by C. T. Rwizi
She grits her teeth. “Half pay, then. You won’t get a better deal anywhere else.”
He wheezes out a laugh this time. “Tell you what—get a few tours under your belt, and maybe we’ll talk.”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do, Foreman.” The words come out with a little more frustration than she intends.
“With some other company,” he says.
A lost cause, then. Ilapara could scream at the injustice. But that kind of emotional display in this town would be tantamount to professional suicide, so she nods instead. “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”
She starts to leave but stops when Jijima says, “Are you working at the general dealer’s again?”
“The one and only.”
“He’s not paying you enough, is he?”
“He pays me well for the work I do for him.” Ilapara knows never to badmouth an employer—past, present, or prospective. No need to burn bridges that might come in handy in the future.
“I see. Well, if there’s nothing else . . .” And Jijima returns to his work, as complete a dismissal as any.
“Good day, Foreman,” she says. “Rufa.”
“Drinks later?” Rufa says as she leaves.
She suppresses a shudder. “Maybe some other time.”
BaChando, Seresa’s general dealer, was the first person to offer her a job when she arrived in Umadiland three comets ago with nothing but a sack of clothes and a cheap spear to her name.
A series of carts and wagons had driven her along seemingly endless dirt roads stretching from the Yerezi borderlands in the southeast and joining the World’s Artery just south of the stopover town. She already knew the local language, having learned it back home, but she quickly taught herself to speak exactly like a native so she could convince someone to give her a job without asking too many questions. And when BaChando hired her and she finally had the coin to spare, she taught herself to paint her face and dress like a native too.
It was supposed to be a mere disguise, but to Ilapara it became a way to remake herself in her own image, without anyone’s input on what was proper and what was not. Now her crimson Umadi veils and robes and her leather and aerosteel armor are the truest garments she could ever don, and Izumadi rolls off her tongue like she was born to it.
BaChando gladly rehired her when she fled back to Seresa after narrowly escaping Kageru with her life. The work’s a big step down from a mercenary company, and BaChando is as cold blooded as a snake, but at least the pittance he pays her keeps her fed, leaving just enough for her buck’s extortionate livery fees, a daily bath, and a bunk at the hostels in the town’s river district. All things considered, she can’t complain too much.
His store is one of those two-story buildings built along the Artery. Because of her detour to the Vuriro office, Ilapara has to meander through the meat market to get there.
She usually avoids Seresa’s meat market if she can, but she’s almost late for her morning shift, so there’s nothing else for it. Keep your head down, your eyes forward, she tells herself. Walk quickly; don’t look in the cages. Mind your own business. It’s a harsh world out there, and it’s not like you can do anything about it.
Ilapara is good at minding her own business—that’s a habit one quickly learns in Umadiland—but there’s something about the meat market that makes it hard for her not to look . . .
Like now. As she passes one of the caged wagons butting into the muddy road, she can’t help but sneak a look inside at the wraithlike Faraswa woman slumped against the iron bars—about my age, covered in layers of grime. The filthy dress clinging to her bones might have once been bright yellow; it’s a sooty brown now, brown like disease and old vomit. Her dark hair might be shoulder length, but it’s all matted to her scalp. And her tensor appendages, so spotless in her filthy prison, curling out of her temples like twin snakes of polished bronze. Ritual bed slave or muti sacrifice? Which one is worse?
Most people new to Seresa assume the meat market is named thus because of the wide selection of meats sold there—meats sourced from every corner of the Redlands and brought in enchanted frostboxes so it’s as fresh as the day it was killed.
Most people new to Seresa are wrong.
By far, the most lucrative meat sold at the meat market is the living, breathing, human kind. The Faraswa kind in particular, who are treasured as slaves and victims of muti rituals for their essence-rich blood. Those who don’t sell get hauled up the World’s Artery and displayed at every town on the way until a buyer comes along.
The girl in the caged wagon quickly looks up, as if she can sense the weight of Ilapara’s gaze, and her vivid crimson eyes choke Ilapara with the weight of the suffering they’ve seen and the suffering they have yet to see. They are devoid of hope, dead to this world.
Behind the wagon, a gray banner hangs with the Seal of an infinitely black sphere that seems to blink at her. Ilapara looks away and minds her own business.
When you’re in the trade of buying things from money-strapped travelers—anything, really, from clothes to dried foods to charmed trinkets—at a quarter of the price they are actually worth, only to make a hefty profit when you resell them in that same store, you are bound to make some people very angry, perhaps angry enough to get violent.
Ilapara’s job at the general dealer’s, put simply, is to discourage any malcontented travelers from physically expressing their grievances with BaChando. The few instances she had to use her spear when she first worked here earned her a reputation in the town, enough for her to walk into a mercenary office and not get laughed out of the room when she asked for a job.
She hasn’t had cause to put her new armor and weapon to use, though, not since BaChando rehired her two weeks ago. A good thing, of course, but sometimes she wishes the job entailed a little more risk and excitement. The riskiest thing she’s seen so far was an old woman who pelted BaChando with her sandals and stormed out barefoot. Certainly a duller job than watching the comings and goings at the gates of the Mimvura compound.
A caravan is leaving town this morning. Ilapara watches it longingly from her post at the door, wishing she could join the mercenaries escorting it. Perhaps if she traveled more of the world, if she saw what else could be in store for her out there, perhaps she would finally understand what it is she wants for herself, whether to go back home or seek a life elsewhere.
Her thoughts engross her so completely that she’s uncharacteristically startled when, like a ghost from her past, a bespectacled young man walks into the store and greets her in the Umadi tongue. She barely manages to respond before he continues inward to browse around the shelves.
She gapes at him, perplexed.
He is Yerezi. A Yerezi tribesman is here, in Seresa, here in this store.
Besides his uniquely Yerezi straw hat, she knows he’s Yerezi from his white loincloth and the bow and quiver harnessed to his back—that and his distinct beaded necklace, and the numerous leather bands wrapped like tiny snakes around his wrists, and that earring that says he’s a copperborn princeling, and his indescribable homeness, so unexpected in this place of vice it makes her ache for the peace of her motherland.
She smothers those annoying feelings before they catch fire. It’s easy: all she does is remember why she left.
Still, there’s something fundamentally wrong about seeing a Yerezi tribesman here in Seresa, in this store, walking around like it’s the most normal thing in the world. She knows there are Yerezi who brave Umadiland for trade, but they don’t usually venture beyond the tamer towns and villages of the borderlands—far from the Artery.
They certainly don’t come here.
Ilapara watches him from the door while he peruses the aisles of stuff with visible interest. He’s tall and lithe, and his skin is a few shades lighter than her own russet brown. Oblivious is the first word that pops into her mind; the boy has caught the dealer’s hawkish attention—the man’s practically leering at him from behind
his counter—but the boy seems completely unaware. At one point he stops, lifts a fluffy-looking plaything off the shelves, sniffs it, grimaces, and puts it back.
A village boy comes to town.
Ilapara shakes her head. What on Meza is he doing here? And what’s with those spectacles? Eye defects are the sort of thing Yerezi clan mystics treat regularly—and for free. Some sort of personal statement of individuality, perhaps? Certainly not implausible, not with a princeling.
But then . . . where is the red steel? A princeling his age would never leave his kraal without wearing all the Yerezi arcane metal he could fit onto his body. And why the devil is he wearing white? The more she watches him, the more he confuses her. Yes, he is Yerezi, but he makes no sense.
“Looking for something, friend?” BaChando says to him in a clipped mercenary voice. He doesn’t like loiterers in his store, especially if said loiterers look as . . . well, rural and rustic as this boy.
A brazen gewgaw has caught the boy’s attention. He doesn’t take his eyes off it when he says, “Nothing specific, no.” He takes a moment longer to grasp the question’s true import, then finally straightens and looks at BaChando. “You don’t mind me looking around, do you?”
It shouldn’t be, but his Izumadi is faultless, bespeaking years of education—not exactly what Yerezi men are known for.
BaChando contains his surprise very well; Ilapara sees it only because he starts tapping his fat bejeweled fingers on his counter. “Not at all,” he says with a prompt smile. “Just let me know if you need any help.”
“Thank you.” The boy returns to studying the brass gewgaw. “I’ve never been inside a store before.”
BaChando’s smile grows strained, and he flashes Ilapara a glance that says, Watch him. She nods to assuage his concerns; the man might be a callous reptile, but nervousness is his natural disposition. Nursing it is only part of the job.
The princeling takes his time going up and down the aisles, touching, sniffing, feeling the miscellaneous articles on sale. The clothes don’t interest him much. He avoids any other fluffy things, grimaces at most of the dried foods, lingers near the herbs and medicines, marvels at one of the smoking pipes.
Only as he returns to the brass ornament thingy does Ilapara realize what he’s been doing all along, what she couldn’t see him do because of those spectacles of his, and it exacerbates her suspicions about him: while she’s been watching him from the door, he’s been watching her.
He came into this shop specifically to watch her.
That means he knows who she is.
She has no idea who he is, but he knows who she is.
An unacceptable imbalance.
Ilapara strides toward him, fixing her expression into calm, professional curiosity, and in a voice low enough to die before it reaches BaChando, she says to him in Sirezi, “Who are you, and what do you want?”
He freezes where he stands, and a slow smile creeps onto his face. A shy smile, and he doesn’t quite turn away from the brass ornament to face her, but it’s still one of those smiles that tugs at the corners of your lips, like you already know each other and share a joke just between the two of you, the kind of smile that lulls you into trusting.
Ilapara has had a lot of practice mastering her body language—an invaluable skill in her line of work—so the smile slides right off her and leaves her unscathed.
“I apologize.” He pushes his strange spectacles up his nose, finally facing her. “I didn’t quite know how to approach you. I wasn’t sure how you’d react.”
A soft-spoken tenor voice. Mellow, polite. His ears are a bit too large. A big gap between his upper incisors. She has to look up at him, but everything else about him invites her to relax, and yet . . . what is it?
“Well, this is awkward,” he says when she says nothing.
“Probably because you still haven’t answered my questions.”
BaChando clears his throat by his counter. “Do we have a problem, Ilira?”
“Not at all, boss,” she tells him in Izumadi, then arches an eyebrow at the boy. “Well?”
For a moment he seems taken aback by her forwardness—good—but his words come out confidently when he speaks. “All right. I suppose I should be forthright with you. My name’s Musalodi, and I hail from the western shores of the Nyasiningwe. I heard about you from your cousin Biro—Birosei? He tends VaSikhozi’s sheep at the—”
“I know who Biro is,” she cuts in, and her voice is a little curt and tetchy because the two worlds she’s worked hard to keep separate are suddenly coming together, all because of this strange boy.
“Of course you do,” the boy says, keeping his cool. “Well, he said I might find you here when I told him I’d be passing through town. As it happens, I need to get to Yonte Saire, but I’m not sure how to go about it. I’ve been led to believe it’s not a matter of simply riding up the Artery.”
Ilapara almost laughs. “No, it’s not.”
“Exactly, so I came here hoping I could pick your brains, so to speak. Biro said no other Yerezi would know this town better than you.” The boy hastens to add, “If you don’t mind, of course. I’ll understand if you’re too busy. Maybe if you just point me in the right direction, I’m sure I’ll find my way.”
Ilapara lets herself study him unashamedly. The ornate staff in his hand looks like something AmaSikhozi carries around. One of those pouches tied to his waist is definitely a coin purse—reckless. Not a lick of red steel on him, and yet he’s definitely copperborn; it’s in his bearing, the way he looks and talks, though he obviously tries to hide it beneath a veneer of politeness.
She feels a sudden and rather belated flash of annoyance that he managed to find her. What betrayed her to him?
She has worked hard to cultivate the image of a streetwise Umadi girl, from the way she speaks to the way she dresses: her silver nose ring, her black Umadi kohl and lip paint, her flowing red veil. He shouldn’t have been able to know her by sight.
“Why on Meza are you going to Yonte Saire?” she asks him. “What’s there for someone like you?”
He winces at the note of disdain in her voice, and she immediately feels guilty, but she decides an apology isn’t necessary.
“I’m running an important errand for Her Majesty Queen Irediti,” he says.
Ilapara blinks at him, then smiles, and then the smile bubbles up into laughter. She has to place a hand on her chest to stop it from heaving so much. “This is rich,” she says when she can speak. “Musalodi, is it?”
He shifts where he stands, though he seems amused by her reaction. “You can call me Salo.”
“You have tall tales, Salo.”
“I know,” he says, “but in this case they happen to be true.”
Though she can’t see his eyes, the trace of bitterness in his response makes her wonder. She lists her head, studies him some more. “You’re serious.”
He nods.
“But that makes no sense.”
BaChando clears his throat again. “Ilira?”
“One minute, boss.” Ilapara grabs Salo’s arm and pulls him out of the aisles. They stop by the door, and BaChando’s nervous eyes track them the whole way. She ignores him. “Why would the queen send you anywhere? Let alone halfway up the continent. You’re no Ajaha, are you?”
The boy’s shoulders droop a little. “No.”
“And I know you’re no Asazi, either, hence my confusion.”
His jaw clenches almost imperceptibly, but he keeps his voice polite. “Look, I’m sure you have many questions about me, but trust me when I say that any answer I give you right now will only bring up more questions. Then we’ll be here all day. The fact is, I need to get to the Yontai. Can you help me?” He looks around and leans closer, lowering his voice. “I could make it worth your while.”
Ilapara tries not to take offense. She has no need for his charity. “How much money do you have?”
“Enough, I think. I’m not sure. It’s moongold.”
/> So trusting, so unwary. Why offer her such dangerous information? She could be anyone, a criminal.
She smooths out any reaction from her face and drops her gaze to his waist. “I assume that’s what’s clinking in that purse of yours.” Crime is dangerous in this town, but the boy is just begging to be mugged, walking around with his money in such an obvious place. And if it’s moongold, then it’s a fortune.
The boy looks down at his purse. “That’s some of it, yeah.”
“Some? Where’s the rest of it?”
“Oh, I left it with my other possessions.”
“You . . . you just left your money somewhere, in this town?” By Ama, such naivety. He’s a naive village boy, and he’s going to get himself killed. Ilapara shakes her head. “I won’t even ask.”
“Don’t worry,” he says with a grin. “I’m sure it’s safe.”
“Uh-huh. How are you traveling?”
“I—uh, I have a mount.”
“A mount,” Ilapara repeats, and she knows the smile growing on her face isn’t nice. “Of course you do. For your sake I hope it’s a good mount. Yonte Saire is half a continent away.”
“I think he’ll manage.”
“Right. Well, you might want to consider getting a berth in a wheelhouse. It’ll cost you, but at least you won’t have to worry about that mount of yours dying on you along the way, because then it’ll really cost you.”
“Ilira, a word.”
Ilapara suppresses a sigh. “One moment,” she says to Salo, then heads over to BaChando. The man’s trying so hard to hide his smoldering anger behind a thin smile it’s almost hilarious. The smile mutates into a scowl as soon as he can hide behind Ilapara.
“Ilira, this is a place of business, not a lounge for wanderers. I want him out of here, now.”
“Yes, boss. He was just lost, that’s all. I’m giving him directions.”
“Then be quick about it.”
“Yes, boss.” She returns to Salo and finds him watching as a tronic dread rhino with a giant metal horn drags a two-story wheelhouse along the Artery. She can’t see his eyes, but his lips are slightly agape. She reckons he’s just as overwhelmed as she was when she first arrived here. “Look, Musalodi,” she says.
