Drums preceded the parade. Before the head dancers even appeared, the crowd lining the route in the capital’s Arch City could feel the thump of the approaching percussion. It was a slow beat, deep enough to be felt in the chest. Excitement rippled through the gathered audience. And then the dancers rounded the corner.
It wasn’t the country’s biggest festival. But the parade was impressive nonetheless, led all the time by the driving, incessant beat of the tireless drums. Even the foreign dignitaries had to admit that, for a second-tier festival, this was a wonderful display.
“Do I have to admit it?”
“You disagree?”
“It’s fine,” Agani said. “Some lightning wouldn’t be out of line.”
“It might be. Dance-casting takes a lot out of these guys.”
“If you say so.”
Standing beneath a canopy, the two ambassadors did the best they could to fight the summer’s extreme heat. Behind them, the royal dais was fanned with a labor intensive system of cold river water and elbow grease. The ambassadors were given a few pretty girls with fronds to push hot air around. It was ineffectual.
“How do they live like this?”
“Live like what?”
“This heat.”
“Hadn’t noticed,” Vargos answered. He flexed his arm and a little tendril of steam lifted off his shoulders.
“Don’t be snide,”Agani said. “It’s unbecoming of a demi-god.”
“They don’t have hot days on the northern plateaus?”
“We have seasons. Warm, hot, cool, cold, repeat. It’s predictable. It’s comforting.”
“Cold doesn’t sound comforting.”
On the parade grounds in front of the Grand Arch, the masters stepped to the fore. A subtle beat change swept through the drumline. String music bloomed from somewhere further back in the parade. And the masters began their acrobatics.
Their movements were elegant and precise. Nary a foot fell out of time with the music. Limbs moved gloriously in concert. And beside them, the shamans began to chant. They called to the Three Storms, and the Storms answered.
Far above, the lush blue sky began to develop blemishes. White streaks crawled into being, high and weak clouds. As the dancers moved, the clouds grew bulbous and threatening. Yet they coalesced only above the capital. In every direction outside the city, the sky remained resolutely blue.
The procession came level with the royal dais and the ambassador awnings at its base. Master dancers and their apprentices swirled into a wonderful synchronicity then spun toward the ambassador canopy.
The shamans chanted something new. Stomping in time, the dancers called to the Storms. There was a change in the air, a thickening or shaking or rippling. And then it began to rain, in a small column, just in front of the canopy.
“Guess I’m on,” Vargos said.
He stepped into the column of rain. His finery quickly began to soak through to the skin. Cupping his hands in front of his chest, he collected a handful of rainwater. When it overflowed, he lifted it to his mouth and drank. The crowd cheered.
Unable to resist a show, Vargos let his internal fire burn. Just a little. In moments, steam fizzed from his rain-soaked skin. The gathered people went nuts, whooping their appreciation.
Vargos returned to the tent with a sly smile on his face. He lifted his eyebrow and made an exaggerated show of ceding the floor to his colleague.
“Haven’t we demi-gods learned our lesson about showing off?” Agani asked. Vargos’ smile did not fade.
The second ambassador nodded in defeat. He stepped out into the localized deluge. Rolling up his sleeves, he tapped the ground with his foot. For a few moments, he played to the crowd, tapping and scrutinizing as if it made one bit of difference.
Spot selected, he rolled up his sleeves. He kneeled, put his hands to the ground and gripped two tiles. With a loud grunt, he pulled up, lifted with his knees, and yanked a stone font from the formerly flat ground. Wavy tiles lined its small reservoir which soon grew wavier as it filled with rainwater.
Roars went up from the crowd. Agani gracefully leaned forward and sipped from the reservoir. The dancers laughed, just enough to break the spell and end the miniature rainstorm.
As the ambassador retreated, so too did the clouds. Blue skies began to invade the white ceiling.
“Feels like a waste of resources,” Agani said as his earthen font sunk back into the ground, his demi-god influence leaching from the display.
“Relax,” Vargos said. He slapped his colleague’s back. “We can always conjure up more.”
“We can,” Agani replied. “But not always,” he added under his breath.
The Tall Tale Year 