e sees Ifran in the canyon when he goes the next morning. Nkemi’s jara is cleaning the case of one of the unlit lanterns that rings the Cultural Center, his lined, long-fingered hands shaky but careful with the glass. He stops to bow, and Ifran bows back, pulling his sloping shoulders straight as he goes back to his work. He thinks something’s changed in the way the old man looks at him, but perhaps it’s only that his eyes are so familiar.
He expected Safeera to hold the fragments of They Are Heard more closely, but they’re still there, waiting for him to take to the small carrel. His notebooks are all still there, and the other books he’s checked out of the archives, where he’s stacked them neatly on the upper shelf.
He takes Dhe’fere’s histories down first. One is worn at the edges by many fingers, the print on the pages faded and chipped, some of the leaves folded and marked with thumbs. It’s one of three copies of Crossed and Colorful Streams in the Cultural Center.
To Nkaya pezre Nkari, my beloved, who has taught me much of understanding.
Tsan’ehew Worn Smooth: On the Evolution of Ancient Arati Practices in Serkaih reads one cover; he remembers ada’na Ife explaining that it was the first Dhe’fere ever wrote on the subject, a project he’d begun before he even returned to Dkanat. He goes over the leather cover with careful fingertips, smoothing the first page.
He can’t bring himself to copy any more out of They Are Heard; he doesn’t think there’s much more to copy, anyway. He has pages and pages of notes, and he’s written out all the monite he can find as best he can. There are a few texts on Ib’vuqem he didn’t work his way all the way through, and he spends the day with those, though mostly his eyes skim the page without reading.
Toward the late afternoon, they come tearing down the hall; he can hear them, even tucked into his corner. “Does that mean –“
“I don’t know,” comes the voice he remembers as Badhe’s. Yesterday, it was hoarse and heavy; today, there’s only the edge of a rasp. “Their way into Serkaih is gone now, at any rate. Tsarero has Aisha and Veke and the others sweeping the area around the remains.”
He shuts his eyes, his hand still on the cover of a book, his fingers curling around the edge.
“How recent?” Another voice, a woman’s, joins Ife’s.
“One day, two days, at best. The closer one is less recent.”
“I will inform Ale’ala at once,” Ife says.
“There were bones scattered around the site,” Badhe goes on. “The descriptions match those in Dhe’fere’s journals; this is how they signal their departure.”
“And why would they wish to signal it?”
They’ve stopped outside. Badhe pauses. “This – Tsarero does not know.” He heaves an audible sigh. “Nkemi has – said,” he goes on, “that Dzevizawa’s madness, for all it is madness, has method; Dhe’fere knew this from his talks with them. I don’t understand it, but I remember how they left three decades ago. They took Aya’wo, may Naulas have guided her, and stopped there. We’ve seen nothing of them since.”
“Why?”
“Nkemi believes they were tracking ada’xa Kafo.”
There’s a long silence. “Ale’ala could find nothing of his family,” she says softly, “and no one here knew him. Ada’xa Farhan handled the burial; I believe it brought him honor.”
There’s a soft sort of silence, and then the sound of footsteps again. When the voices pick up, they’re too muffled and distant to hear.
When he leaves the carrel, it’s as clean as it was when he got there days ago. Ife is sweeping the gallery, where the great Tsan’ehew still stands glittering in the middle of the display cases.
The streets of Dkanat have been quieter, since. It’s been awhile since he’s seen bochi kicking balls in the middle of the street, or wandering too far from their juelas’ houses. Ada’na Fareeha’s chickens still spill out into the street, though he’s heard she’s been telling all the other ladies that Dzevizawa stole one of them. As he passes a quiet house a few streets from Emeka’s, he sees Osferon sitting on the doorstep, his small face frowning. A woman’s voice shouts from somewhere inside; his eyes dart down, and he steps in through the open door.
The last caravan that came found Dkanat quieter than usual, though Lefo’s arguments, he hears, were no less compelling; he hears they brought a tear to the leader’s rosh’s eye.
News passes in and out of Emeka’s guesthouse every night, and he eats with the old man and his daughters, because he knows he must listen. Esúy’ori has camped here for the night, Emeka says when he returns, and Lefo has been quarreling with them, too; some of the bochi have come out now that it’s safe, though Aafu keeps a close hold on Jeela, and there’s laughter and lights. They’re expected to leave in the morning.
He sleeps that night.
He wakes early in the morning. His desert clothes have been washed, and he’s a swath of long light cloth; he finds his hat and his goggles and his scarf. When he comes down, Jioma’s clucking over him, with a breakfast fit for days’ travel. He eats as much of it as he can while Emeka and Jinasa watch the tents go down, watch the duri ready the camels.
Dhafed and Tsowo carry out his trunk to the wagons; he doesn’t protest, because he knows he hasn’t the strength for it, this morning. He bows; he feels all the warm caprises.
Outside, the chill of the night still clings to the dry earth. The breeze whisks his hems and sends shivers through him. Efedhe is sitting outside the guest house, on one of the fence posts, watching him.
At the edge of Dkanat, the air is full of the smell of dust and camels, mingling with kofi and breakfast. He turns at movement in the corner of his eye, coming up the path toward the colorful stone walls; he catches sight of her coming down the path, her shadow long but soft in the dawn light.