“Your people – the humans – have found a home among the Matile,” Hulm continued. “But the lands of your people could never be a true home for the Dwarven. It is not like that with the Tokoloshe. They are us; we are them. The Tokoloshe do not believe we are tainted by what happened to us in our lost home. They welcome us. And we accept that welcome.”
Hulm paused for a moment, still holding Kyroun’s gaze.
“Seer, Almovaar has fulfilled his promise to give us a new home,” he said. “And we will take Almovaar with us to the land of the Tokoloshe.”
“We worship many gods and spirits,” Bulamalayo interjected. “Your god saved us as well as you. We are grateful to him. He will be accepted among us.”
“We followed you because you said we were needed here,” Hulm said. “Now, we Dwarven are needed in the land of our friends. Like you, we cannot ignore that need.”
Hulm and the two Tokoloshe were not aware that that Gebrem and Kyroun had slipped momentarily into the Oneness. From the standpoint of an outside observer, the two rulers appeared to be listening intently to what the others were saying. And, to an extent, they were doing exactly that. But only to an extent.
Is this what Almovaar wants? Gebrem asked in the Oneness.
He hasn’t raised any objection, Kyroun replied.
We do not need another war ... yet, said Gebrem.
Then you will not have one.
The last voice was Almovaar’s.
At once, the two rulers departed the Oneness. For a time that stretched over an uncomfortable period, they regarded their visitors, who fought to conceal their growing anxiety as the silence deepened. Finally, the Emperor spoke, directing his words to the two Tokoloshe.
“Your ancestors came freely among us long ago,” he said. “And you may leave freely now. Go in peace.”
Apprehension changed immediately to relief for the three visitors. And they concealed that emotion just as diligently as they made their farewells to the two rulers and exited the chamber.
6
Preparations for the Tokoloshes’ departure from their Embassy had been uncommonly swift, but also orderly. The Tokoloshe gathered food, water and other provisions, all of which they would carry themselves, as they possessed no beasts of burden capable of travelling Belowground. The packs were huge, but they hefted them easily, for only the strongest of humans could come close to matching the physical might of the average Tokoloshe or Dwarven.
The mood was somber; even though many of the Tokoloshe had lived their entire lives in the Embassy and had yearned to visit their ancestral land. Despite that desire, they were still leaving the only home they had ever known.
Even though they had removed virtually all the Embassy’s accouterments as well, the Tokoloshe still felt the need to set potent sorcerous wards to forestall the attention of looters, as well as those who were merely curious about the forbidding, cube-shaped structure that had sat untouched and unvisited in their midst for such a long time. As it was, the Tokoloshe did not know whether or not their kind would ever return to live among the Matile.
Special care was taken with the two-headed drum, which held high sacred significance among the Tokoloshe. Although one of them could easily have handled its weight, it was carried reverently on an ornate litter by two Tokoloshe men.
When all the preparations were done, the inhabitants of the Embassy gathered in a long, double-file line that snaked through the corridor that would lead ever-deeper Belowground. The Fidi Dwarven did not separate themselves from the Tokoloshe, as they might have done when they first arrived in Khambawe. Most of them were beside the Tokoloshe women with whom they had mated. Only Hulm Stonehand stood alone, apart from Dwarven and Tokoloshe alike.
One-by-one, the light-spheres that illuminated the Embassy were extinguished. But the pitch-blackness that descended when the last sphere went dark lasted only a moment.
Standing at the front of the column, Rumundulu whispered a syllable of power, and the large globe at the tip of the staff he carried blazed into incandescence, showing the Tokoloshe the way forward.
Rumundulu led his people further down, past the dome-shaped chamber in which Mungulutu had commanded him to close the Embassy and return to the homeland. They descended yet further, through tunnels humans would have found insufferably claustrophobic. For the Tokoloshe and Dwarven, however, the close confines felt like an embrace from the spirits that dwelt Belowground.
Soon they reached what appeared to be an impenetrable wall of rock. However, the light from Rumundulu’s globe revealed a thin crack that split the stone from top to bottom.
Rumundulu opened his mouth to voice the syllable that would cause the crack to widen. Before he could speak, Humutungu began to wail. Despite the attempts of the Tokoloshe women to quiet him, the infant’s cries continued unabated.
Rumundulu sensed an omen in Humutungu’s outcries. He spoke quietly to Bulamalayo, who was at his side. Bulamalayo nodded, then went to the woman who held Humutungu, spoke to her in turn, and took the infant from her arms. Then he carried the still-crying Humutungu to Hulm.
“Take him,” Bulamalayo said. There was a note of command in the Tokoloshe’s rumbling voice.
Hulm only stared straight ahead, refusing to look at the squirming, wailing infant. Anguish was graven on his broad features.
“Take him, Hulm,” Bulamalayo repeated. “He is yours. And he is ours. You do not have to love him. But you must accept him.”
Slowly, hesitantly, Hulm extended his arms. Bulamalayo gently placed Humutungu in his father’s grasp.
Hulm forced himself to look at the infant. Humutungu’s mouth was open wide as he cried. And so were his eyes ... Izindikwa’s eyes. Hulm realized then that part of Izindikwa lived on in the child he was holding. And, at that moment, Humutungu’s cries ceased.
Then Rumundulu spoke a set of syllables that sounded harsh even by the standards of the Tokoloshe tongue. When he finished, a grinding, groaning noise accompanied the slow widening of the crack in the rock. Soon, the crack became a gap wide enough to allow passage. Rumundulu squeezed through, and the others followed. When the last of the group was on the other side of the gap, it closed again, and a shroud of darkness descended on the part of Belowground the Tokoloshe had occupied beneath Khambawe – a darkness in which shadows could not survive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
A Deal With The Tsotsis
1
Athir was lazing in his Gebbi Senafa suite when he heard the scuff of footsteps approaching his door. He half-rose from the long lounge-seat in his sitting-room and rearranged the satiny, colorfully patterned throw-cloth beneath him. Earlier he had informed a passing servant that he wanted more talla. From what he had gleaned of the workings of Gebbi Senafa protocol, he knew that the servant to whom he had spoken would, in turn, relay his request to the people who were in charge of dispensing food and drink in the palace. Then the servant assigned to his suite would bring him what he desired.
Ordinarily, such a sound of footsteps would have elicited an instant response from the Ship’s Rat. His survival had always depended upon the quickness of his reactions to what his sharply honed senses told him. But the soft life in the Gebbi Senafa had dulled the knife’s edge of tension that had always been inside him. And his best friend, fear, had fallen quiescent of late.
Athir’s hand toyed idly with the thin tail of hair that dangled down the nape of his neck. Never before had he spent so much time in one place, or within the walls that did not belong to a prison. But then the palace was, in its own way, as confining as any place of incarceration had ever been.
Although he was fairly certain the tsotsis no longer posed a threat to his life, penned as they were in the Maim, he still wasn’t willing to venture into the streets. He knew the tsotsis had penetrated much of Khambawe before their downfall, and there was still a remote chance that a determined few from Jass Mofo’s set could capture him if he left the protection of the Gebbi Senafa. Inside the palace, he remained s
afe, secure ... and bored.
Not that he didn’t enjoy his new life of indolence and luxury. Who wouldn’t? Still, with increasing frequency, his fingers itched to cradle the ivory cubes he continued to keep in their pouch at his belt. He missed the thrill of the hunt for victims for his petty larceny, as well as the inevitable flight from the marks’ angry vengeance. The conflict between the dreamlike life he was living and his recollections of his former days was becoming a tempest inside him, and he could not drink enough talla to put that turmoil to rest.
A diffident knock on his door interrupted Athir’s reverie. He rose from the couch, walked to the door and lifted its latch. Few people who dwelt in the palace bothered to secure their doors. But Athir’s old habits were hard to discard, even if it seemed they were no longer needed.
The grin that was on his face when he swung the door open faded when he saw who was standing on the other side. He had been expecting one of the serving-women with whom he had become familiar in more ways than one. Instead, the servant who carried a fresh pitcher of talla and a cup already filled to the brim was a new man who had only recently been assigned to attend Athir’s needs when the women were not available.
The Ship’s Rat made no attempt to conceal his disappointment.
“Oh. It’s you,” he muttered. “Come on in.”
He stepped aside and the servant entered, balancing the tray on the palm of one hand. After placing the tray on a low table in front of Athir’s couch, the servant moved toward the open door. Without looking at him, Athir went back to his couch and sat down again.
He didn’t particularly care to look at the new servant, who was a wiry, nondescript man with few, if any, distinguishing characteristics. Still, there was something about this servant that reminded Athir of himself. And he had no desire to confront his own aspect in the dark mirror of some Matile’s face.
Athir heard the servant walk away, and he heard his door close. He looked up ... and saw that the servant had not left the room. Instead, the man was coming toward him – fast.
Immediately, Athir’s torpid survival instincts awakened. But the arousal came too late. Moving as quickly as Athir ever had, the servant reached the Ship’s Rat’s side. Before Athir could say or do anything, he felt an arm snake around his shoulders. Then the sharp edge of a blade pressed against his throat, but not hard enough to puncture his skin.
Despite the caress of steel against his neck, Athir still managed to give voice to his greatest fear.
“Are you a tsotsi?” he asked.
He didn’t recognize the servant from his time in Jass Mofo’s set. But then, other than Mofo himself, the tsotsis had more or less looked the same to him.
Before he replied, the servant uttered a chuckle that was devoid of humor.
“I am far from being a tsotsi,” he said.
“What do you want from me?” Athir asked.
“I brought you talla, as you requested. Now, all I want you to do is drink it.”
Athir swallowed hard. Then he sighed in resignation. He had no weapon within reach. And the servant’s grip was like iron; Athir could not hope to break free.
“Pick up the cup, put it to your mouth, and drink,” the servant instructed. “And if you try to throw the talla in my face, I’ll cut your throat.”
Athir did as he was told. As he expected, he grew weak as soon as the talla reached his stomach, and a curtain of darkness quickly descended over his eyes. Before he lost consciousness, the Ship’s Rat cursed himself for allowing the easy life to turn him into the prey, rather than the predator he had always been. As Athir slumped forward, Sehaye caught the Fidi before he could fall to the floor.
2
No one had questioned Sehaye very closely when he applied for work as a servant in the Gebbi Senafa. Because of the terrible toll Retribution Time had exacted on the populace of Khambawe, toilers of all kinds were in short supply. Anyone who was willing to perform menial tasks for low pay was more than welcome. The servants were no longer called shamashas, but the work they did remained the same.
In the same way, the Uloan’s offer to help with the disposal of the palace’s garbage had also been appreciated. The chief of the servants found Sehaye to be a hard worker, albeit taciturn to a fault. He spoke only when spoken to, and even then, he used as few words as possible, as though talk were a treasure he was hoarding.
The servant supervisor had far more pressing concerns than questioning the motives of a man who had volunteered to do one of the most hated chores in the palace. He thanked Sehaye for his diligence and put him in charge of hauling the two-wheeled cart that carried the palace’s refuse.
So it was that Sehaye now pulled his cart through the halls of the Gebbi Senafa. Two long poles extended from hinges on the cart’s side; Sehaye was positioned between them as though he were a quagga in harness. The cart was filled to the brim with food scraps, pieces of cloth, and various other discarded items. There was something else in the cart as well ... an inert, slumbering body. Its weight required Sehaye to exert more effort than usual as he pulled the cart.
Thank Legaba he doesn’t snore, Sehaye thought as he struggled not to show his increased effort. He did not want anyone he passed in the halls to notice anything unusual – and they didn’t. Indeed, they hardly noticed Sehaye at all. The closer he came to the palace’s doors, the more he realized he’d had no reason to worry. The palace guards, the royal retainers, and even the other servants paid him not more heed than they would have to a piece of furniture.
Finally, Sehaye reached the gates, which had been kept open well into the night since the coronation of Emperor Gebrem. Before, they had been shut at sundown and guarded grimly until dawn. More people visited the palace now, for Gebrem was proving to be a much more accessible ruler than Alemeyu had been. And he was also more benevolent ... most supplicants came away from his audiences with more largess than they had asked for.
Sehaye trundled his cart toward the two palace guards who manned the gates. Ordinarily, the guards would simply wave him through, though not without a jest or two aimed his way to help alleviate the dullness of their duties. He never responded to the gibes ... which was likely the reason they decided to do more than merely joke with him this night.
“Hold it,” one of the guards barked, lowering his spear to forestall Sehaye’s passage.
“What’s the problem?” Sehaye asked.
The Uloan was striving to conceal his nervousness. Both guards had stern expressions on their faces as they moved closer.
“New rules,” said the guard who had stopped Sehaye. “Items of value have been disappearing from the palace. We’ve been ordered to inspect everybody and everything that goes out.”
Sehaye wished he could will away the beads of sweat that were beginning to form on his brow. As it was, he could barely restrain himself from bolting as the soldiers reached toward the trash at the top of his cart. Then their hands stopped in mid-motion. And both guards burst out laughing.
“He really thought we were going to put our hands in that damned garbage,” one of the guards guffawed.
“As if there was anything worth stealing from this stinking cart,” the other one said, nearly choking on his own wit.
Sehaye waited as the guards continued to enjoy their prank. He even joined their laughter ... better to display mirth, however false, than to show even a hint of his desire to kill both the bastards on the spot. Their idiotic joke had brought him far too close to panic. Sweat still dripped down his face, but the guards were too absorbed by their rare bit of amusement to notice.
“Can I go now, with my ‘stolen treasure’?” Sehaye asked when the guards’ laughter finally subsided.
“Go ahead, go ahead,” the more talkative of the two said. “Next time, though, you’ll have to split your loot with us.”
That set off another round of laughter, which echoed in Sehaye’s ears as he pulled the heavy cart away from the Gebbi Senafa.
3
Before the invas
ion of the Uloans, the Maim had been the most dangerous part of Khambawe. During the time that had passed since the defeat of the Islanders, that distinction still held true – but for a much different reason.
In the past the Maim had, for all its squalor and decrepitude, teemed with life and a knife’s-edge form of verve. Rival tsotsi sets had roamed the streets: preening, profiling, socializing, fighting. Brave or foolish people from the outer city would venture into the Maim on missions of illicit business – or unconventional pleasure. Even wildlife of a sort thrived in the blighted district. Hyenas and feral dogs fought over human carrion in fetid alleys, while hordes of rats lay in wait to devour whatever scraps the larger scavengers left behind.
And if some of the hyenas were really shape-shifting irimu, few in the Maim considered that to be a matter of importance. For back then, the tsotsis themselves had been irimu of a sort – deadly predators in human guise.
In the daytime, only a few vestiges of the Maim’s previous vitality remained. Tsotsis could still be seen in the streets, but their movements were guarded and furtive. The bravado they had exhibited before was gone. Almost no one from the outer city came into the Maim anymore. The khat trade had ground to a halt, as had the other vices the denizens of the Maim offered to the rest of Khambawe.
And at night ... at night, the light of the Moon Stars and the blazing night-sun conjured by the Almovaads illuminated streets that were nearly entirely devoid of life. Even the scavengers avoided the bright glare that sought out the prey of the Muvuli. The light was harsh, accusatory ... as though it embodied the wrath and contempt the rest of Khambawe held for the tsotsis’ depredations during the time in which the city was fighting for its survival.
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