Chapter 72: The Tile and the Lotus
The feast in the governor's manor was a lavish, noisy affair. Platters of roasted komodo chicken glazed with fire honey, steaming bowls of noodle soup, and delicate pastries shaped like dancing dragons circulated the great hall. Fire Nation nobles and colonial officials vied for a moment of the Crown Prince's attention, their laughter too loud, their compliments too thick. Zuko sat at the head of the table, a statue of forced composure. He ate little, his golden eyes scanning the room, not for threats of the assassin variety, but for something far more subtle.
Azula held court at his right, holding a glass of wine with elegant disdain. She was a queen observing her subjects, offering sharp, witty remarks that kept the sycophants at a careful distance. She noticed her brother's distraction. "Not enjoying your hero's welcome, Zuzu? One would think you'd be basking in it. It's so rare you get to be the center of positive attention."
Zuko ignored the barb. His focus was absolute. The wanted poster of Jeong Jeong was a ghost haunting the periphery of his vision. He had to find a way into the forests, a way to find the deserter without alerting the entire garrison. And Victor Krane knew the key. The Order of the White Lotus. And the key to the Order was Pai Sho.
He remembered Iroh's long afternoons on the ship, the smell of jasmine tea, the gentle clack of tiles on the wooden board. His uncle's jovial explanations, his love for the game's "ancient and noble strategies." And he remembered, with the strange clarity of a memory viewed from outside himself, the specific, deliberate patterns Iroh would use when he suspected a fellow traveler. It was a language within a game.
Excusing himself from the table with a grunt about needing air, Zuko walked out onto a spacious veranda that overlooked the town square. The festival was still in full swing, a river of light and sound. His eyes, sharpened by a lifetime of hunting and a new, desperate purpose, scanned the crowds. And there, in a quieter corner under the gentle glow of a paper lantern, he found what he was looking for.
An old man sat alone at a small stone table, a Pai Sho board set before him. He was the picture of mundane tranquility. His robes were simple, his posture relaxed. He seemed to be merely enjoying the evening air, moving tiles in a solitary game. He was utterly ordinary, which to Zuko's newly suspicious mind, made him extraordinary.
Zuko approached slowly, his boots silent on the polished veranda wood. He stopped a few feet from the table, observing. The man did not look up, his gnarled fingers hovering over a white lotus tile.
"A solitary game is a conversation with only one mind," Zuko said, his voice low, cutting through the distant festival music. "It lacks the element of surprise."
The old man's hand paused. He slowly lifted his head. His eyes were a watery brown, framed by a network of deep wrinkles. They held a patient, gentle curiosity, but Zuko, looking closer, saw a sharpness deep within them, a watchfulness that belied his benign appearance.
"A conversation can be enlightening, even with oneself, young master," the man replied, his voice a soft, rasping whisper. "But you are correct. The true beauty of the game lies in the meeting of two strategies. Would you care for a match?"
Zuko gave a single, curt nod. He took the seat opposite the old man, the stone cool even through his armor. The board between them was a field of potential, each carved tile a soldier in a silent war.
"I am called Li," the old man said, offering a slight, respectful bow of his head.
"You know who I am," Zuko responded, his tone not quite hostile, but guarded, testing. He did not return the bow.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the old man's lips. "Of course. Forgive an old man's forgetfulness." He gestured to the board. "The guest has the honor of the first move."
Zuko did not hesitate. His movements were not those of a leisurely player. He reached out and placed his first tile with a decisive clack. It was not an aggressive opening. It was a specific one. He placed a white lotus tile in the center of the board, a move Iroh had once told him was about "opening oneself to the universe," but which Victor knew was a signal, a question cast into the void.
The old man, Li, looked at the tile. His expression did not change, but the air between them seemed to still. The sounds of the festival faded into a dull roar. He reached into his tile box and, after a moment's consideration, placed a tile of his own. It was not a direct counter. It was a knight, placed in a defensive position that also, subtly, protected the lotus.
"A bold opening," Li murmured, his eyes on the board. "To place such a vulnerable piece in the center. It suggests either great confidence… or a desire to be seen."
Zuko moved another piece, a chrysanthemum, positioning it to offer a narrow path toward his lotus. "Some pieces are only vulnerable if they are alone. A flower that blooms unseen has no purpose."
Li's eyes flicked up to Zuko's face for a fraction of a second before returning to the board. He moved a rock, a sturdy, unassuming piece. "Yet a flower that blooms too openly risks being plucked. The wind carries many scents, not all of them friendly."
The game continued, move after move. To any observer, it was a quiet match between a noble youth and an elderly scholar. But beneath the surface, a second, far more dangerous game was being played. Each placement of a tile was a word. Each strategic formation was a sentence.
Zuko shifted his lotus tile one space to the east, a minute adjustment. "I find myself interested in rare blooms. Those that grow in unexpected places. In harsh climates." He paused, letting the implication hang. "They must be resilient. They must know how to survive unseen."
Li captured a minor tile of Zuko's with a gentle tap of his rock. "The strongest roots are often hidden deep beneath the soil. They draw sustenance from secret sources. To dig for them is… a delicate operation. The gardener risks damaging the very thing he seeks."
Zuko felt a thrill run through him. This was it. He was close. He advanced his chrysanthemum, threatening Li's rock. "Perhaps the gardener does not wish to dig. Perhaps he only wishes to know the flower is there. To know it is safe. That it is not… forgotten."
Li did not immediately respond. He studied the board with an intense focus that had nothing to do with the game. He moved his knight, not to defend his rock, but to a position that created a new, fragile link between his own pieces and Zuko's advanced chrysanthemum. It was a move of tentative connection.
"A flower that wishes not to be forgotten must sometimes risk a bee," Li said softly, his voice barely audible. "But the bee must be careful. Its buzz can attract predators. The wrong bee can bring a storm that destroys the garden entire."
Zuko understood the warning. I know what you are asking. But you are the Crown Prince. Your presence is a hurricane. Trust is not given lightly. He needed to offer something, to prove his intent was not destructive. He made a move that was, by conventional strategy, a mistake. He sacrificed his chrysanthemum, allowing Li's to take it. It was a offering. A show of vulnerability.
"Some bees," Zuko said, his voice dropping to match Li's whisper, "are tired of the hive. They seek a different kind of nectar. A purer source."
The capture of the tile seemed to decide something for the old man. He slowly gathered the won piece, his fingers lingering on it. He looked up, and this time, his gaze was direct, unblinking. The gentle scholar was gone, replaced by a man assessing a risk of monumental proportions.
"The forest to the north of the town," Li said, his words measured, each one chosen with immense care. "The old riverbed, the one that dried up two summers ago. If one were to follow it at dawn, when the mist still clings to the bamboo, one might find… interesting flora. But the path is treacherous. It is easy for a traveler to become lost. To fall."
It was a direction. A specific, hidden location. Jeong Jeong's camp.
Zuko held the old man's gaze. The unspoken understanding was absolute. He nodded once, a sharp, minute dip of his chin.
The game was over. The conversation was finished.
Zuko stood up abruptly. "A enlightening game," he said, his voice returning to its normal, imperial tone for the benefit of any potential eavesdroppers.
The old man, Li, began to reset the board, his head bowed once more, the picture of harmless old age. "The board is a world in miniature, young master. It is always enlightening for those who know how to look. Safe travels."
Zuko turned and walked back into the roar of the feast, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had done it. Using the ghost of his uncle's teachings and the knowledge of a man from another world, he had found a path. He had spoken a language of rebellion and found an answer.
He had a destination. At dawn, he would follow a dried riverbed into the mist. And he would find the deserter, Jeong Jeong.
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