Abengoni

by Charles R. Saunders

  Kalisha made a swift sign with her own hands. The guard relaxed, shifted his weapon aside, and motioned her to enter the building. He knew Kalisha well. But if she had not given the proper sign, he would have killed her where she stood. So would the other guards hidden on the roof and in the shadows. Rivalries among the various sets was as unrelenting as any among the tribes and nations of Abengoni, and to be unprepared for trouble in the Maim was to be prepared for death.

  The interior of the aderash belied its ruined exterior. Light from dozens of torches flickered on finely woven tapestries, intricately carved furniture, multi-patterned carpets. Treasures looted from the rest of Khambawe lay scattered in careless heaps in various locations on the floor.

  Scores of tsotsis filled the room. Many danced to the sensuous beat of a trio of male drummers accompanied by a woman shaking a beaded rattle. Others sat and stared with glazed eyes as they chewed leaves of khat or quaffed potent talla ale. Children – some barely old enough to walk – scurried underfoot. There were no older people; life was short in the tsotsi domain, and those who survived beyond their twenties usually departed from the Maim, preferring to disguise their origins and live the rest of their lives in safer places.

  The dancers called greetings to Kalisha as she worked her way toward a huge pile of loot in the middle of the room.

  “Amiya-girl,” they said, laughing, referring to her position and her place of employment.

  Kalisha only nodded and kept going until she reached her destination.

  At the top of the jumble of jewelry and cloth sat Jass Mofo, leader of the Ashaki tsotsis, one of the most powerful sets in the Maim. Like most tsotsis, he was lean and sinewy. Braids decorated with beads of silver and gold hung from his half-shaven head. A thin mustache and goatee framed his full-lipped mouth, and he gazed at Kalisha with hawk-like eyes. His clothes were those of a Jass, and he wore them with far greater panache than many of Emperor Alemeyu’s courtiers. A sword rested at his side, within easy reach.

  Mofo was not alone in his perch. At his other side, on a slightly lower level of the pile, sat a young woman not many years older than Kalisha. Her skin was a deep, lustrous umber, and her face combined innocence and lasciviousness in equal measure. Her hair was a mass of beaded braids that clicked together as she moved her head in rhythm with the drumbeats.

  The white-and-gold-striped chamma she wore was pulled down to her waist, leaving her upper body bare, save for a jewelled necklace. Mofo’s hand cupped one of her small, round breasts, his fingers fondling the nipple. As the woman chewed a leaf of khat, her eyes looked through, not at, Kalisha.

  This was Kimbi, Jass Mofo’s consort of the moment. Like her predecessors, her tenure would last until he tired of her or got her pregnant, whichever came first. In either case, she would no longer be his responsibility.

  “What you done got for me now, Amiya-girl?” Mofo asked Kalisha.

  In response, Kalisha dug into the cloth at her waist and pulled out a tiny leather pouch. She upended it, and a small link of silver dropped into the palm of her hand. She held the shining bit of metal up to Mofo’s gaze.

  “This from the costume Tiyana be wearin’ for First Calling,” she said in the rough dialect of the Maim, a speech pattern the youth gangs had developed during their bitter isolation.

  “I take it out and weave the chain back like it been,” she continued. “They never be knowin’ what I done.”

  She tossed the link up to Mofo, who lifted his hand from Kimbi’s breast and caught the piece of silver in an easy, deft motion. He gave it a quick appraisal. Then he laughed.

  “You just the best, Amiya-girl,” he said. “You my luck.”

  His laugh broke through Kimbi’s khat-induced torpor. She stared hard at Kalisha for a moment, then dismissed her as too young to be of concern. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against Mofo’s knee. Then she took his hand and placed it back on her breast. Mofo was not distracted; his attention remained on Kalisha.

  “I can be give you, hmm, twenty hands of khat for this,” Mofo said to Kalisha. “Heard?”

  Kalisha nodded. He was her Jass; if he had offered her only one hand of khat, she would have taken it. Among the tsotsis, twenty hands of the leaf was worth a fortune.

  “Want some now?” he asked, teeth flashing in a grin.

  “No,” Kalisha replied, even though she would have liked nothing better than to chew the plant’s leaves and sway to the drums along with the others. But she had to get back to the Beit Amiya before dawn, and to attempt do so with her mind numbed by khat would be to invite disaster.

  She knew Mofo had just given her a test. His slight nod indicated that she had passed it to his satisfaction.

  “We put it in your stash, for when you want it,” he said. “You go on back now, Amiya-girl. And keep you eye on the strange ones who come on the boat. Heard?”

  Kalisha did not wonder how Mofo knew about the arrival of the Fidi. Sooner or later, the tsotsis learned everything of importance that happened in Khambawe. Nor did she question his interest in them, for he was her Jass and his words meant more to her than the Leba’s or the Emperor’s.

  “Heard,” she acknowledged.

  She nodded to Mofo, then turned to depart from the aderash. The other tsotsis said farewell to her as she made her way past the guard. But her mind was on Kimbi, not the others. She was determined that one day, when she was old enough, she would take Kimbi’s place at Jass Mofo’s side – if she and he both managed somehow to stay alive until then.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Awakenings

  1

  The morning after the meeting of the Degen and Imba Jassi, Gebrem and Tiyana returned to the Fidis’ ship. Some of the foreigners had awakened, and were being fed and ministered to by healers and their shamashas. Of those who woke, some blinked in disbelief, as if they were having trouble coming to grips with the reality that they were still alive. The ones who had regained more of their senses stared in curiosity at the Leba and his daughter, who paid little attention to them as they made their way toward the cabin of the sorcerer, the white-haired man of power.

  The father and daughter had talked earlier, after the end of the meeting in the Gebbi Senafa; and after hearing what had transpired at the council, Tiyana had insisted on participating in the healing and questioning of the blue-robed Fidi. Gebrem was not certain that task would be safe for her. He wondered if her ashuma was strong enough to withstand the powerful flare of the Fidi’s spirit.

  “He came during my Calling,” Tiyana argued when her father voiced his misgivings. “It’s as though the Fidi were the ones I Called, not Nama-kwah. I feel responsible that he and his people have come among us. And you, Father, have always taught me to live up to my responsibilities.”

  Gebrem could have ordered her to stay behind, and she would have had no choice other than to comply. He did not do so, however, because his own feelings about the coming of the Fidi echoed hers. He, too, felt accountable for their arrival, because as Leba, all aspects of the First Calling ceremony were his responsibility – even those that he did not undertake directly. And now, he and his daughter would share the accountability for this unknown man who carried an ancient Matile artifact as though it were a talisman.

  As they made their way to the Fidi’s cabin, Tiyana carried a tray of food and a flask of kef. Ordinarily, that would have been a task for a shamasha. But Gebrem had earlier relayed orders that no one other than himself and Tiyana would be allowed to enter the cabin. He was confident the Emperor would not countermand him this time. There was no reason for him to do so. But sometimes, Alemeyu did things for no rationale Gebrem could discern, and Gebrem had long since given up trying to comprehend his cousin’s motives.

  When they opened the cabin door, Gebrem and Tiyana were surprised to find the Fidi sitting up in his bed. The man’s eyes were clear, and his face had lost its death-like pallor. A smile lifted the corners of his mouth when he saw who it was that was entering the cabin. The Ishimbi fi
gure that had eased the initial apprehensions the Matile had experienced lay near him on the bed.

  As the two Matile approached the bed, the Fidi spoke to them.

  “Greetings to you, my friends. My name is Kyroun ni Channar,” he said. “Please accept my sincere gratitude. My people and I owe you our lives. We are deeply indebted to you.”

  Tiyana nearly dropped the wooden tray she was carrying, and Gebrem’s mouth fell open in astonishment. The Fidi was speaking fluently in the language of the Matile – yet, at the same time, he was not. Gebrem and Tiyana’s ears heard a language they could not comprehend, presumably the Fidi’s native tongue. But in their minds, they were hearing Matile words.

  The incongruity between the unintelligible sounds they heard and the words their minds understood was disorienting, if not frightening. It was yet another manifestation of this man’s sorcerous power. Because the extent of that power was still unknown, Gebrem was only a moment away from calling the guards.

  Then Kyroun reached out to steady the tray that teetered precariously in Tiyana’s hands. His gaze held hers for a moment, then shifted to Gebrem. The unfamiliar gray color of the stranger’s eyes was disconcerting. Looking into them was like gazing at storm clouds roiling in the sky moments before thunder would begin to peal and lightning flashed.

  Despite Kyroun’s still-obvious weariness, a deep well of strength showed clearly in his eyes. But there was something else in those gray depths that forestalled Gebrem’s impulse to call the guards.

  It was sense of urgency – a need, like that of a man about to die of thirst in a desert.

  “The Spell of Tongues is a simple one, Jass Gebrem – Amiya Tiyana,” Kyroun said, ending the short, tense silence.

  “The sounds of human speech are infinite, yet the essence of the meaning of speech is universal. The Spell of Tongues distills that essential meaning from the sounds, thus rendering my speech intelligible to you, and yours to me.”

  “You ... know our names,” Gebrem said while Tiyana surrendered the tray to Kyroun. “What ‘spell’ explains that?”

  He remembered the brightness of the flame inside the Fidi ... he remembered how that blaze had nearly consumed him ....

  Still struggling with his uneasiness, Gebrem sat down in the same chair he had occupied when he had healed the Fidi. He looked at Kyroun, waiting for an answer to his question.

  Kyroun smiled – another quick upturn of his thin lips, sufficient to reassure Gebrem, if not Tiyana. Her father had told her of his experiences during his healing of the stranger, and she could not ignore the notion that the Fidi’s power was the reason Nama-kwah had conveyed her message of danger during First Calling. But she had not mentioned that thought to Gebrem. For all she knew, the Fidi could just as easily have come to warn of the same danger that Nama-kwah had, whatever it might be. Yet her reservations remained.

  “Your names, I know, but little more than that, Jass Gebrem,” Kyroun said. “At the moment my life-light was flickering to its end, my mind touched yours, and I learned the name of the one who rekindled it – and, as well, I learned the name of the one he holds dearest.”

  He smiled at Tiyana, who lowered her gaze and looked away.

  “I cannot count the days that have passed since I last smelled good food, let alone tasted it,” Kyroun said.

  “I am sorry ...Kyroun. Please eat,” Gebrem said. “There will be more than enough time for talk.”

  He motioned for Tiyana to pass the tray to the Fidi. Kyroun took the tray from her hands, then ate heartily, using the injerra to scoop up the wat as though he had done so all his life. He also sipped the hot kef carefully without choking, unlike most of the Fidi outside the cabin, who had tried to gulp it down as though it were merely colored water the first time they drank it, then suffered the consequences when its bitter taste burned their throats.

  While Kyroun ate, Tiyana sat on one of the other chairs in the cabin. Sunlight streamed through the open porthole, illuminating the bed, chairs and desk crowded into the small room. A map was unfurled across the top of the desk. Gebrem walked over to the desk and peered down at the chart. On it, he recognized the outline of Abengoni’s northern coast – and the boundaries of the old Matile Mala Empire. When he gave it a closer look, he saw that the map showed cities that no longer existed because they had been obliterated in the Storm Wars.

  A sense of sadness for what the Matile had lost assailed him, but he willed that feeling away. He needed to concentrate on understanding how – and why – the Fidi had braved the Sea of Storms to come to Khambawe.

  “They still talk about this drink in my country, even though no one has tasted it for centuries,” Kyroun remarked as he swallowed more kef. “We never could get the beans to grow, even in the hottest climates.”

  A polite silence followed while Kyroun finished his repast. When the last of it was gone, Tiyana spoke quickly and bluntly, broaching a topic Gebrem would have approached with greater subtlety.

  “You and your people have taken an incredible risk to come to us through the Sea of Storms. Why?”

  Gebrem opened his mouth to admonish her, but then closed it without speaking. Tiyana’s own life had almost been lost during First Calling; she had a right to know the reason why the Fidis’ ship had nearly crushed her against the wharf.

  Kyroun locked eyes with her. The creaking of the ship’s timbers was the only sound to be heard in the cabin as the clash of gazes intensified, with Tiyana refusing to yield despite the strange color of the Fidi’s eyes and the power that lay within their depths. Then Kyroun smiled broadly, deepening the lines on his face.

  “It was you,” he said softly.

  Tiyana gave him a quizzical look.

  “When it seemed that we would never reach land; that the wind and waves would defeat us and send us to the bottom of the sea, your magic shone like a beacon, guiding us to safety,” Kyroun explained. “I knew as long as I concentrated on the source of that magic, we had a chance to survive. And so we did. You, Tiyana, are the one who saved our lives.”

  The sincere warmth and gratitude that shone in Kyroun’s eyes as he spoke was almost enough to cause Tiyana to forget that his ship had come close to killing her the day before.

  Almost, but not quite.

  “As for the question you ask, the answer is simple,” Kyroun added. Then he paused, as though he were preparing himself for the reaction his next words were certain to elicit.

  “I have come home,” he said.

  2

  Water splashed over the face of Pel Muldure, captain of the White Gull. Wetness entered his mouth and crept into his nostrils.

  Drowning ... wind shredding the sails ... waves smashing, rocking, destroying ....

  Muldure’s dark eyes snapped open as the water dripped down his neck and shoulders. Sunlight dazzled his vision and he blinked rapidly, as though he had been in darkness for a long time.

  Drowning ....

  With a hoarse outcry, Muldure sat up, flailing his arms as though struggling to stay afloat in a whirlpool that was sucking him down. He heard a sharp intake of breath close by. Then he felt the hard deck of his ship beneath him, swaying gently. Relief filled him. He was not drowning. His ship had not sunk. He had reached his destination, which was all any sailor could ask from the gods of the sea.

  Muldure continued to blink until his vision cleared. Endless days of dark-gray skies alternating with the black of starless nights had left him unaccustomed to the sight of sunlight. He looked down at himself. The brocaded captain’s vest that was his pride and joy was now reduced to shreds. A length of cloth covered with unfamiliar designs covered his legs, hiding his boots and sea-breeches, which he was certain would be in equal disrepair.

  Automatically, he reached for the cutlass that always hung at his side. Its scabbard was empty. Had he lost his weapon? Or had it been taken from him?

  Then he looked up – and saw a face hovering above his own, a face covered by skin darker than any he had ever seen before. It was
a young woman’s face: narrow, framed with braids of hair bedecked with multicolored beads. Startled eyes stared into his. Then white teeth flashed in a tentative smile.

  He examined the woman more closely. Her neck was slender, as were the shoulders her garment left partly bare. The rest of her body was wrapped in a single length of plain, white cloth. She was kneeling beside him. In her hand, she held a damp, dripping rag.

  Drowning ....

  Muldure grinned ruefully, reflecting on how grotesquely a dream could magnify a few drops of water. In response, the dark woman’s smile broadened, and she appeared to relax. Then Muldure spoke to her, expressing in a single word the question foremost on his mind. It was a word that was not to be found in his own language, but one that had started him on his voyage through the Sea of Storms.

  “Ma-teel?” he said in a tentative tone.

  The smile on the woman’s lips abruptly changed to a gaping circle of surprise. Had she not shot out a hand to balance herself, she would have toppled backward onto the deck. As it was, water splashed out of the vessel she was holding.

  Before either she or Muldure could react further, a loud laugh cut through the air. Muldure turned his head and his gaze met a familiar pair of eyes: sky-blue beneath a tousled mass of yellow hair cut raggedly to shoulder length. The face in which the eyes were set was heart-shaped, with an upturned nose and a generous mouth. It was not a beautiful face, but it was not a plain one, either.

  Her name was Lyann, and she was Muldure’s first mate on the White Gull, the finest ship ever to sail from the docks of Angless, chief port of Fiadol. But then, in Muldure’s opinion, all the ships he had ever helmed had been the best for a time – until ill-fortune took command away from him.