Scarlet Odyssey

by C. T. Rwizi

  “Yes.” Salo bites his lips like he knows how crazy that sounds.

  “They’ll never be allowed to cross the borderlands,” she tells him.

  “I’ll give them these.” He opens his right palm to reveal two moongold coins. “I’ve inscribed a message for AmaSikhozi in each of them,” the princeling continues. “If she won’t help them herself, she can have them escorted to Khaya-Siningwe. My aba will not turn them away.”

  He’s probably insane. I am not my emotions. “How much did all this cost, Musalodi?”

  “In total? About twenty mountains.”

  I am not my emotions. I am not my emotions. “Twenty mountains. Do you have any idea how much that is? Do you even know how much you’re holding in your hands right now?”

  “These coins are meaningless to me, Ilapara. I feel nothing giving them away. But it makes all the difference in the world to these poor people. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “There’ll be more Faraswa here tomorrow when the next caravan comes in. What then? Are you going to buy them all too?”

  “I don’t intend to be here tomorrow,” Salo says. “I’m here today, so I can help these people today. All for twenty measly coins.”

  “Measly, he says.” Ilapara shakes her head, at a loss. “You’ve never had to work for a living, have you. Never mind that: What about the fact that you’re supporting the trade? Your money will only encourage these slavers to keep doing what they’re doing.”

  “Maybe, but there’ll always be a buyer, and whether that buyer is me or someone else is of no consequence to these men. What’s better for the victims at the end of the day?”

  Ilapara holds his gaze, trying to think of a way to dissuade him from this madness. But this is such a gutsy thing to do she can’t help but approve a little. By Ama, he makes her miss home so much it’s nauseating.

  She takes another look at the men around him. A short light-skinned man stares back at her with curious blue eyes and a slight smile, the kind that’s probably a permanent facial feature, as if he finds the fabric of existence amusing. He’s a little too handsome to be trustworthy. She decides she doesn’t like him. “And who’s this? Another slaver, I presume?”

  Salo shakes his head. “Not at all. This is Tuksaad; he’s coming with me to Yonte Saire.”

  “Uh-huh.” At this point she’s just going along with whatever he says. “And you?” She turns her scrutiny on the skinny, ragged boy next to Salo, whose ruby eyes quickly fall to the ground when they meet hers. An old woolen hat is drawn over his head, covering what must be tensor appendages. She tilts her head and addresses him in Izumadi. “Wait a second—haven’t I seen you around before?”

  “He’s a friend,” Salo answers for him. “He’ll be driving one of the wagons to the Plains.”

  All right. Time to leave this craziness. “Musalodi—Salo, look. It’s possible a hostile warlord is making a move on the town, so there might not be a caravan leaving tonight. You should find lodging as soon as possible and stay indoors until the storm passes. Even now you’re putting yourself at risk by being here.”

  “She doesn’t know,” remarks the pale-skinned one, and Ilapara almost does a double take because he’s just spoken in Sirezi, and his eyes are a bright shade of green, when they were blue not a moment ago.

  She almost shows alarm, but Ilapara is good at controlling herself. “Know what?” she says, and Salo stares blankly at her with those reflective lenses of his like he’s trying to figure out how much to tell her.

  “Let’s see these wagons off, and I’ll explain everything,” he says at length. “Can you wait that long?”

  The wise thing to do would be to leave, but she can’t bring herself to do it. If anything happened to him afterward, she’d never forgive herself. “All right,” she says with a sigh of resignation. “I’ll wait.”

  It’ll be a slow trek southeast for the wagons along the narrow, bumpy road to Khaya-Sikhozi. Ilapara hasn’t made the trip in three years, but she remembers erratic skies and endless stretches of flat savanna bristling with wildlife.

  She watches with mild envy as Salo sees off the Faraswa boy and the Dulama mercenary, handing each of them a moongold coin. The boy seems to struggle with the reins at first, but he gets it right fairly quickly. As he rolls away, following the mercenary’s wagon, Ilapara glimpses a familiar crimson-eyed face inside the cage behind him. Those eyes are still dead to the world, but seeing them now floods her with a fragile hope that maybe the world isn’t as bleak as she thought it was. Maybe.

  Once the wagons have set off, she leads both Salo and Tuksaad to a relatively sheltered blind alley not too far away and folds her arms.

  “Well?” she says to the two young men. “What don’t I know?”

  A heap of rubbish is festering in one corner. Salo stares at it for a moment before letting out a long sigh; then he extends his free arm and lights it up with incandescent reddish markings that weren’t there before. The thickest one is a single ring encircling his forearm. “I’m a mystic, Ilapara. I didn’t want to, but I had to reveal myself a short while ago. I had no choice. It’s why this place is so empty.”

  She eyes the shards expressionlessly—shards, because that’s exactly what these markings are, and they’re the last thing anyone wants to see in this town or in any other stopover town in Umadiland.

  The revelation is like a needle knitting together every odd detail she’s noticed about him, and suddenly he makes a whole lot more sense—the staff, the lack of red steel, the coins he said contained messages, the unsettling aura about him. She has questions, all right—many questions—but at least now she knows where to place him.

  And that means she knows how to read him. “Siningwe, right? Your clan hasn’t produced a mystic in years, has it?”

  He stiffens, dims his shards, and drops his hand. He gives a noncommittal shrug.

  Interesting. “Were they really so desperate that they’d ask a man to awaken?”

  “You tell me,” he says a bit curtly. “An Umadi witch attacked my kraal with tikoloshe and sacrificed dozens of my clanspeople to her lord, the same lord who apparently owns this wretched excuse for a town. Is that desperate enough for you?”

  Tuk’s expression falls, and his eyes darken to brown, but he says nothing. Sounds impossible to Ilapara’s ears, yet she can’t doubt the pain in Salo’s words. He watched his people die, and that is what has driven him here.

  A surge of anger grips her on his behalf, surprising in its intensity because she thought she’d abandoned her people. She wants to ask, to learn more about what happened, but sensing this isn’t something he wants to talk about, she lets it go. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  The defensiveness seems to bleed out of his shoulders. “It’s all right. You couldn’t have.” He watches her quietly for a while. “You’re taking this surprisingly well, all things considered.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “What did you expect?”

  “I . . . nothing. Actually, your reaction is encouraging.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. See”—he fiddles with his spectacles rather unnecessarily—“I was . . . hoping to convince you to come with me. Your cousin told me why you left the Plains, and I thought . . . well . . .” He leaves his sentence hanging.

  “I see. I’m a girl who wants to be a ranger, and you’re a boy who wants to be a clan mystic, so let’s be friends.”

  Salo gives her a lopsided smile. “That’s not it at all, though I can’t blame you for seeing things that way.”

  “How else should I see them, then?”

  “For starters, it’d be nice to have someone from home with me. It’d be even nicer if said someone could wield something like that.” He juts a finger at her spear. “I’ve been told the Yontai is quite dangerous these days.”

  Ilapara smiles without humor. “And what tells you I’m any good at wielding it? Maybe I’m just carrying it around for the look of it.”

  “Hardly. I heard you were
a menace to the Sikhozi boys, that they stopped training with you because you embarrassed them too much.”

  “Birosei exaggerated my abilities,” she lies. “I was just as good as any of them, not any worse, not any better. That’s what bothered them the most.”

  “Well, it doesn’t bother me,” Salo says, and he means well, but a flash of annoyance heats up her chest.

  “It shouldn’t. The Yerezi idea that women should be confined to books and magic is a thousand shades of silly. I could have done the bull pen in my sleep.”

  Salo beams like she has proven his point. “I completely agree, which is why you’d be perfect for this. So what do you say?”

  Next to them, Tuksaad clears his throat. Those strange changeable eyes of his are murky now. “Forgive my intrusion, but we can’t stay here,” he says. “We really need to leave.”

  How odd to see someone so obviously foreign speak Sirezi so fluently. It isn’t a Great Tribe language like KiYonte, Dulamiya, or Izumadi, so there’s not much incentive for foreigners to learn it.

  “You realize that going up the World’s Artery is out of the question now,” she says to both of them. “If you’re the one who emptied these streets, one of the Dark Sun’s disciples will come after you. In fact, he’s probably on his way here as we speak. I’d say your best chance of staying alive is to follow those wagons back to the Plains.”

  “Not an option,” Salo says. “The queen has sent me on a pilgrimage to the Red Temple. I intend to see it through.”

  “You’re not listening. Continuing with this journey of yours will only get you killed.”

  “Tuk says he can take me there safely. He says he knows another way. I believe him.”

  “There is no other way. Not unless you plan on risking the open wilds on your own.” Upon Salo’s wooden expression, Ilapara feels the blood leach away from her face. “That’s your plan? By Ama, do you know how stupid that is? Are you trying to get eaten by kerits and dingoneks? Because that’s exactly what will happen.”

  “I’m no stranger to the open wilds, Ilapara,” Salo says. Then he adds with a knowing smile, “Besides, I don’t think I have to worry too much about predators.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” Tuksaad says.

  Salo looks at Ilapara with a forlorn expression, and despite herself, it gets to her.

  “By Ama.” She rolls her eyes up to the sky and shakes her head. “Why has this boy come to try my patience so?” She sighs with exasperation. “We need to get you out of town.”

  Salo obviously tries not to look too hopeful when he says, “So you’re coming?”

  “Only until I know you’re safe,” she warns him. “Then I’ll decide what to do. Come on. My kudu is at the livery across the road.”

  “How fortuitous,” Tuksaad says as he falls into step behind her. “We were actually headed the same way. Do you think I could get a good mount for a couple of silver rocks?”

  She doesn’t trust him at all, but it’s hard to keep frowning at him when he smiles like that. “With the town spooked, you’ll need a heck of a lot more than a couple of rocks to get them to do business with you.”

  “I’m . . . on a tight budget,” he admits with a wince.

  Next to her Salo fishes out yet another pair of moongold coins from his purse. “Then it’s a good thing I have these left.”

  While Ilapara tries not to clench her jaw too hard, the joy on Tuksaad’s face couldn’t be easier to read if he spelled it out on his forehead. “You don’t mind? I’d pay you back, of course.”

  “No worries,” Salo says with a shrug, then quirks an eyebrow at Ilapara. “Will this be enough, though?”

  That’s more than double a peasant’s yearly wage in the palm of his hand, and he doesn’t even know it. Ilapara has to fight off a groan. “We’ll see what we can do.”

  The livery yard sits on a wide crescent street branching west off the Artery, with a perimeter walled in by wooden paling.

  As one of the most profitable businesses in town, it is Seresa’s best equipped, with facilities designed to cater to every manner of riding beast, from docile mules to predatory cats. The charms of hypnotic Blood craft built into the stables lull the animals into calm and manageable states, each fed a diet appropriate to its species.

  Such attention to detail is why Ilapara hasn’t minded paying the exorbitant daily fees to keep her red kudu housed there. She remembers being apprehensive about his willful temperament when she first stole him in Kageru, but now she doesn’t think she could buy a better mount even if she had the money. He is quite simply perfect for her.

  She named him Ingacha, the lone warrior, which seemed appropriate after their narrow escape from the retribution of a warlord. And here I am, flirting with the same kind of danger by associating with a marked target.

  Salo gazes at the buck with open wonder as the liveryman drags him out the wooden gates by his reins. He adjusts his spectacles and leans forward as if to take a closer look. “That’s a red kudu, isn’t it? I’ve heard they can take on a whole pack of hyenas by themselves.”

  “And I’ve heard,” Tuk adds, “that they can’t be completely tamed, not even by sorcery.” She’s learning that his eyes gain a green cast whenever he’s amused by something. “They say only a certain kind of person can handle one. A kindred spirit, so to speak.”

  Sounds to Ilapara like he’s saying something about her in an underhanded way, but before she can verbalize her pique, Kudi the liveryman arrives with Ingacha.

  “You owe me big, Ilira,” he says, flinging the reins at her like they itch. “I could get in trouble for this. You know I’m supposed to lock everything down when a hostile magic man comes to town.”

  “I know, Kudi, and I’ll make it worth your while.” She strokes Ingacha’s glossy neck to calm him down. The buck grunts indignantly and flicks his massive ears; she suspects he doesn’t care for the beast-taming magic they use here. “My friend needs a mount,” she tells Kudi. “What do you have?”

  Kudi shakes his narrow head. “Not today. I’m risking a lot as it is.”

  “Would a mountain change your mind?”

  “Ha! For a mountain I’d hunt you a grootslang and saddle it myself.”

  With a look she tells Salo that it’s up to him what happens next. He doesn’t waste time showing Kudi one of his last moongold coins. “We don’t need a grootslang, Red-kin. Just the healthiest, fastest mount you have.”

  Kudi is wise, and the wise of Seresa never forget why they are here. He keeps his face neutral as he accepts the coin and holds it to the suns; moongold gains a unique iridescent sheen in sunlight, like it has cold flames trapped inside. “Equine or bovine?” he says when the sheen appears on the coin. For a man holding more than a year’s wages in his hand, he contains his excitement rather well.

  “Equine, preferably,” Tuksaad says.

  “I have just the thing,” Kudi says, pocketing the coin with a huge grin. “Come with me, and I’ll show you.”

  Tuksaad follows him, and they disappear behind the gates.

  Salo proceeds to question Ilapara about her time in Seresa, why she chose the town, how much she earns at the general dealer’s. She tries to answer him politely—his curiosity is innocent, after all—but she can’t take her mind off the elapsing minutes. Salo should be out of Seresa by now.

  “A good name, Ingacha,” he says, inspecting the buck’s straps and fittings with the easy manner of someone who grew up tending livestock. “He does look a bit like a warrior, doesn’t he? Fierce, brave. All he needs is the touch of a mystic, and he’ll be as tough as any moon-blessed quagga out there.”

  Ilapara gives a snort. “There’s no chance of that happening.”

  “No?” Salo peers at her over the kudu. “I beg to differ. I think there’s a good chance that it might. If you want it to, that is.”

  Ilapara looks the boy squarely in the face. “What are you saying, Musalodi?”

  “I think you know,” he says, and she keep
s frowning at him, but then she sees her own uncertainty reflected in those lenses of his, so she turns her face away to glower down the deserted street.

  “Come with me,” he says. “Come with me, and I’ll bless you with my power. You and your buck. You can be the Ajaha we both know you are.”

  “You know nothing about me.”

  “Fair enough, but I know this town. I’ve seen what it’s about, and I just can’t believe you like being here. This is a horrible place, Ilapara. And look at how much you’re paid: a pittance.”

  This time she manages to hold the glare. “This is the real world, not some sheltered paradise where everything is sanitary and wrapped in neat little roles for boys and girls to play. Out here I can hold my spear without anyone frowning at me. Men cast spells every day, and no one loses their minds over it. You only need to spend a day out of the Plains to see just how stupid and senseless our traditions are.”

  The look on his face is hurt at first, but then it hardens. “Maybe our people aren’t perfect, but I’d rather live among them than out here, where human beings get sold in markets like livestock.”

  “Well, I’d rather be free than live in a pretty prison all my life.”

  “Is that how you felt? Imprisoned?”

  “I’d have expected you of all people to understand,” she says with heat in her voice. “I don’t know how you’re a mystic, but I seriously doubt your clanspeople welcomed your study of magic.”

  He is quiet for a time. “Maybe they didn’t,” he finally says, “but at least I didn’t abandon them. I stayed and tried to make a difference.”

  “Yeah? And how’s that working for you?”

  He turns his face away. This time he stays silent.

  Above them a flock of noisy carrion birds spirals with the updraft. Salo seems thoughtful as he stares up at it. Then he says, “I could pay you. It could be a job. You watch my back for the duration of my pilgrimage, and I’ll pay you what you’re actually worth, not these peanuts you get here. After that? You can come back here if that’s what you want.”

  She’s tempted. She really is, but he’s so trustful and presumptuous it vexes her. How could he just place his life in the hands of strangers? He doesn’t even know her—even worse, he doesn’t know Tuksaad, and he’s getting ready to run off with him to Ama knows where.