Abengoni

by Charles R. Saunders

  For this night’s council, though, pomp had been set aside. Only the eldest of the Jassi could recall a similar unscheduled gathering of the Degen Jassi, never mind one that included the Imba Jassi – but not the Tokoloshe, who were closeted in a conference of their own. That extraordinary council had occurred nearly a century before, when the Uloans had mounted a massive surprise attack that nearly overwhelmed Khambawe.

  One ship from a remote land hardly constituted a similar invasion. Still, the sudden arrival of the Fidi after a centuries-long absence demanded immediate attention.

  As the latecomers filed into the huge, torch-lit chamber, the tapestries that covered its walls stirred with their passing, lending an illusion of motion to the scenes from Matile history and mythology woven into the fabric of the hangings. The people were depicted as round-faced, large-eyed caricatures, a convention that remained unaltered over the millennia that had passed since its beginning.

  On this night, Dardar Alemeyu eschewed the Lion Throne that stood atop a high dais in the middle of the chamber. Instead, he and Issa joined the assembled Jassi – Degen and Imba alike – at a broad, circular table made from the hard wood of an ebony tree.

  Gebrem and Eshana were among the last to arrive. As he sat down on an intricately carved stool, Gebrem sensed a sharp glance from the Emperor. The Leba looked at Alemeyu, then looked away. If Alemeyu wanted to take him to task for his tardiness, so be it ....

  When the last of the Jassi arrived, Alemeyu spoke without the formalities that usually opened a session of the Degen. And he came directly to the point of the meeting.

  “The past has paid us a visit,” he said. “A forgotten people have returned.”

  He paused, and looked around the table, meeting the eyes of each Jass in turn before speaking again.

  “Why did the Fidi come here?” the Emperor asked. “And what should we do about them?”

  Silence greeted his questions. Gebrem felt Alemeyu’s eyes on him again. He knew the Emperor was waiting to hear from him, not anyone else. Gebrem spoke without looking at Alemeyu.

  “It is obvious, Mesfin, that they have come here for a purpose that is of utmost importance to them,” Gebrem said. “Why else would they have risked their lives by sailing on the Sea of Storms? My counsel is that we should treat them as honored guests while we learn what that purpose is.”

  “But they interrupted your Calling,” the Emperor said. “And they nearly killed your daughter.”

  “Do you suggest they intended those things, Mesfin?” Gebrem asked.

  This time he met Alemeyu’s gaze.

  The Emperor paused before replying.

  “I am suggesting that the timing of their arrival may not have been coincidental. I am suggesting that the white-haired one – the one who held the Ishimbi statue in his hand – possesses ashuma of a power far superior your own; otherwise you would have detected the coming of his ship. I am suggesting a person who wields such power could be dangerous to our Empire.”

  Gebrem’s brows lowered in reaction to the sting of the Emperor’s barb about the weakness of his ashuma. But before he could retort, a new voice cut in.

  “Do we kill all the Fidi now? Or do we kill only the white-haired one, the one who’s got the power?”

  Gebrem and several others winced. The new speaker was an Imba Jass named Hirute, a woman who ruled a collection of farming villages close to the land of the Thabas, the hill-dwelling tribesmen who constantly encroached on Matile territory. Her harai, slung loosely over her breasts, still carried some of the dust of her long journey to the capital for the First Calling ceremony.

  “The Thabas are troublesome, like weeds,” Hirute continued. “If these Fidi, too, are weeds, we should pull them up before they, too, become trouble.”

  Although the Imba Jass’s lack of tact grated on the sensitivities some of the more sophisticated Degen Jassi, her sentiments were understandable. The Uloans were a threat to the capital and other coastal areas; they seldom ventured far inland, and they had never struck deeply enough to harm the frontier Matile. For them, the more immediate threat was raids from the Thaba tribes that came as regularly as the rainy season.

  In the days when the Empire’s power was at its height, the Thabas had been forced into slavery, laboring in Matile fields and mines. Although they had long ago freed themselves from the Matile yoke, their hunger for vengeance for their earlier captivity remained unabated, and their attacks were ceaseless.

  Now, the Thabas and Uloans were slowly closing like the jaws of a trap on the ragged remnants of the Matile Mala Empire. If the Fidi represented yet another source of danger, the days of the Matile people could well be done ....

  The Emperor looked at Gebrem. Although the two had known each other all their lives, the Leba gathered nothing from Alemeyu’s gaze. Had the Emperor already decided the Fidis’ fate? And if so, would Gebrem suffer if his counsel did not coincide with whatever it was Alemeyu already had in mind?

  Gebrem spoke – not to Alemeyu, but to Jass Hirute, who looked as though she wasn’t particularly impressed by either the Leba or the Emperor.

  “I would understand your feelings if there were not outlanders, but Uloans – or Thabas – on that ship,” he said. “In that case, this council would not have been necessary. We would have taken the appropriate action.”

  Hirute nodded. Then she narrowed her eyes and waited for the Leba to continue.

  “The Fidi were never our enemies,” Gebrem said. “History tells us their ships came only to trade. Can any of you think of a single time the Fidi did harm to any Matile?”

  Neither Hirute nor anyone else answered him. If they remembered the Fidi at all, they remembered that relations between the Matile Empire and the distant country from which the Fidi came had been better than those with some neighboring parts of Abengoni. A number of Fidi had even settled in Matile lands, where they were welcomed, although their bloodlines had long since been absorbed into the general population. On rare occasions, a Matile child was born with lighter hair or skin, or strangely colored eyes. Such infants were called “Children of the Sea.” But no one in the chamber could recall the last time they had heard of such a birth in Khambawe or other parts of the Mala.

  Hirute spoke again.

  “We have changed a great deal since those days, Mesfin. They may have changed, too.”

  Jass Eshana broke in.

  “This – power – that brought them here could be put to use against the Uloans and the Thabas. I would say that is a good reason to keep our visitors alive. Perhaps we can learn something useful from them.”

  Although the words came from Eshana’s mouth, the thoughts echoed those of Gebrem, which he had mentioned during the gharri-ride to the Palace. Had the Leba spoken them, however, the Emperor would have likely dismissed them as self-serving, even though they were not.

  Now, all Gebrem had to say was, “I agree.”

  After a long pause, Alemeyu said: “So do I.”

  Eshana and Gebrem avoided exchanging a glance, and waited for the Emperor to render his final decision.

  “The Fidi are your responsibility, Leba,” the Emperor said sternly to Gebrem. “See to it.”

  The Leba nodded acknowledgement of Alemeyu’s decree. And with that, the council ended.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Undercurrents

  1

  Legends claimed that the Tokoloshes’ embassy in Khambawe had been raised in a single day and night, centuries ago when the Matile made their alliance with the dwarven race to prevent the possibility of a conflict that would have proved destructive to both sides. Limned by the bright glow of the Moon Stars, the building’s squat, bulky proportions mimicked those of its inhabitants. Rock monoliths of uneven height surrounded it like a circle of giant, broken teeth.

  The edifice was a windowless rectangle of gray stone, seamless save for a single entrance that was so low a human would have had to bend almost double to pass through it. But in all the long history of the alliance, no
human had ever been invited into the Tokoloshe embassy, which occupied an isolated section of the city. Although it was nominally under the Emperor’s rule, the embassy was treated as though it were Tokoloshe territory. And the Tokoloshe needed no guards to enforce their disconnection from the rest of Khambawe.

  Its immediate surroundings were barren of houses, commerce, or even ordinary street traffic. No one, not even the tsotsi gangs that infested the city’s slums, ventured near the featureless stone block. It was as though the Tokoloshes had taken a small portion of their hidden kingdom and planted it into Matile soil.

  Inside, the main chamber of the embassy was lit by a single, head-sized ball of phosphorescence suspended in pitch darkness. Its pale, albescent illumination picked out the faces of the Tokoloshe envoys who had been present at First Calling, along with many others who had not attended the ceremony. Their broad visages were devoid of expression, and their deep-set eyes were fixed on the ball of light as though it held the secrets of life and death. They were waiting for the ball to change from a simple source of illumination to ... something else.

  And now, that waiting was to be rewarded.

  Slowly, a shape began to form in the midst of the glow. Features coalesced, and a face took shape, as though sketched by the hand of an unseen artist. Finally, the transformation of the glowing ball was complete. Surrounded by a nimbus of luminescence, the head of an aged Tokoloshe floated bodilessly in the darkness of the chamber. No one spoke. But all regarded the head with great reverence.

  Then words issued from the simulacrum, although its lips remained motionless.

  What is your message?

  The words were spoken in a sibilant hiss that was totally unlike the grating growls of the Tokoloshe who replied – Rumundulu, the true head of the embassy. He had remained in the background during First Calling – present, but far from Bulamalayo’s side. It suited the Tokoloshes’ purposes to allow the Matile to believe Bulamalayo was their chief envoy. Much of who they were and what they did remained enigmatic to the Tokoloshes’ hosts, even as their long-time alliance continued.

  “A ship has come – from the Fidi Lands,” Rumundulu said.

  A long moment passed before the simulacrum spoke again.

  I know you would not lie, it said at last. You would never dare to do so. But how could a ship from there have survived the Sea of Storms?

  Rumundulu took no umbrage at the pointed nature of the question. For he was speaking to his ruler, Mungulutu, the King of Stone, First among all the Tokoloshe. Even among the long-lived Tokoloshe, Mungulutu was ancient, his lifetime spanning that of many human generations. And for almost as long as Mungulutu had lived, he had wielded absolute power over all Tokoloshe, wherever they were.

  “The Fidi are led by a sorcerer of great potency,” Rumundulu replied. “I could sense his strength, even though he was weakened and near death.”

  Mungulutu’s simulacrum remained silent, as if he anticipated that Rumundulu would have more to say. And he was right.

  “That is not all,” Rumundulu said.

  Mungulutu waited.

  “On the ship, there were Fidi who were ... like us.”

  The simulacrum’s eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open in amazement. None of the Tokoloshe could recall ever before seeing such an expression on their ruler’s face. It was as though a lion had opened its jaws to speak instead of roar.

  Mungulutu quickly regained his dignity, and the lines of his face returned to the stern glare they had assumed before. When he spoke again, his voice had a sharp edge, like a sword.

  Like us? In what way?

  “In every way, except for the color of their skin,” Rumundulu replied. “This I saw with my own eyes.”

  This time, Mungulutu’s silence stretched over several heartbeats. Rumundulu knew what the Stone King was thinking, for he had been harboring similar thoughts ever since the Fidi ship had come. Although the Tokoloshe had never traded directly with the Fidi as the Matile had, they had known of the people from across the sea during the time before the Storm Wars. And never before had a Fidi ship’s crew or passengers included Dwarvenkind.

  As far as the Tokoloshe knew, there were no others like them in the rest of Abengoni. The Kidogo, the pygmies who dwelt in the vast forests to the south of the Thaba lands, were undersized humans, not dwarves. And during the time when Matile ships plied far seas, the Tokoloshe had heard of no others like them elsewhere in the world.

  That had been alarming, because the Tokoloshe were waning, even as their magic remained strong. With each passing generation, fewer Tokoloshe infants were born. More of their territory above and below the ground was falling into disuse. It was as though their time was passing, like that of the Matile Mala Empire with which they had so long been linked. But that was a possibility they refused to accept. And now ... if there were indeed other dwarven in the world, then the long-lived Tokoloshes’ chances for survival would be significantly enhanced.

  You must make contact with them, Mungulutu said.

  “That will be difficult,” Rumundulu said. “The Matile have placed the ship under close guard, and will allow no one to approach it.”

  He paused, knowing that was not what the Stone King wanted to hear. He knew what he was expected to say next, so he said it.

  “But the task will be done.”

  See that it is, Mungulutu said curtly.

  With that, his simulacrum faded, as though the same artist who created it was now effacing his work. Then the ball of light that had held it winked out of existence, plunging the chamber into pitch darkness. But that darkness lasted only a moment. Rumundulu spoke a single, guttural syllable – and flames erupted from sconces set in the walls, bathing the chamber in a lava-red glow. This light was more natural, although a human would still have considered the chamber to be oppressively gloomy.

  The chamber had been carved to resemble the interior of a cave. Stalactites and stalagmites ended only inches from each other, like interrupted pillars in the world above. The floor was an uneven carpet of stone, and the ceiling hung oppressively low.

  Benches carved directly out of the cavern’s walls were the chamber’s only furnishings. The Tokoloshe who sat on them looked expectantly at Rumundulu. Only Mungulutu held higher authority than the embassy head, and the Tokoloshe always deferred to highest authority available. Now, that was Rumundulu. Rumundulu did not discuss his plans or seek counsel. He spoke tersely, knowing his words would be obeyed.

  “We wait,” he told his people.

  “We plan.”

  “Then, we act.”

  2

  Jass Hirute took a long swallow from her cup of talla, the grain ale nearly all Matile drank copiously, whether they lived in the cities or the countryside. The cup was a piece of stained ceramic that had passed through hundreds of hands before hers. Its condition was in keeping with its surroundings, which were at best seedy; and at worst, squalid.

  Hirute and several other Imba Jassi were drinking in a talla-beit located in one of the less-savory districts of Khambawe. Those who dubbed Khambawe the “Jewel City” had apparently never visited this area. It was not as dangerous as the Maim, which was the lair of most of the city’s predatory tsotsis. But it was still a place in which only the brave or foolish ventured out alone at night.

  Hirute considered herself more than sufficiently brave, at least in comparison with soft-handed city-dwellers. But she was far from foolish ... in the borderlands, the foolish did not survive very long. That was why she had gone to the talla-beit in the company of two of her neighboring Imba Jassi – Jass Tsege and Jass Fetiwi – as well as armed men and women from the retinues of all three Jassi. Together, the rural-dwellers had taken over a large section of the talla-beit, much to the displeasure of several displaced local drinkers.

  Despite their resentment, the locals offered only angry glares at the intruders. The rural-dwellers’ weapons – large, sharp knives that were the next-best thing to swords – were prominently displaye
d on the tables. And their willingness to use those weapons at the slightest provocation was well-known.

  Hirute took another pull of talla, emptying her cup. Then she spoke, her voice barely rising above the din of the talla-beit.

  “I don’t trust them,” she muttered.

  “Don’t trust who?” Jass Tsege asked.

  He was a burly, blunt-speaking man who had been a friend of Jass Hirute’s late husband, who had died fighting one of many incursions from the Thaba tribes.

  “These newcomers,” she replied. “These Fidi.”

  Tsege only grunted noncommittally. It was Jass Fetiwi who asked the obvious question.

  “Why not?”

  Hirute’s brows contracted at the sound of Fetiwi’s voice. He was the opposite of Tsege – a slender, devious-looking man who had an annoying habit of mimicking the aristocratic mannerisms of the Degen Jassi despite his contemporaries’ clearly expressed contempt for his – and the Degen Jassis’ – pretensions.

  Fetiwi’s territory adjoined that of Hirute. Almost since the day Hirute’s husband, Jass Kassa, had died, Fetiwi had been pressing Hirute to become his wife and join her territory to his. Hirute had no interest in such a union, and she had always let her neighbor know that. But Fetiwi refused to be discouraged.

  For all that, though, Fetiwi’s question was a good one.

  “We don’t know why they’re here,” she finally replied. “We don’t know what they want from us.”

  “Well, we won’t know that until the Leba spends some more time with them,” Fetiwi said.

  Hirute gave him a pitying glance.

  “We’ll know what the Leba decides he wants us to know,” she said. “And we’ll only know even that when he wants us to know it.”