“I asked you a question, Gebrem,” the Emperor said, a dangerous, sword-like sharpness edging into his tone.
“Actually, you asked three,” Jass Gebrem retorted.
He considered his next words carefully, as he always did when he knew his cousin was angry. Alemeyu’s frown cut deeper lines into his face as he waited for Gebrem’s reply.
“A powerful type of ashuma is at work here,” the Leba said at last. “I do not recognize or understand it. But it is not Uloan, as we can plainly see even without the aid of ashuma.”
“Powerful?” the Emperor said skeptically.
“Extremely. It ... obscured my senses while I conducted First Calling. Had my own ashuma not been distracted ...”
“Excuses explain nothing,” Dardar Alemeyu snapped. “What is this ship? Who is on it, if it does not belong to the Uloans?”
“I believe it is a ship of the Fidi – the people of the Lands Beyond the Storm,” Jass Gebrem said slowly, ignoring the exclamations of disbelief that arose from the Degen Jassi within earshot. He held up a hand to forestall the skepticism the listeners expressed.
“We have both seen images of ships like this drawn in old books and inscribed in stone, and woven into the tapestries that hang the Palace,” Jass Gebrem reminded the Emperor. “And we have heard the stories told to us over the generations. It is true that there are some differences in this ship from the ones in our books and tapestries. But then one would expect that, considering all the years that have passed since the time of the Storm Wars.”
“If it is from the Fidi, why is it here now?” Dardar Alemeyu demanded. “And how could it have survived the storms?”
Jass Gebrem did not reply immediately, because he could not even begin to understand how any ship could have remained intact amid the vast maelstrom that raged constantly off the northern coast of Abengoni – perpetual storms that were the legacy of ancient animosities, tempests that had long isolated Abengoni from the rest of the world.
Unless it was ashuma, he thought uneasily.
Then Issa broke in on the conversation.
“What of Tiyana? She was in the path of the ship.”
The sudden thought of his daughter’s body crushed between ship and stone overrode the Leba’s initial fury at what he had at first thought to be her unforgivable bungling of the Calling. He turned to the Emperor.
“We will learn soon enough who it is that wields the ashuma on the ship, and who it is that sails on it,” he said. “But now, I must see to my daughter.”
Before Dardar Alemeyu could respond to the Leba’s less-than-respectful tone, a stir rustled through the crowd. Gebrem turned and saw Tiyana climbing on to the dock not far from the wrecked ship.
For the briefest of moments, it appeared that Nama-kwah herself had risen from the waters, to walk again among the Matile, the people who were the favored of the Jagasti. Then the moment passed, and it was clear that it was not the goddess, but her Vessel, naked save for the dripping Mask and silver strands of her costume, who approached Jass Gebrem, then knelt contritely before him.
The Leba reached down and gently removed the Mask from Tiyana’s face. Her features bore a remarkable resemblance to those of the Goddess, but on a mortal level rather than the plane of divine flawlessness. And the look of entreaty that infused her dark eyes as she gazed up at her father could be nothing other than totally, vulnerably human.
She knew she was not to blame for the ruined Calling. But she also knew an Amiya could not make excuses. Her father had told her that time and again since she became old enough to understand the words. She bowed her head and awaited his judgment.
Gently, the Leba laid his fingers under Tiyana’s chin and lifted her face until her eyes looked into his.
“You were not the reason the Dance on the Waves was defiled, my daughter,” Jass Gebrem said softly. “It was that.”
He gestured toward the ship that leaned against the dock like a beached leviathan.
Tiyana nodded gratefully. As she rose to her feet, Jass Gebrem turned once again to the Emperor.
“The storm has sent us this ship, Mesfin. Something must now be done. The decision is yours,” he said. “What is your will?”
The Emperor gave the Leba a hard glare, similar to the ones that had often passed between them when they were boys: Alemeyu the elder by a few years, each well aware of what the other’s position would be once they became men. Gebrem had smoothly passed the responsibility back to him. The Leba’s intonation of the word “Mesfin,” which was an honorific meaning “Majesty,” grated on Alemeyu’s nerves; he knew Gebrem considered him an unworthy occupant for the Lion Throne. Gebrem had, however, spoken the truth, even though Alemeyu was loath to acknowledge it. The Emperor had to make a decision, and make it quickly.
Then a voice that sounded like boulders grinding together interrupted Alemeyu’s dark thoughts.
“May I speak, Mesfin?”
Alemeyu looked down. The speaker was Bulamalayo, the ranking member of the Tokoloshe delegation. At any other time, his request would have been a serious breach of Court protocol: at First Calling, the Tokoloshes’ role was to quietly observe and be impressed by the glorious association between the Matile and the Jagasti, regardless of whether that connection remained intact now.
But this was not any other time.
Far from it ...
“You may speak, Bulamalayo,” Alemeyu said.
“Our magic did not detect this strange ship, either,” Bulamalayo said. “But then, we are too close to the sea.”
Gebrem nodded his understanding. All Tokoloshe were born with magic, but its source lay deep within the earth. The farther they strayed from that source, the weaker their sorcery became. And for them, the water of the sea was as inimical as air was to a fish.
“Nonetheless, the ship’s arrival could affect the interests of Tokoloshe as well as the Matile,” the emissary continued. “If you board it, we wish to join you.”
Dardar Alemeyu considered for a moment. Like many Matile, he considered the Tokoloshe a furtive, secretive people, not always to be trusted. Still, their continued alliance with the Matile was vital, given the menaces that beset the former empire from all sides.
“Agreed,” he said to Bulamalayo, who inclined his massive head in acknowledgement.
Turning to Gebrem, Alemeyu said: “Let us see, Leba, what your Calling has summoned.”
Gebrem held his peace. Inside, he seethed. Alemeyu had adroitly passed the responsibility back to him for whatever might occur next.
2
At Dardar Alemeyu’s command, Jass Eshana organized the boarding of the ship. A ramp was brought from a nearby Matile ship and positioned against the damaged hull. One company of soldiers acted as a human barrier to keep a growing crowd at bay; another formed a cordon around the Emperor, the Degen Jassi and the Tokoloshe. The rest joined their commander’s boarding party. Fortunately, the rumor that the ship was Uloan had been dispelled; the panic was gone and the crowd was mostly curiosity-seekers who pushed forward to get a better glimpse of the intruder. The word “Fidi” rustled through the crowd like a leaf borne on a breeze.
Eshana looked to the Emperor, who responded with a slight nod. Then, the Dejezmek ordered his troops to ascend the ramp. A moment before reaching its upper end, Eshana stopped short, forcing the others behind him to do the same.
Is this an Uloan trick? he asked himself, even though he doubted that the islanders were capable of such subtlety. Still, he wondered.
Could the Islanders have copied the design of the ships from the Lands Beyond the Storm to serve as a distraction? Could they even now be lying in wait to ambush him and his men, then swarm into the city?
That was unlikely ... yet still possible. With the Uloans, anything treacherous was possible.
“Draw weapons,” Eshana ordered. With a sinister, snicking sound, fifty long, curved blades slid as one from their leather sheaths. Then, one by one, Eshana and his troops dropped down to the deck of the
ship and out of sight of those who waited on the dock.
Several moments passed before the Dejezmek reappeared. An uncertain expression crossed his face before he spoke.
“You may come aboard, Emperor,” he said. “It is ... safe.”
He returned to the deck without saying more, as though any further words were trapped in his throat, unable to emerge.
The Emperor exchanged puzzled glances with Issa and Jass Gebrem. Then the Degen Jassi, along with a still-damp Tiyana and the Tokoloshe emissaries, made their way up the ramp and joined the soldiers on the deck. And their eyes widened as they stared at a scene that combined horror and history in equal measures.
It took only a single glance to confirm that the people who lay scattered across the deck were not Uloans. The Uloans were similar in appearance to the Matile; indeed, the ancestors of the islanders had migrated from Matile Mala ages ago, and there had been much contact between the two peoples before the Storm Wars split them apart forever. And even after centuries of estrangement, they remained the same race, if not the same people.
The occupants of the ship, however, were pale in color, the skins of some of them almost white as salt, while others’ had been darkened by the sun or reddened by the wind. Their hair grew in many different colors. Some had black hair, like that of the Matile, Uloans, and all the other races of Abengoni. But the locks of others were otter-brown or fox-red or a tawny yellow, like the color of a lion’s hide, or blades of grass during the dry season.
As well, many had sharp features, which to Matile eyes looked as though they had been cut too thin. Their noses were like beaks; their brows protruding; their lips thin lines. Yet for all those surface differences, most of the people on the deck were clearly human. There were others, however, who just as clearly were not ....
These were short, wide-set individuals with thick, chest-length beards and hairy hands. At first, as well as second glance, they looked like paler versions of the Tokoloshe. At the sight of them, Bulamalayo and the other emissaries spoke excitedly among themselves in their own rumbling language; in the distant past, ships that came from the Fidi lands had never included people who appeared so similar to them.
The wet, bedraggled clothing most of the strangers wore was not dissimilar to that of the Matile – tunics and trousers, but no chammas. Some, however, were swathed in robes of varying shades of blue that were somewhat like the Matile over-garment. Most the clothing was worse for wear, with abundant patches and mends.
Those among the soldiers and Degen Jassi who had read antique texts and perused dusty pictures remembered that the Fidis’ homeland was so distant the seasons changed during their voyages to Matile Mala. Before the Storm Wars had ripped Uloa and Matile asunder and spawned the typhoons that ravaged the northern seas, a long-distance trade had been established with the Fidi. The Matile had coined their name for the others from that of the foreigners’ main nation, Fiadol, whose seafarers knew no fear.
It was the Fidi who had initiated the contact, exploring seas far beyond any they or anyone else had known before. Once trade relations were established, ships from Matile and Uloa sailed northward and brought back tales of huge cities and strange people, unicorns and dragons, trees with leaves that changed color every year, and a cold season that turned raindrops into bits of white powder that covered the ground like a pale, chilly blanket.
The Fidi ships brought cargoes of linen and wool and wine, for neither flax nor grapes grew in Matile Mala, and sheep were unknown. In return, the Matile sent the jewels for which the city was renowned, along with, gold, silver, elephant tusks and kef, a red fruit whose twin seeds could be brewed into a strong, stimulating drink.
What the Fidi prized above all else, however, were the craft works produced by the Matile and Uloans alike: necklaces, bracelets and hair ornaments, as well as sculptures in ivory, wood and precious stone, all highly valued by collectors throughout the Fidi lands. Matile works adorned the homes of kings and merchants who paid prices that made the sailors’ voyages more than worthwhile.
Some Fidi had remained in Matile, intermarrying with the local population. And some Matile had sojourned in the Fidi lands as well, some eventually returning, others staying and making new lives in a strange land. For several generations, the two lands had enjoyed a profitable, albeit long-distance, association.
Then the catastrophic Storm Wars severed those bonds, and memories of the Fidi lands, like the splendor of the Matile Mala Empire, subsided into the shadows of the past. As the centuries passed, no one in what was left of the Empire expected to see ships from Fiadol again. The land from which they came was lost on the other side of the storm, and so were the Fidi themselves ... until now.
The Fidi lay scattered like straws on the deck of their ship, appearing more dead than alive. Dark bruises and blood spots mottled pale skin; the limbs of some were bent at unnatural angles; clothing hung in tatters from gaunt frames. Those who were breathing seemed to be clinging to consciousness by only the slenderest of threads. They looked as though they had endured an ordeal no one among the Matile could begin to imagine.
The ship had fared little better than those aboard it. Its sails and rigging were torn, and many planks on the deck were broken. A crack ran through one of the masts; it looked as though it could topple at any moment. As the shallow waves of the harbor pushed the ship’s broken hull against the dock, wood rubbed against stone with a sound like a low moan of pain. Even to Eshana’s unpracticed eye, the vessel looked as though only a miracle had saved it from sinking long before it reached Khambawe’s harbor.
Jass Eshana saw no danger on this derelict ship; only tragedy.
“Sheath swords,” the Dejezmek commanded.
The soldiers immediately obeyed.
“Are they all dead?” the Emperor asked as the soldiers returned their weapons to scabbards tipped with silver.
Eshana knelt and touched the throat of the Fidi lying closest to him, a young, yellow-haired woman wearing loose breeches, an open shirt and a short, straight sword at her side. A faint pulsation fluttered against his fingers.
“This one isn’t,” he said.
The Emperor’s face remained expressionless. No one could tell whether Alemeyu considered that to be good or bad news. Eshana looked at the Emperor for further instructions.
“Give them all the help they need,” Alemeyu said.
“See to it,” Eshana told his troops.
Then the commander noticed a hatchway that led below the deck, and pointed toward it.
“And see if there are any more down there,” he added.
The soldiers hurried to carry out the Dejezmek’s orders. Their weapons were not necessary now, but the raw healing skills some of them had acquired on the battlefield could be of some use to these strangers.
Then Bulamalayo entered the proceedings.
“We wish to assist the ones who are – like us,” he said.
The Tokoloshe emissary was telling, not asking. Although the Emperor noted the breach of protocol, he only nodded. Precedent and custom meant little now. He had a feeling that the coming of the Fidi was a portent of a change to come. And he wasn’t certain he was ready for change of any kind.
3
In the meantime, Tiyana and Jass Gebrem had turned their attention to a lone figure slumped against the ship’s mainmast. It was a man swathed in a deep-blue mantle. His head was inclined forward, hiding his features. His knees were drawn up to his chest; it appeared that he could topple onto his side at any moment.
Then the Fidi straightened, rose to his feet, swayed for a moment, then stood fully erect.
An ambience of power emanated from the man, and both Gebrem and Tiyana recognized it as the source of the magic that had disrupted their ashuma during First Calling. They drew back in alarm, marshalling their ashuma for protection if necessary. Then they moved forward again.
No one else had noticed that the blue-clad Fidi was standing: another indication of the power that was beckoning – or
compelling – Gebrem and his daughter to come closer. When they did, they saw a man well beyond his middle years, with a mane of white hair that began past his forehead and ended below his shoulders. Yet it was fatigue more than age that had etched the lines that scored a narrow face that was clean-shaven, save for a tuft of white beard that pointed downward from his chin.
His eyes were his most prominent feature – eyes the color of the gray clouds that brought the Long Rains to Abengoni. Those eyes stared straight into Gebrem’s, as though the Fidi were reading the Leba’s thoughts ....
Tiyana touched her father’s arm and gave him a questioning glance. Then her grip tightened, for the Fidi was reaching beneath the folds of his robe. Before Gebrem or Tiyana could react, the Fidi’s hand re-emerged. In it, he held a small, dark sculpture – a replica of the Ishimbi statues that lined the dock. Tiyana and Gebrem exchanged a look of astonishment.
The Fidi essayed a small smile. And he opened his mouth, as though about to speak. Then he swayed, as if the cost of his effort to rise had caught up with him. His mouth closed, and a moment later so did his eyes. And he slowly slid forward, his legs no longer capable of holding him upright.
Without thinking, Tiyana reached out and caught the Fidi. Beneath his robe, the man was sturdier than he appeared. But Tiyana was strong enough to manage his weight. Holding him close enough to feel his faltering heartbeat, she gently lowered him to the deck.
Now the Emperor and the Degen Jassi approached the mainmast. Before they reached Gebrem and Tiyana, one of Eshana’s soldiers emerged from the hatchway. A grim expression marked his face as he reported to Eshana.
“Are there any Fidi down there?” Eshana asked.
“Yes,” the soldier replied.
“Are any alive?”
“Some.”
As the Degen Jassi murmured to each other, the Emperor appeared lost in thought – or dreams of long-dead days of glory, when Fidi ships came regularly to Khambawe’s docks. Only Issa dared to interrupt his reverie.
Abengoni Page 3
