by C. T. Rwizi
“Exactly.” Tuksaad gives a cheerful laugh. “He just wanted the challenge of playing it in a crowded place for once. So you see, just a misunderstanding. There has been no theft here.”
“We’re terribly sorry for the trouble it’s caused.” Salo looks at the boy in desperation. “Tell them, friend. We were playing a game, weren’t we?”
The Faraswa boy nods the way one nods when one’s life depends on it.
“See? Please, Red-kin. Let my friend go.”
“And we’ll buy you a cold beer each for the inconvenience,” Tuksaad adds with his dimpled smile.
For a moment the guard appears inclined to accept Tuksaad’s offer, but then he looks at Salo, and he must see right through him to the dread beneath, because he firms his expression and shakes his head. “I’m afraid that’s not how we do things around here. When a thief steals from the people of this town, he steals from our lord. He must be punished to deter others from following his example. I understand your sympathy, but the law is clear.”
The anticipation in the air is almost thick enough to touch as the guard faces the boy, his machete dangling in one hand. “You have been judged guilty, filth, and now your life shall be offered to the Blood Woman in the name of our Muchinda, the great Dark Sun. May he be blessed with a thousand years of life and good health.”
Salo is about to fall on his knees and beg for the boy’s life when, hanging from a bitumen-coated pole behind a wagon nearby, a gray banner flutters in the breeze, flattening out just enough for him to make out the rather unsettling web of curves and circles printed onto it. Then the shapes reach out and twist his eyes into seeing a black sphere with a glaring corona.
Time stops.
Tikoloshe. The smell of compost and Monti’s blood in the air. Monti died in his arms because a witch came to their kraal to kill in her lord’s name, and her lord is the same man who owns this Seal.
The same man who owns this town.
This town belongs to Monti’s murderer.
These men are about to sacrifice this boy to Monti’s murderer.
A red mist settles around Salo, and he sets his shards ablaze with raw essence. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s reaching forward with his left hand, reaching forward and unleashing his power.
The air pressure abruptly changes in a pocket of space surrounding the executioner. A powerful whirlwind rises in response, a serpent of dust and Storm craft coiling itself around him and lifting him yards off the ground, where it holds him prisoner. His machete careers away as his hands fly to his throat. He wheezes, desperate to draw in breath, but the air will not obey him. His eyes bulge as he suffocates, veins appearing on his temples like they’re about to pop.
“Murderers!” Salo’s voice sucks every other sound right out of the air. His heart’s beating so hard he can feel it at the base of his tongue. “I should kill you all!”
It would be so easy. He could command the air and starve them of breath, steal it right out of their lungs—the least these people deserve for what they did to Monti.
A woman screams. Her screams beget more screams. The floating executioner is still choking helplessly, inching ever closer to death, and the sight of him in this state hammers a wedge of sobriety into Salo’s mind.
What am I doing? Am I really going to kill this man?
He aborts the spell, letting the executioner plummet to the ground in a cloud of dust. He didn’t really think through his actions, so he’s not sure what to expect—he’s not sure of anything right now—but it’s probably not for the executioner to struggle onto his hands and knees, coughing, while he lifts a shaking finger at Salo. “Kill him!” he wheezes at his comrades, who were up until now patently dumbstruck. “In the name of our lord, kill him!”
The two men trade looks, perhaps to bolster each other’s confidence, and then together they charge with their machetes raised high.
They don’t get far. Earth and red light erupt on the road, bringing them to an alarmed stop. Another such explosion close to their feet makes them jump back with cries of surprise.
Salo looks to his side and sees Tuksaad pointing a silver gauntlet at the guards, his fist clenched and his palm facing downward. A slender barrel has appeared above the wrist by some telescoping mechanism, and the inside of it throbs with a nefarious nimbus of red light.
Gasps and murmurs come from those still watching. One of the guards looks like he wants to charge again, so Tuksaad releases another blast of energy at the man’s feet from his gauntlet, making him dance back. He shies away, gawking at the strangely powerful weapon.
“How about we leave it at that, my friends?” Tuksaad says to them. “Let’s not interrupt business any further. What do you say?”
The three guards exchange wide-eyed looks with each other, then turn around and flee, leaving the Faraswa boy cowering on the ground.
The rush is already underway. Surprisingly quiet but hasty. Vendors near the meat market are packing their wares. Customers have forgotten their purchases on the stalls. An anxious tattoo of pattering feet spreading outward like the shock waves of an earthquake, with Salo and Tuksaad at the epicenter. What was once a bustling marketplace quickly becomes desolate, save for the living ghosts trapped in the cages around them, as well as their slavers, standing stiffly, stubbornly next to their wares.
And the boy, the terrified Faraswa thief, who presses his forehead into the earth when Salo looks at him, seemingly more terrified now than he was when the guards were about to butcher him. “Mercy, my lord! Mercy!”
Salo walks closer and crouches in front of him. “What’s your name, friend?”
“Mhaddisu, my lord,” the boy says without lifting his face.
Salo’s skin crawls unpleasantly to see someone so terrified of him. He grabs the boy by his shoulders and helps him up to his feet. “Come on, Mhaddisu, get up. I won’t have anyone groveling in the mud on my account.” The boy flinches and cowers, but Salo is insistent.
“Mercy, my lord!”
“Relax. I won’t hurt you.” A residual flicker of indignation compels Salo to add, “But why did you steal from me?”
The boy’s eyes dart back and forth, and he stammers, “I . . . I just saw the purse, and . . . I’m just really hungry. I . . . oh, mercy!”
“You reek of kindness and naivety,” says the brown-eyed stranger named Tuksaad—and yes, his eyes are now a light shade of brown as they search the market for further threats. “Do you even know the danger you’ve drawn to yourself by saving this thief? A Faraswa, no less.”
“Stay here, Mhaddisu,” Salo says to the boy. “And you . . .” Salo frowns at Tuksaad as he takes a good look at him. “What are you exactly, Tuksaad?”
He says what and not who because now that he’s paying attention to his shards, he senses an unusual energy surrounding this stranger. He looks like a man, but he feels . . . made to Salo, in the same way a machine or a weapon feels made. His bones pulsate with the signatures of steel, copper, moongold, and several other mysterious metals. And his eyes—
His eyes! They were brown not a moment ago, but Salo sees them acquire a greenish hue that brightens considerably over the next heartbeat.
“Please, call me Tuk,” the young man says, “and what I am is the man who just saved your life.” He looks around again. “But it is unwise for us to linger here. We must go.”
“We? What makes you think I’m going anywhere with you?”
Tuk smiles, and there’s far too much guile in his eyes. “Because you owe me. And because you’re a Yerezi mystic in the flesh. I would be foolish to let you out of my sight now, after being so lucky.”
Salo frowns at the stranger; he’s not about to be taken advantage of again. “Whatever you think you’ll get from me, I assure you, you won’t.”
“You misunderstand,” Tuk says. “You are walking the Bloodway, are you not? You must be. A mystic of your tribe would not be out here otherwise.”
“What of it?”
“I ca
n make sure you reach the Jungle City in one piece.”
“Why?”
“For your blessing, of course. I know of your people’s ancestral gift. I know the strength you could give me if you chose to. I am exceptional as I am, but with your blessing I’d be magnificent. Transcendent, complete.”
Salo flounders, temporarily speechless. Then he shakes his head. “That’s definitely not going to happen. For one, I don’t know who the devil you are. For another, you are not Yerezi. Blessing you would get me into all sorts of trouble back home.”
Tuk doesn’t seem to hear that. “I’d owe you a debt of gratitude so large it would take me a lifetime to repay you.”
“If you want payment for your assistance, I have money.”
“I don’t need or want your money.” Tuk glances at the thief. “Here’s the thing, Yerezi prince—”
“I’m not really a prince, and you can call me Salo.”
“Look here, Salo. You can’t travel up the World’s Artery anymore. Not after this.” Tuk points out the empty streets. “In case you didn’t know, this town belongs to the Dark Sun, and the disciple responsible for it will be coming for you when he learns what you’ve done.”
Salo represses a nervous gulp. “I can protect myself.”
“From a warlord’s disciple and his militiamen?” Tuk smiles like he can see right through that lie. “I’ve heard Yerezi mystics are talented, but you must be newly awoken if you’re on your pilgrimage. Talent alone will not be enough to save you.”
“I doubt I’d be any safer with you around,” Salo quips.
Tuk lifts his gauntleted hand to show it off. “Know anyone else with this, do you?”
Salo eyes the weapon and is forced to admit its power. What he would give to analyze its charms with his talisman. “I suppose not.”
“And do you know another way to Yonte Saire?”
Salo sighs. “Not really.”
“Well then.” Tuk spreads his hands. “That’s why you need me, because I can take you. We’ll even visit a Primeval Spirit along the way if you want. And you don’t have to bless me until we reach your destination. In fact, I insist that you don’t. Not until you’re sure you can trust me.”
Salo stares at him ambivalently.
“Either this or you head back home, my friend,” Tuk says. “You go up the Artery, and you might as well chain yourself to that post over there and wait for the Dark Sun’s disciple to come flay you alive, because that’s what he’ll do when he catches you—if you’re lucky. And I’m not just saying this to scare you.”
“Well, it’s working.” Salo searches the empty streets of the meat market, feeling out of place. How the devil did he end up in this nightmare? He breathes out and makes a decision. “We get to Yonte Saire first.”
Tuk’s eyes turn very blue, and his face lights up with excitement, but he keeps it out of his voice. He extends a hand, and this time Salo takes it. “Your wish is my command.”
“And if you try anything funny, the deal’s off.”
They end the handshake, and Tuk raises his palms. “No funny business. I swear it on my life.”
Salo lets himself stare at the young man. Those eyes of his are terribly disarming, and despite himself, Salo finds that he is drawn to this stranger.
“I . . . guess we have a deal, then. But how are you traveling? Because I’m not walking.”
“I’ve traveled by wheelhouse thus far,” Tuk says, “but I can purchase a mount at the livery yard west of town. I have the money for it. We can go there right now.”
“Uh . . . all right.” A pang of sorrow cuts Salo deep as he takes another look at his surroundings: the Faraswa slaves in their cages, the slavers watching carefully, the thief trembling nearby. “But what about these people? Can I really just walk away?”
“There’s something you could do,” Tuk says, following his gaze, “but it’d depend on how much money you’re willing to part with. You’d have to act quickly, though.”
Salo flicks his tongue over his teeth in thought, weighing his choices. “Better to do something than nothing at all.” He nods at his new friend. “All right, Tuk. Tell me this idea of yours.”
24: Ilapara
Seresa, along the World’s Artery—Umadiland
Her lunch hour is fast approaching when the brewer from the shebeen next door hurries into the general dealer’s in a racket of clinking bangles.
“BaChando, didn’t you hear?”
“Hear what, Mama?” Behind his counter, BaChando’s eyes are already wide with alarm.
“A magic man attacked the town guards just minutes ago!”
“Oh, by the Blood Woman. Please tell me he serves the Dark Sun.”
“No, they say they’ve never seen this one before,” the brewer says, then adds in a panicked whisper, “What if the Cataract is moving to take back the town? I can’t afford to pay tribute again!”
At her post by the door, Ilapara curses under her breath. This is the last thing she needs right now. Another power struggle for the town will force BaChando to shut down his store, which means no work for her, which means no pay. She’s scraping by as it is.
BaChando moans, heaving himself up to his feet. “Thank you for telling me, Mama. I must . . . I must close immediately. Ilira!”
Ilapara sighs. “Coming, boss.”
They close up minutes later, and BaChando retreats upstairs, where he lives with his wife and two young daughters. Outside, Ilapara stares morosely at the handful of copper coins in her palm—her wages for the half day. It’ll be enough for her kudu’s daily livery fees. She’ll have to use her savings for food and rent. She exhales, leaning against the dealer’s mud-brick facade.
The Artery is quiet. Which isn’t strange for the time of day as such—caravans usually come and go at the extremities of daylight—but it’s a little too quiet. The stillness feels eerily deliberate rather than natural. Shops have closed down. Not a single hawker can be heard peddling her wares at the top of her voice.
Ilapara wouldn’t call herself jumpy, but seeing such a lively town frozen to stillness always perturbs some deep-rooted part of her, and it’s at times like these that she’s most tempted to just give up and go back home. Because this shouldn’t be the norm. No one should have to live in such a constant state of fear. She knows this in her bones and in the depths of her soul.
But she also knows the freedom of living her life the way she wants to, and that’s always enough to make her stay.
She starts pacing the length of the dealer’s facade, wondering why the Yerezi princeling hasn’t shown up already. It wouldn’t be wise for him to be traipsing the streets with a warlord making a move on the town.
After another five minutes of waiting, she decides that he’s not coming, so she heads to the river district, taking the shortcut through the meat market.
Most of the market is as dead as she expects, but as she walks round a bend, she comes upon a surprising flurry of activity centered on two wagons lined up on the street, ready to go.
She slows down, resisting the urge to grip her spear with both hands. No need to get defensive, no need to get noticed. Besides, these people don’t look like attacking militiamen—a group of slavers gathered next to a wagon still parked aslant by the wayside. Looks like they’re dividing money among themselves, payday smiles all around. Must be one mother of a payday. Armed mercenaries loading slaves onto the two wagons on the road. One buyer? But why so many slaves? Buyer must be one of the five figures standing next to the wagons. By Ama, is that the princeling?
Ilapara moves briskly, ignoring the mud making her boots squelch. Whatever he’s gotten himself into, she can still extricate him from it. Preferably without violence. Preferably, but it’s an option if it becomes necessary. No way her tribesman is getting into trouble in this town under her watch.
But the closer she gets to the figures by the wagon, the less confident she feels about what’s happening. One of the slavers is smiling at the princeling unc
tuously. By the subtle twist of his lips, the princeling seems repulsed by the man, yet they are nodding at each other. They shake hands, and the slaver walks away, leaving the princeling with the other three strangers.
She swallows her rising apprehension, walks past the wagons, tries not to look inside. The princeling notices her only when she’s close enough to touch him—or strike.
His face brightens. “Ilapara! I’m glad you found me. I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it back to the store.”
She quickly assesses the three strangers around him and decides they’re not immediate threats. Then she slits her eyes at Salo. “What’s happening here?” she demands, and when he tells her, it takes every ounce of self-control just to keep her eyes from bulging in shock and horror.
Because apparently the princeling is the buyer. He’s purchased every slave in the meat market—that’s thirty-two Faraswa in total. And he’s also purchased two of the wagons they came in, along with the mules drawing them.
I am calm, she tells herself. I am not my emotions. Even so, she fails to douse the fire in her words. “Why? Why the devil would you do such a thing?”
“To be honest?” he says. “I’m not sure I know myself, but I have all this money I don’t need and can help these people with it, so.”
She almost sighs in relief, almost, but common sense stifles it in her chest. “Where are you taking them?”
“Oh, I’m not going with them. He is.” Salo points at the olive-skinned man next to him, the one wearing orange robes and a reptilian smile on his face. A few of his teeth are golden, one ear looks like it was partially bitten off, and his beard is a perfect tapering goatee. A mercenary. Probably Dulama. “I’m told he carries a recognized transporter’s license,” Salo says. “Whatever that means. Anyway, I hired him to take these people home. Most of them don’t even know where they are or what’s happening to them. If I freed them here, they’d just get enslaved again. They need help, rehabilitation. I don’t know.”
Ilapara keeps her expression level. “When you say home, you mean home as in the Yerezi Plains.”
