Chapter Text
As far as Kaveh's concerned, Líyuèn is Líyuèn, and it’s all nonsense. As Al-Haitham is happy to inform him, this is a very stupid belief. Kaveh doesn’t care. He’s the one doing Al-Haitham a favor, and he never claimed any kind of expertise. Al-Haitham, polyglot supreme, knows four kinds of spoken Líyuèn, two sign languages, and three ways to write. It’s not enough for him, and he reads about the urban coastal dialect in every spare moment before their trip. It makes Kaveh’s head spin, but he does his best.
One moment Kaveh thinks he catches a familiar word, guitar or bazaar, and then the flood of meaningless sound returns to wash over him. All the while, Al-Haitham drones on ad infinitum about how Chényù and Harbor dialects differ. Never mind his spiel about whether what they speak in Bìshuǐ is Líyuèn at all. This must be Al-Haitham’s experience of the finer points of Kaveh’s own work, he realizes. Dire. No matter what dialect or idiolect or other kind of -lect Al-Haitham is on about, Kaveh still doesn’t understand the people of Líyuè. He’s certain he’d be stranded without the bastard, so he just grins and bears it, following his junior like a duckling. Al-Haitham even holds his hand in crowds, albeit with many jabs at Kaveh’s childishness. Not very befitting of my senior, Senior.
Al-Haitham soundly refuses to deal with the Eight Trades, because apparently things like ceramics and mining are unworthy of his spoiled junior. Kaveh spends two days in laboriously interpreted meetings with all nature of artisans and businesspeople in his place. Luckily, Líyuèns like to meet at restaurants, and this city has the fanciest restaurants Kaveh’s ever seen. It’s actually pretty interesting work, but he chastises Al-Haitham every spare moment, just to keep him humble.
It works. Kaveh gets all the yuānyāng he wants, a tasty coffee-tea mixture that’s apparently also called yūnyēung, for his trouble. Al-Haitham assures him the two nigh-homophones differ critically, alluding to politics and scripts, then waves it off. He yawns. No nuance before coffee, declares the Scribe.
Yuānyāng may only be three parts coffee to seven of tea, but it does the trick. It’s sold near their hotel by a cheerful woman called Hǎiyàn. Kaveh doesn’t think he’s getting her name right, but they get through in pidgin and interjections from Al-Haitham. The third time they visit her shop, she interrupts their bickering about the relevance of tilework to pull Kaveh aside. She tells him very sincerely about ducks.
He is utterly lost, even with help from the bastard. Al-Haitham looks a bit embarrassed by the topic. He awkwardly mentions their formal Remurian name is Aix galericulata, as if that’s even remotely useful, before returning to his book. Kaveh and Hǎiyàn ignore him. She explains that these ducks are for some reason also called yuānyāng (but not yūnyēung, which Al-Haitham says not to worry about). She impresses upon Kaveh that the ducks are sexually dimorphic (Kaveh faintly remembers an Amurta elective mentioning this), and that this is auspicious. Al-Haitham focuses very hard on his book while Ms. Hǎiyàn brightly assures Kaveh that fated lovers can be very different indeed. Like these ducks, Kaveh thinks she’s trying to tell him.
She gives them some sort of dubious Fontaine-style fried rice free of charge, and it’s yet one more homophone: yuānyāng chǎofàn. Kaveh expects to hate béchamel and tomato sauce together, but it’s not bad. Al-Haitham looks more and more embarrassed by the minute, but he eats too, to Hǎiyàn’s satisfaction. Apparently. they’re too skinny. She leaves them with a proverb and a knowing look. Yuānyāng xì shuǐ - 'two opposite ducks playing in water.' Al-Haitham blushes dark and doesn’t say a word to Kaveh for nearly an hour.
He eventually elaborates, but he’s an ass, and Kaveh knows he’s hiding something. Apparently the Líyuèns have a traditional concept of yīn and yáng. It’s dualism not unlike asha and druj in the faith of Kaveh’s ancestors. Kaveh does not worship the gods of his ancestors, and Al-Haitham just shrugs. He says dryly that he doesn’t spend much time thinking about bound opposites. They drift gently into an argument about interpreting pre-Archon war Ormosi texts as verse or prose.
They don’t discuss ducks, literal or metaphorical, but they do pass a man anxiously watching a pair of them near the dock. He’s muttering furiously about a fortuneteller on the corner. The birds are an omen of a happy marriage, he assures, more for himself than them, and they shrug noncommittally. The ducks are as distinct and devoted as promised, but Zhìhuá’s chances with Qǐmìng still seem remote.
The fortuneteller informs them sharply that love isn’t worth the hassle, and that’s the advice worth paying her for. For fifteen mora, she lets them pick a piece of bamboo from a cup of them. Al-Haitham watches him choose with soft eyes. There are numbers Kaveh recognizes and characters he doesn’t. She doles out a corresponding proverb, printed for their reading enjoyment. Liángyào kǔkǒu: 'good medicine tastes bitter.' The little slip of paper advertizes Bùbǔ Pharmacy, where Kaveh gets his antidepressants and which a passerby claims employs a child zombie. Enough nonsense for one day, they agree instantly and silently.
When they’re out of her hearing, Al-Haitham softly tells him that this particular tourist trap utilizes qiúqiān, one of the many varieties of Líyuèn suànmìng divination. In his low, rumbling voice, he tells Kaveh that he suspects the practice has gained new popularity because of a similar, but dubiously-Líyuèn, cookie ritual. He says that the fortunes in the cookies are more like Inazuman omikuji than qiúqiān, really, but that early Líyuèn poetry may well have inspired the Inazumans, so really, what she’s doing is both traditional and syncretic.
Al-Haitham smiles without noticing when he shares his vast and often useless knowledge, and Kaveh has to squeeze his hand before he does something stupid, like tell Haitham just how much he likes it. He doesn’t care as much as Al-Haitham seems to, but he concludes that this beats face reading and palm lines. Besides, he can get any astrological calculation imaginable done at home by the Rtawahist, so there’s no need for the wisdom of the ancient scholar Xú Zǐpíng.
On a cool morning outside a restaurant devoted to mountain chilis, Kaveh falls into thought to the sound of Al-Haitham musing. Al-Haitham says it’s a wonder people can communicate at all across the Chasm, and Kaveh wonders how this juéyún chili will compare to the spices he’s used to. This is who they are to each other — perhaps not always a listener, but a constant companion. This is the heart of their bond, and something neither of them has ever found anywhere else, not that either man is going to admit it any time soon.
While Al-Haitham orders for a shockingly long time with the owner's daughter, Kaveh ponders how old the restaurant’s building is – the style is ambiguous, and he suspects partial remodeling. When he tunes back in, Al-Haitham is telling him how what they speak here on the urban coast differs from the Yílóng dialect he knows best. Al-Haitham’s primary concern is rooted in his firm belief that the Qīxīng staff are idiots, to be used as go-betweens as little as possible. If he employs translators, there will only be more work. Ergo, he must perfect his Harbor Líyuèn and save them both the trouble. Kaveh nods.
They wander the square of Chīhǔ Rock, named for eating tigers, Archons-know-why. Al-Haitham suspiciously eyes a man wandering nearby. He’s utterly confused where to spend his money, and Al-Haitham squeezes Kaveh’s hand as if to say do you see yourself, senior? I see you. Al-Haitham takes every opportunity to revel in Kaveh’s bewilderment, but he interprets tirelessly, and makes sure Kaveh understands every intricacy, although his tone could use some work. He has the same comment when it comes to Kaveh's Líyuèn. Kaveh knows this is a fumbling repayment for his years of interpretation between Al-Haitham and the world at large. It’s the man’s own version of gratitude. Thank you, senior, for letting me understand them then. You won’t believe what they're saying now.
A large man at a stall of shining ore beckons them to bet on on the which of three jades contains cor lapis, and Al-Haitham lets Kaveh pull him in with a smirk. He’s quite particular about which jade they choose with his mora, but Kaveh knows he’s trying to protect Kaveh from yet another scam. Al-Haitham’s version of care is like nothing else. Miraculously, they choose correctly, doubtless thanks to some of Al-Haitham’s usual trickery with conjured mirrors. They leave with a bit of cor lapis in hand, and Kaveh’s proud of their meaningless victory together.
Kaveh is surprised when a bureaucrat escorts them to a floating palace to meet with the Qīxīng. Sue him, he doesn’t know much about Líyuè, miraculous buildings included. Maybe his mother should have abandoned him for Líyuè instead of Fontaine. Al-Haitham says it's called Qúnyù-gé, the 'Chamber of Many Jades,' and it’s beyond anything Kaveh could have imagined if he knew in the first place. He understands why Al-Haitham was so insistent he come along to see the Qīxīng. Bastard was trying to be nice.
The Yùhéng, who is carefully coiffed and styled, speaks to Kaveh in equally stilted Fontainien – she clearly learned it from a strict tutor, and it’s a poor match for what he learned stranded in Thrice-Damned Fontaine, too stubborn to ask his mother for help. Al-Haitham and the Yùhéng get on like a house on fire in rapidfire Líyuèn, discussing yuánfèn - serendipity - and mìng yùn - destiny - as they debate the relevance of the gods today. Al-Haitham tries to explain what’s going to Kaveh, but it’s a bit of a lost cause, so he focuses on the interior design here. It’s remarkable. Kèqíng is shocked by Al-Haitham’s casual attitude toward Devī Kusanāḷi. Apparently, Líyuè’s gods aren’t so genial. She indicates a far-off archipelago of enormous stones as proof, and Al-Haitham nods. Kaveh bows stiffly and excuses himself to look around while Al-Haitham confers with various Qīxīng.
The chief secretary has horns like Nabu Malikata, but lacks her grace. The charming Miss Gānyǔ speaks very poor Sumeric, but Kaveh’s Líyuèn is even worse, and they regard each other in desperation, throwing out canned phrases in various languages, until they realize they both know enough Fontainien to get by. Kaveh is delighted when she guides him to a library filled with designs of the floating structure. Apparently, this is a remodel. He wishes he could speak with the architects involved.
They regroup over an enormous dinner. The Tiānquán looks at Al-Haitham with a certain inscrutable air when he disagrees with her about Líyuèn influence on Ormosi poetry. She seems almost charmed, and for a terrible moment, Kaveh wonders if he’s about to see his other half be smited by and/or married off to this spectacular woman as a diplomatic action. Luckily, that sort of thing is several centuries out of date, and Al-Haitham takes the brief moment of silence as an opportunity to say something incredibly unlikeable, just to make sure no one is ever at any risk of falling in love with him. All is right again in the world. Somehow, they avoid diplomatic upset, and the two of them share a bottle of shāojiǔ that night to celebrate.
When they meet with Mr. Zhōnglí, a friend of Al-Haitham’s grandmother, Kaveh is utterly charmed. He sounds much older than he looks, but Kaveh can’t put a finger on just how old that is or just how the man could possibly know what he does. Mr. Zhōnglí is delighted to find Al-Haitham still as surly as he’d been in childhood, and they deliberate the Líyuèn classics at length, drifting between dialects and centuries freely. Kaveh lets Al-Haitham’s low voice ground him while he downs his weight in the sweet wine-fermented rice balls this restaurant is apparently named for. Al-Haitham guides him back to their hotel with a familiar hand on his waist, and Kaveh absolutely needs the help. He was certain the namesake three bowls didn’t do a thing, and finished his sixth before realizing he was very wrong.
Later, as Al-Haitham explains some international intrigue involving a double-crossing Fatuus he’s smugly certain is in love with both Lumine and Zhōnglí, Kaveh lays on his chest to feel his voice vibrate. He barely catches a word, but it’s a good time. Al-Haitham is many things, and a gossip has always been one of them. Kaveh theorizes that this is what keeps Haitham in the aunties’ good graces. He’s got dirt on the Akademiya, and they trade in secrets alongside goods at the bazaar. Even Al-Haitham grasps this facet of the social contract. Kaveh wonders just how much the aunties will speculate about this trip. One had called it a honeymoon, and Kaveh and Al-Haitham simply did not discuss the matter.
When they’re home, Al-Haitham does a terrible job of thanking Kaveh. He couches it in could have been worse and better than nothing, but Kaveh knows what he means. He forces Al-Haitham to spit it out anyway, just to see him squirm. Thank you for coming with me, senior. He avoids eye contact, but does eventually share a soft final remark. You made me like being away from home. Please come with me again. Getting please and thank you out of Al-Haitham was something of a miracle, and Kaveh knew he was sincere in his gratitude. That, or Al-Haitham really hates leaving home that much, and Kaveh’s somehow a balm for that ache. The man likes to be a bit of an enigma. It’s just his way.