hadn't been prepared for such swift retaliation. Azula doubled over, gagging, and stumbled backwards. Then she was falling as her heel caught on something behind her – a foot, as it turned out. Two of the mercenary's cronies expertly tripped and immobilized her in the space of a gasping breath.
She threw herself forward against the restraining arms, almost dislocating her shoulders in the process. "You…" It was hard to talk when she was still having trouble inhaling. "You dare," she hissed. "I will destroy you for your insolence!"
The mercenary was regarding her calmly but with a hint of confusion, as if she were a puzzle he couldn't quite figure out. "I doubt it," he said easily.
His indifference infuriated her. "I challenge you to an Agni Kai! Meet me at the sun-up in the local sparring facilities. The crushing agony of defeat will teach you some respect!"
"I don't waste my time on amateurs. Not for free, anyway."
Azula willed the fire to flow, to throw off her puny captors in a concussive explosion of power.
Oh. She had forgotten.
He stepped towards her. By the time he reached for her belt, she had already calculated the odds. They weren't good. The bruising grip on her arms tightened, but they needn't have bothered.
Azula stood quietly and watched as a man stole the last of her worldly goods.
The mercenary reached into her pouch of money. He extracted two coins and tossed them to the bartender. The rest he dumped into his own pocket.
The room had fallen silent. Everyone was watching her. She tried to work moisture into her suddenly dry mouth, tried to find the words that would transform her humiliation into triumph.
There were no words. No words to fix this, no words to fix anything.
The moment stretched on. She had to say something. "I-" Azula felt, rather than saw, all the mercenaries in the room tensing up, waiting for their commander's cue. She couldn't face that. Not today.
Azula looked away, signaling her submission. He wouldn't accept anything less in front of his men.
"I get angry sometimes I do things I shouldn't do," she blurted out. Shame threatened to swallow her up.
Still nothing. Something inside Azula gave way, her whole body sagging as the invisible supports collapsed in on themselves. She lowered her head and spoke to the floor. "I'm sorry. I'm very tired. I would like to go now."
She blinked away tears. "Please."
The bartender spread his hands expansively. His smile was back. "No need to worry, honey. We're all friends here."
"You're crazy, kid," said the merc, not unkindly. "Go back home to your mother."
His men half-dragged, half-carried her out to the street and threw her in the dirt. She led with her head, her face scraping the stony ground. The blow jarred her collection of bruises, sent pain shooting along her sore ribs. One arm twisted up beneath her; the other came to rest in a steaming pile of shit.
The unforgiving sun beat down, dong its best to grind her to nothing against the harsh and filthy grit. Agni's great eye saw everything and knew her sins.
She got up and walked away, drifting through town like the wind-blown sand. It was often the case with these tiny, no-name border settlements. They perched uneasily between the lush, coastal might of the Fire Nation colonies and the Earth Kingdom's dry, colossal bulk. You never knew, from day-to-day, what might blow through, borne on strange and shifting currents.
She came to the crossroads, the sign told her futures. One way led back to the colonies, back to the sea, and eventually all the way back to the very beginning, the islands of the Fire Nation and the imperial capital. The other led onward, deep into the heart of the Earth Kingdom and a new life.
If she went back to the colonies, there were people there she could contact. She would turn up at a certain house in the dead of night and she would knock on the door. Messages would be sent, plots laid, and the entire machinery of royal intrigue set in motion. Within three months she would have her throne back.
A throne with no fire, a crown with no allies, a queen with no family, no friends. No power. They would eat her alive. Men with power – men like Huang and Shen and Hiro – they would control her as easily as the mercenary just had. More easily, and with less compassion.
But her people were suffering. Dissension was tearing through the ranks, threatening to split the nation apart from within. Without, shadowy forces were gathering at the edges – whole armies of vultures waiting to pick at the remains.
It was her duty and her burden – her privilege! – to go back, to crush any and all opposition. To sit the lonely throne, to find a solution to every problem, to fight and fight and fight for the rest of her life…or until there was nothing left to fight with.
She could.
She would.
She would…
Her thoughts broke and splintered, like glass shattering.
She turned her back to the sun and her feet to the east, toward the vast, hostile continent, toward that ancient last resort, the final destination of a million desperate souls: Ba Sing Se.
Ba Sing Se, where the small and nameless went to hide.