[i]This is how things are.

At the end of the Hot Season, the Blue Silk Glove Marchwarden mounts upon her tiger, which rides on the hidden winds all the way to the Court of Nine Calamities, where the indolent mountain-and-cloud gods keep their revels. There she announces herself, and presents the commands of the Sapphire Mother of Lotuses concerning where they are to loose their herds, and how much rain they will let flow. And there she says: you may take your orders and be paid for your work, or you may tell me you will not; then I will take you and knock you down, and the Court may see who is the stronger! Then, if the mountain-and-cloud gods do not prove irascible, she will take their brandies with them, and make free with the chest of offerings she brings with her, and pay for the services of courtesans of the upper air.

Sometimes they seize her and she knocks them down, and they are chastened; and sometimes she seizes them and they knock her down, and then they are emboldened. And when they are chastened, they grumble among themselves and make trouble among the work orders; and when they are emboldened, then they work great mischief, and then rivers flood and bridges melt away. And at times they will hold back their flocks, but they will succumb to the temptation to make a clamour before too long, and then what a storm there is!

And it is known, too, that they shake their silver manes at the Blue Silk Glove Marchwarden, and leer at her, inquiring whether she knows what happens to a flower overwatered; and it is known that the N’yari preach the Storm Victory, destined for some ever-elusive day. On that day, they say, the earth will crack and yawn, and the thunder will drive the House of Lapis Lazuli into the deeps below with a great slide of mud and water; and then we shall see who rules, flowersick lowlanders! And then we shall see who rules.[/i]

***

In the Flower Kingdoms, in the Rainy Season, there is no sunlight. Not at dawn, not at dusk, not at midday. The clouds are a blanket over the sky, and the light is theirs.

Look up, and see them roiling like the waves of the sea, shot through with streaks of moonish light. They are bright, bright enough to illuminate everything below in grey and silver, and they are inconstant, making shadows sway and flicker below. The rain is a steady, constant drumbeat, a drowning-out; raise your voice, or sit close together.

In defiance, the kingdoms below open countless umbrellas, a sudden blossom of endless flowers. In defiance, stained glass lanterns break the silver cloudlight. In defiance, the oiled traveling-cloaks are donned, long and covered in intricate designs: of labyrinths (among the more daring, who do not mind its N’yari connotations), of leaves, of rivers, and of course, of flowers.

The roads are churned mud. Barges still work their way up and down swollen rivers, but the wealthy and proud travel by litter. After all, wheels may get stuck, but a true child of the Flowers knows how to walk over mud without losing their balance or their way.

When the rain grows strong, or the traveler grows weary, then see the lanterns at the door to the inn or the teahouse, inviting you inside for a drink and an opportunity to dry yourself off and rest your feet in a heated basin; or, if money or time is tight, a seat on a bench in a covered and crowded food court, where the sound of the rain mixes with the hiss of fried noodles.