Back when I was Prime Minister, I'd noticed that Sericans – especially Sericans who lacked power – often sighed, "Humans' plans can't compare to Heaven's plans" when something (or someone) scuttled their hopes.
Like that time Cassius' Grand Marshal tried to appoint his own son-in-law to lead an expedition against bandits, but I upset his meticulous scheming via dream interpretation. I'd had nothing against the Grand Marshal or his son-in-law, really – they were bland, unobjectionable courtiers – but I'd wanted to make the point that as Prime Minister, I controlled the military. Conveniently, Cassius happened to dream about a white-clad, halberd-wielding hero who fought off a demon and then leaped into a dragon's mouth. So I'd explained to a rapt court that the prophecy pointed to a different young general, one who wore white (albeit not more often than anyone else), fought with a halberd (albeit not better than anyone else), and hailed from Dragon's Gate in the east. That last point clinched my argument, the Grand Marshal conceded with a muttered, "Humans' plans...," and I reveled in my victory.
Now, however – now I was starting to understand the sentiment behind the saying. And I didn't like it one bit.
Because Captains Carpa and Carpio had chosen today to conduct an inspection of the barracks. Today – of all days! After weeks of inactivity! They just had to pick the one day that I'd already picked to raid their armory!
When I glided up to the barracks and glanced inside, expecting the usual still darkness and the lone shrimp drowsing at the duty desk, I saw a frenzy of antennae instead. Standing on his chair and waving his front legs, the shrimp sergeant was barking, "Make the bunks! Polish the armor! Sweep the floors!"
The smallest shrimp, perhaps a new recruit, scurried for a broom and starting whisking at the bits of eelgrass and reeds and other debris that the currents had scattered across the packed-earth floor. Other guards dashed deep into the grotto, presumably to straighten the dorms and polish the armor.
"Count the spears! Report the inventory to me!"
Nooooooo! I flapped all four flippers in distress. No no no! I needed a spear! Now how was I supposed to steal one? How long would the inspection take? How long would it take the guards to settle back into their lax routine? When would I have another chance to sneak in? I should have come yesterday! Even half a day ago would have been fine! Why, oh why, had I put it off until now?
And seriously – an inspection? Who needed inspections? And why did the captains have to run one on precisely the day I needed to get into the barracks? It was just not fair. Paddling with choppy, angry strokes, I started to storm off.
That was when I heard voices drifting out of a side tunnel, so small it hadn't rated a door. Slowing, I eavesdropped.
" – have two more spears than the last inventory. If we report that, Sarge will get mad at us for counting wrong last time." That sounded like an older guard, a veteran of past inspections.
"Did we order any new spears since the last count?" asked another.
"No. Someone counted wrong."
"I did not!" chittered an indignant, youthful voice. "I counted three times!"
A crack, like an antenna striking shell. A yelp.
"What do we do now?" asked the second guard.
A long, pondering silence.
"Can we, uh, hide them somewhere?" suggested the mathematically-challenged shrimp. "Like, under a bunk?"
YOU ARE READING
The True Confessions of a Nine-Tailed Fox
FantasyAfter Piri the nine-tailed fox follows an order from Heaven to destroy a dynasty, she finds herself on trial in Heaven for that very act. Executed by the gods for the "crime," she is cast into the cycle of reincarnation, starting at the very bottom...
