Lodestar Swordmaster

Peng had been young once, young enough to rise with the wind for ninety thousand li. Like the great Peng of legend, she had fought her way up from the eighteen depths and flown all the way to the sun, only to snatch down strands of light like sheets of gold and press them into hands worn thin by hardship. She was not like the sort of "genius" Mohist Hill produced so often. Most geniuses, no matter how brilliant, shine only on the page, in their books, their papers, and the things they build. Put them in front of greedy officials and ask them to smile without giving an inch, to slip half a string of coins into the hand of a sly military underling to ransom a limping half-grown child, or to deal with some broken villager who sold off the Mohist Hill's seed grain for drink, and they would probably manage a few clumsy arguments before running back to the mountain in tears, back to the paper piles and workrooms they understood. But Peng was different. Peng was not only a bird high in the sky. When she had to be, she could also be the kun deep in the sea. Cutting costs, finding new sources, fighting for leverage, reading the room, turning with the wind, dealing with people as they came... if it meant prying food out of one rich man's mouth and putting it into the mouth of someone starving, she did not mind keeping company with greed, stupidity, and absurdity. When she was at her youngest, she pulled off something remarkable. This was back in the Changxing era. The farm tools sold by the authorities were poor in quality and high in price. She could not bear to see the planting season wasted, so she found a loophole and got hold of a batch of wooden boards and wheels that could be taken apart easily, then assembled them into tools the world had never seen for several villages to use. If the men from above came down to inspect, all they would find was a pile of boards with no obvious purpose. It was done so neatly that even the petty clerk who had taken her two mace of silver clicked his tongue in amazement during his inspection. Peng did not miss the opening. She brewed a pot of rough village tea and invited him to sit. The clerk sat looking out over the wheat fields and drank three large cups of bad tea. When he left, he forgot the silver on the table. She saw him a second time on a county street. He was pasting up notices of a new tax while chewing on a cold, hard bun. When he spotted her, he could not help straightening up and casually bringing up a memorial he had submitted, one that mentioned things like the farming season, official farm tools, foundries, inspections, and the like. He put on his official voice awkwardly enough, boasting that his words now carried some weight. She smiled and clapped for him. "One day they really will," she said. She was insignificant. So was he. So were many others, near and far. And yet all these people, separated by thousands upon thousands of li, by official robes and plain cloth, by seas of books and waves of wheat, were now walking the same road, one that was bound to shine. When that day came, everyone who had worked for it would cheer and laugh, waving hoes, jackets, or official caps, and throw their arms around one another. They were small, and nameless. They were great, and they would be remembered. Perhaps his memorial really was seen, because their third meeting came soon enough. Before long, notices for the Edict Allowing Commoners to Forge Their Own Farm Tools, along with the new fee on such tools, were posted in the villages she often visited. He was still pleased with himself, thinking he had finally helped the villagers get access to cheap, sturdy tools of their own. She, meanwhile, stood in the shade, staring at the notice for a long time. "They never charged this before," she said. "They used to make you buy from the authorities. Now you only pay a bit and make your own. That's a much better deal than before." "If you rent someone's land, you pay rent. If you use someone's road, you pay a road fee. These things all have their reason. No one is charging you for nothing." "They never charged this before," she said again. "All land under heaven belongs to the ruler. Even if they did not charge it before, they should charge it now." He stormed off. On the day they came to collect the village's last grain and scraps of meat, he hanged himself from a tree not far from the village entrance, with nothing but a belt. She brought a pot of tea and sat before that crowded field of graves, then poured three full cups. She drank the first. All land under heaven belongs to the ruler. But I made those tools. They are mine, not theirs. She filled the second. The tools are not theirs. Neither is the road. That road was worn into the ground by generations of villagers. It belongs to those who came before, not to them. She poured out the third. Nor do the fields belong to them. The sun and moon, the stars, the wind, the soil, the water, the fire, none of these had an owner to begin with. Someone simply had a clever thought one day, pointed at a piece of land, and shouted that it was his... Before the dark press of graves, she raised her staff and pointed it at the sun like a spear. "Then I declare this place mine."