[Closed] All that was shown to me

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Just After Dawn, 27 Bethas, 2720
The Town of Tsaha’ota

The dusky pink of the sunrise has faded over the horizon; there is no sign of Thul Ka anymore, in the northwest. It is only the Turga, as far as the eye can see, and distant traces of the riverside – trees, which are small dark blotches against the horizon, and the gentle slope of what may be a hill, or else a cloud.

The Etoririq’dzwei has pulled up to the edges of Tsaha’ota along the river. The scrublands beyond wind with the Turga, pushed and pulled by the river’s rushing; here and there, narrow trails of water spill off the edges of it, trickling through low sprawling brown-green marshes; the land beyond disappears into dry, cracked earth.

Tsaha’ota is waking up with the sun; smoke drifts from wooden rooftops here and there. The bleating of goats echoes over the rasping of insects. From the deck of the steamboat, Nkemi can see the cluster of roofs and shacks, dark brown over the lighter packed earth, with the edges of wooden fences to mark pens around the edges of it. It spills over, out of sight, to where the caravans gather.

There is no dock which can sustain a steamboat of the Etoririq’dzwei’s size, but there are rowboats which come from the shore, which line up along the edge of the edge. Nkemi climbs down the swaying ladder; two men from the ship hold it above, and a man from the boat holds it steady below, as Anetol too makes his way down. They sit together on one of the low benches in the center; his trunk and hers, both, are gliding ahead of them towards the shore.

Nkemi wears tan today, all long lightweight covering, though her headwrap is a vibrant yellow against the pale blue-gray of the sky. The boat glides away from the steamboat, and she leans over the side; one small hand cups the water of the Turga, and tilts, letting the riverwater stream free.

“Thank you Hulali,” Nkemi whispers in Mugrobi, a prayer only just given life by her breath, “for the mercy which you bestow upon us; thank you for guiding us here, to Roa’s shores.”

Droplets of water cling to her palm, cupped carefully upright; Nkemi flings them onto the shore as they pull close, and the thirsty ground drinks them greedily.

The boat rocks up onto the shore, and the men with the oars hold it still; Nkemi climbs out first, and her hands are there as well, if Anetol should need them. It is not quite mud on the riverbank; it is drier than that, for all that grasses grow where the water laps, and almost crumbly beneath one’s sandals. A few steps later, and the ground is all smooth and hard.

“Where to, ada’na?” There is one man each for their trunks, hoisting them on sturdy shoulders.

“Tseq’úle caravan,” Nkemi says, smiling. She thanks the boatman with the clink of a coin, and they set off, leaving the wash of the river behind; her arms settles, comfortably, through Anetol’s.

They skirt wide around the edges of the town, following not roads but groves in the dust, where many feet have walked before. Chickens chase one another across the path, clucking and squawking; a woman, crouched outside a small hut, is stirring a thick porridge; she looks up as they pass, her eyes lingering on Anetol.

There are other smells, too, drifting through the air; there is kofi, first, strong and fresh, and something hot and fried beneath it. Nkemi’s stomach grumbles its impatience, and she smiles, tolerant, but does not yield.

At the back of the town there are camels; two men are working, settling saddles onto them one by one, as the tolerant beasts nibble at hay with large, flat teeth. Beyond them, a blur of indistinct figures move busily between tents; with a snap, one of them comes down, ropes loosening to sag into the dirt.

“Ayah ayah!” One of the man calls from the other side of a camel; he grunts, pulling a strap steady. The camel snorts, but does not react; her head shifts to another spot on the hay, and, almost delicately, she works another bite free, long eyelashes fluttering.

“Trunks here,” He gestures with his chin to a large wagon.

The two men leave the trunks behind; Nkemi passes them each a coin, and they hurry back towards the rivershore, now almost swallowed by the town behind.

There is time to sit with the trunks, a moment, to unpack and repack. Nkemi shifts some clothing between her cloth bag and her trunk, and takes out the goggles; she gives Anetol his with a smile, on a woven cord to be worn around the neck, and settles her own into place.

“There is time before the Úwaq’dzola?” Nkemi asks, closing her trunk once more and easing away.

“Ea ea,” The same man says, dusting his hands off. He squints at the horizon. “The rest are buying supplies,” he shrugs. “Half a house, at least.”

Nkemi nods; she tucks her arm through Anetol’s once more, and smiles at him. “Will you take breakfast?” She asks, smiling up at him. "There is time, I think, for all."

[Tom Cooke]

Tsaha’ota • By the Turga

Just After Dawn on the 27th of Bethas, 2720

L
his is not Mugrobi he tries – or thinks to – repeat. He thinks he knows it by the way she bends to dip her small hand in the water, rippling with the breeze that tugs at her loose tan sleeves. He hears the word Hulali, and then mercy, though he’s not sure about the latter; he’s heard it somewhere, he knows not where. Maybe it’s a word that sounds merciful, or maybe it’s the expression on Nkemi’s small face, or the way she scatters the water in glistening droplets on the shore, when they’re close enough.

He needs her hand. His grip is firm, and he leans more of his weight on her than he’d like to, climbing out.

There was no saddle to take him down from the steamship, this time; he hasn’t climbed a rope ladder since – some time ago, and though he finds his body lighter and easier to manage, the muscles in his upper arms ache already.

But it hasn’t got so hot yet, not this early, as they find their path round the just-stirring town, where chickens scratch and squawk and ruffle their wings, where curious dark eyes follow them from doorways and stoops. The sky seems even softer and greyer to him than it did the morning before, though at its zenith it’s taking on that deep vivid blue that makes him think of heat.

The land’s sturdiness is unsettling, after the steamship; he half expects it to move, or his legs do. He watches the ground, mostly. In many places, it’s worn smooth by so many soles – of feet and sandals – one is indistinguishable from the next. In some, he finds his narrow sandaled foot slid into a much larger, broader footprint. Sometimes, he walks beside stick-thin, three-toed trails.

He’s grateful for Nkemi’s arm, as they draw near to the tents and the strange shapes of men and beast.

That, he thinks, is a camel. He watches the tall natt saddle it; he watches its soft furry lips peel back from blunt teeth longer than horses’, agile mouth nibbling pleasantly at hay, thoughtful eyes half-lidded. He blinks, then watches the two natt deposit the heavy trunks. He didn’t watch as the men picked them up; he can’t seem to help watching as they shift off the weight easy-like, his brows drawn together slightly.

In the shade of the wagon, he takes off his broad-brim hat, tucking it under one arm as they sort their things. The light, cream-colored cloth has kept the sun off him well enough; he’s not so red in the face today, though he thought that morning on the steamship, as he shaved, that there were a handful more freckles every day. He’s not sure how that works, and being honest, he doesn’t want to.

He smiles as Nkemi hands him the goggles, looping them round his neck. He looks up at the man again, but he’s mesmerized by the camel. He stares at it; he watches the delicate flare of its nostrils, the ponderous back-and-forth motions of its jaw.

Half a house. He sends a silent thanks of his own to Roa, smiling at Nkemi as she loops her arm through his. “Of course,” he says, settling his hat on his head, moving with her away from the waking caravan and toward the thatched roofs and drifts of smoke.

The smell of hot kofi has whetted the headache that stings at the base of his skull. “Something smells wonderful. Everything,” he amends, laughing, as they step down into an even better-worn path. They pass a pen full of goats; one looks at him with an odd pale eye, and he glances at Nkemi.

The smells are growing louder, as are the sounds – the call of voices, laughter, pots and pans; folk setting up tents; the snorts and scratches and scuffles, the grumbles, of animals he doesn’t have names for. The dry rustle, he thinks – passing an open doorway wreathed in shadows in the growing daylight – of kofi beans in a pan.

The crowd thickens. He wonders at it, at the small wooden houses and the watchful eyes, and then, in the midst of all of it – people, fields and glamours and neither, bright head-wraps like Nkemi’s (though none, he thinks, so bright), stalls just setting up with the rising of the sun, a strange blend of accents. Tseq’úle isn’t the only caravan; he looks round at the passing faces, some light and laughing, some heavy and stern, and wonders if he’ll come to know any of them. He wonders, too, at a town that sleeps empty by night and fills to the brim by day, and thinks of what Nkemi’s said about towns on the Turga.

“Ada’na,” calls a voice, and then a flurry of Mugrobi; he catches the word Tseq’úle as they drit closer. A woman stands outside a nearby house, a tall nattle by her looks, long braids piled up on her head. There’s an awning set out, canvas-covered; scatterings of folk sit taking kofi, on the ground and on low seats. Nearby, spilling out smoke and the smell of oil and lentils and four, something’s frying.

“Sir,” she calls in Estuan, more uncertain, catching sight of him, “welcome. I am On pezre Ofúr. You will take kofi?”

He bows, taking off his hat.

As they find a place among the bustle, he turns to Nkemi. The smell of yats threatens to knock him over; after all his seasickness, his stomach aches for it. “Do you know anything of Tseq’úle?” he asks, curious.

Nearby, a group of wicks sits with a spread of hand-painted cards on a crate. He sees them in the corner of his eye; his heart tightens, and he does not look. They laugh, and there’s the clink of coins.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Just After Dawn, 27 Bethas, 2720
The Town of Tsaha’ota

On’oza,” Nkemi murmurs, hanging against the fence, extending her hand; the goat’s head butts against her fingers, and she giggles, stroking her hand over his head between the curved back horns. “Of tsúqep,” So fierce, she calls him, and grins, seeing the way he puts himself between the road and the rest of the herd. Rough, curly hair passes beneath her fingers; his head turns, and square teeth close delicately on the edge of her sleeve.

Nkemi giggles, raising her eyebrows; he releases her, only slightly damp, and still whole.

Nkemi is smiling with her whole heart as they wander on. A good litter, Nkese wrote; they had both known of the possibility of the journey by then, and the wish had lingered beneath the cursive script, for all that nothing is certain until it has begun, and sometimes not even then.

“Ada’na,” calls a voice in Mugrobi. “You are with Tseq’úle? Ada’na Inis has arranged with me – you come and take breakfast.”

“Thank you, ada’na,” Nkemi nods to Anatole, wandering over, and bows politely. “We will feast with our nose and stomach both,” she says, breathing in deep as she rises.

They sit on two low crates; there are no tables, here, and few crates to spare, but these are wide enough to perch a kofi cup next to a small person. The air smells of lentils and kofi; Nkemi’s stomach makes itself known, greedily.

“You have a hama koketa inside you,” One of the wicks says, turning back; his yellow eyes gleam above his beard and a flash of crooked teeth.

Nkemi grins back at him. “Not for long,” she says, lightly.

“Shall I read your cards?” His eyes wander over the two of them; he smiles, glancing down at the crate, and the coins set beside it, and beringed fingers beckon, lightly.

“Not today, adame,” Nkemi shakes her head.

She turns back to Anetol as he speaks. On returns, then; she carries a chain in one hand, a dented metal tray polished so clean it shines swinging beneath. She hands each of them a small cup of rich dark kofi, and holds still as they add menda or sugar to their liking; Nkemi takes a pinch of each, and swirls the cup slow and careful to mix them in.

“Thank you, ada’na,” Nkemi says, breathing the scent in deep, and taking a small, reverent taste.

“I met them, three years back,” Nkemi turns back to Anetol when he too, is settled; her sandals are off, and small bare feet tuck beneath her knees as she sits cross-legged, comfortable and easy. There will be few times she may remove them, the rest of the day; she will not waste this one. “It happens, sometimes, that when caravans cross at the right hour, they may share a camp fire in the night; so it was. From what I saw and have heard since, I was glad to hear they would make this journey today."

“Ada’na Inis Aqem is their leader,” Nkemi continues. “She is a woman, I think, of strength and purpose. We say the desert is blessed of Roa because to see life flourish here is to know Her. Inis, too, may be said to be blessed of Roa,” Nkemi has seen Anetol swear himself to Roa twice, now; this she does not say lightly, but – for all that she smiles – with a solemn set face.

On comes back, tsking at the wicks to wait; she hands each of them a metal plate, heaped with three lentil cakes and a thin goat’s milk yogurt in a small clay bowl, scattered with spices. “Thank you,” Nkemi says again; her stomach adds a thanks of its own, and On grins down at her.

Nkemi breaks the lentil cakes apart with her fingers; they offer steam into the morning air, stretching rising tendrils up above. She swirls a piece through the yogurt, and devours it, hungrily; it is spiced with a practiced hand, strongly enough that the flavor comes through the yogurt, but does not overwhelm. “You have had goat’s milk yogurt?” She asks Anetol, curiously. “We eat it often in Dkanat,” she grins at him. It has a sour, sharp tang to it; this one, Nkemi knows, is very good. Her estimation of Inis rises for her choosing of On.

[Tom Cooke]

Tsaha’ota • By the Turga

Just After Dawn on the 27th of Bethas, 2720

P
e’a pe’a, ada’na dzeto,” comes the spoke’s rough voice, and another grin from his tangled beard.

Ada’na On makes a noise with her teeth, and then says something in Mugrobi he doesn’t catch. One of the other wika – a bigger man, soft about the middle, with a shaved head scrawled with ink – breaks out into a grin, and then into laughter. “Poa’xa,” he says, shaking his head, setting down another card face-up.

“Desema,” says the bearded spoke, waving his hand with a flash of rings.

Every menda’s different, and this one is no exception. He doesn’t take a damn thing in his tea or in his kofi, he used to say, when he was a different man – and maybe that goes for milk and sugar, but it seems a shame to miss the menda, when you don’t know you’ll get another chance. This one smells strongly of something earthy, some root, he thinks; as he stirs it in, it mingles with the smoky scent of the kofi beans.

He’s a hama koketa inside of him, but he hasn’t known just how much until he’s sat down among these smells. The wicks, if they’ve taken yats, have already finished; but a group of natt sit on crates nearby, digging into bowls of barley porridge. It’s the smell of frying batter that’s grabbed his attention, though, and he swears that the grumbling of Nkemi’s stomach has woken his up. He laughs anyway.

And then he listens, nodding, a solemn expression replacing his smile.

He won’t ask. Inis Aqem. He knows better than to think the name’s imbali, but it doesn’t sound like any arata or dura he’s met. Some Mugrobi, he’s heard, choose their last names.

It’s at woman that both of his brows raise. He knows – boemo – he’s not sure what he thought, being honest. He’s pictured a caravan full of men, now he thinks about it, and women along for the ride; he’s pictured more burly natt like the ones that carried their trunks, like the ones he saw working among the tents. Nkemi calls this Inis blessed of Roa and smiles, intent, and he smiles back, though not a whit of the curiosity in his eyes is lessened. He nods once, solemn himself.

“Desema!” comes another voice from the crate nearby. The bearded wick cackles, a coppery tooth glinting amid its crooked fellows, his gold eyes glittering underneath his brow. Another, the youngest of the three, with a cloud of curly dark hair about his head, has a face full of stormclouds.

Something about that face twists his stomach; he turns back to Nkemi and nods, instead. He can’t help the tightness about his eyes, but he smiles.

The lentil cakes are themselves a gift from Roa. “Thank you, ada’na,” he says, a little more raggedly than he means to, and Nkemi’s stomach makes a noise fit for a banderwolf. On is grinning, and he’s grinning too, sheepish, over at the prefect.

He’s already dipping his lentil cake in the yogurt. As he brings the bite to his mouth, Nkemi asks her question; he understands rightaway the difference.

“I haven’t,” he says, once he’s finished the bite. “I haven’t had goat’s milk, I’m afraid,” he adds, wiping his hand off to reach for his kofi.

The menda here gives it a bitter tang, a spicy edge, that he finds he likes very much; he thinks he’ll be sad to part with it, when they leave. He wonders if the menda changes with everything else, when the Turga demands it.

He takes up the lentil cake again. He thinks of Nkemi at the pen, running her hand over a goat’s sleek black horns, giggling at its teeth on her sleeve. He hung back, more sheep himself. There are movements – sudden movements – unfamiliar movements, and those odd hourglass pupils, in the few pale-eyed ones. But there was something to watching Nkemi speak to them in gentle Mugrobi.

“Is there news of the goats?” he asks, taking another bite, with its odd tang and its blend of spices.

“Do I hear Dkanat?” It’s the big wika, now, with the shaved head. He’s sitting back, his arms crossed, his brow raised. “Oya Iye has passed through, in the summer of a few maw ago. We met Dzevizawa there.”

He pauses, as if he is about to say something else and has thought better of it. The beringed wick's lips twist in his beard, but he says nothing.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Early Morning, 27 Bethas, 2720
The Town of Tsaha’ota

There is always news of the goats,” Nkemi says, with a little giggle. She drags her lentil fritter through the yogurt once more, nibbling at it. It is the way something relaxes in Anetol’s shoulders when she talks of the goats; she does not think it is her smile which reflects in him so, for all that she is fond of them – for all that talking of them gladdens her.

She has spoken much of Dkanat in the day and a half on the Turga; the goats she has mentioned only in passing. She knows the brightening of Anetol’s interest when they are raised; she knows, too, the small smiles that cross people’s lips when there is too much talk of goats, the wry little twist that creeps in at the edges of them, the softening at the corners of their eyes. She is not ashamed – not of the goats, and not of Dkanat either, not in the least – and she knows, now, if she did not always, that this is not the smile which crosses Anetol’s face, when he listens to her speak of them.

She thinks what to tell him; Nkese wrote to her of the kids, the big litter, but also of Iki’dzof, who finds the tiniest gaps in the fence and wriggles through them as if he is a kid still; of Dzoch’aw, who is forever lost in some canyon crevice or another; of Ipat’ulu, who chewed apart the unlucky pillowcase which strayed too far from the laundry line. She thinks Anetol will like Iki’dzof, who Nkemi has known now thirteen years, and who was a naughty old man even as a boy.

Nkemi turns to look at the wick when he speaks; her eyebrows lift as well. She settles the metal tray comfortably on her lap, and picks up her kofi once more, cradling it in slightly greasy fingers. Oya Iye she has heard of, although only in passing – a wick caravan.

“You hear Dkanat,” Nkemi says with a friendly smile. She takes a sip of her kofi. “In my voice and on my tongue,” she adds in Mugrobi.

The beringed wick snorts; his lips relax into a smile once more.

“Is Oya Iye coming or going?” Nkemi asks, curiously, in Estuan once more.

“Always both,” murmurs the beringed wick; he scoops up the cards once more, sorting them with quick deft hands, motions too fast to see. The wick with the curly dark hair leans forward, ever so slightly, his gaze intent.

“Always both,” the larger wick says; he smiles too. “From the desert, this time, ada’na; we go along the river next these next weeks, before the rainy season.”

Nkemi inclines her head. “Hulali is merciful,” she says.

“Dkanat or Serkaih?” The beringed wick asks, not looking away from his cards.

It is the larger wick who shifts now, breathing out through his nose. He glances at his companion, who is still busy with his hand.

“Both,” Nkemi says, lightly, smiling. “Always both,” she adds.

The beringed wick laughs; there is the faintest edge to it. “We understand the canyons are forbidden, now, to Dzevizawa.”

“It is so,” Nkemi says. She takes another small sip of her kofi.

“Tell me, adame,” he says, looking up at her, yellow eyes gleaming. “How can any part of Vita be forbidden to those who have for centuries called it home?” He shuffles the cards again without looking, and spreads them on the crate.

Nkemi inclines her head; she sets her kofi back down on the crate at her side, careful. “Justice, adame, is not always kind. What for one man calls freedom may mean for another fear. Such rules are weighed in the balance.”

“Bhe,” the curly haired wick says, glancing up.

The one with the bald head clicks his tongue.

On comes back; she sets a plate down on the crate next to the cards, raising her eyebrows. “They are disturbing you, ada’na, sir?”

[Tom Cooke]

Tsaha’ota • By the Turga

Just After Dawn on the 27th of Bethas, 2720

H
e smiles at her giggle. He takes another fritter, the metal tray balanced precarious on his bony knees, and dips it in the cool yogurt. His cup of kofi is perched beside him on the crate; his feet are on the ground, and he’s still wearing his sandals, though he’s begun to sweat between his toes. Even in the shade, with the cool breeze rustling through from down the lane toward the river, there’s a thickening in the air that comes with the rising of the sun. Nkemi’s sandals are sitting near her crate, and her legs are crossed comfortably.

He’s thinking what to ask. He knows a few of their names – the sight of Nkemi combing her fingers through the curly, shaggy fur moments ago brought them to mind – knows, at least, to ask after the one that gets itself turned round and lost. He’s about to, when the wick speaks.

He watches the exchange, finishing off a fritter and sipping his kofi. He doesn’t understand what the prefect has said in Mugrobi, but they speak Estuan, now, the wicks with their lilting, strangely-familiar accents. The bearded wick scarce looks up – only once.

He is silent the whole time. He looks at the man, and then at Nkemi when she speaks. If she meets his eye, not a whit of an expression crosses his face, not a flicker; his field is calm about him, soft and blurry. There are more edges to what she says than two; it’s a landmark, only he doesn’t know which map to place it on. Nor does he know how to place the other word, Dzevizawa, except that it’s coming up more and more lately.

When he turns his eyes back, the gold eyes are hidden behind a fringe of lashes and a heavy brow. The quiet man, with his curling hair and his aquiline face, only grunts.

He glances at Nkemi, then glances up at On as she sets the plate down; nobody can answer his side of this for him. “Not in the least, ada’na,” he says, smoothing a smile out onto his face, warm as if ironed there. In the corner of his eye, the wick is studying the spread of his cards; the smile reaches his eyes.

“Bajea,” says the big wick, laughing, grinning. “This is enough for three men?”

Ada’na On’s eyes linger for a moment on him; then she turns to the three and rolls them, clicking her teeth, though there’s a smile on her lips. “Take it up with Dzúziq,” she says in Estuan, then something else in Mugrobi, and the big wick laughs again. As she leaves, the curly-haired man is smiling, too, on the edge of a laugh; only the bearded wick is still looking down at his cards, gold eyes intent.

They’re hand-painted, he realizes. These are not Rooks, or not all of them; his fingertips linger on one with the shape of a woman standing in front of a moon, gleaming silver, a lantern hanging from a staff in her hand. “Looking at my cards, jent?” he asks suddenly, without looking up, a smile twitching briefly at his lips.

“I haven’t seen many like them,” he says, though he leaves room for the some.

“You’ll never see another like this,” he says. The younger wick laughs.

His eyes linger for a moment; his lips press thin. “No, ada’xa, I won’t,” he says, taking his kofi from beside him and taking a sip.

“We will see the two of you at Úwaq’dzola?” asks the big man, digging in. He looks at Nkemi and then at him; there’s uncertainty in his eyes, but he’s smiling still. “Ohihú performs the rites, today,” he adds, “and he seems in good spirits.”

“For Ohihú,” adds the beringed wick, snorting. “You’re sure you wouldn’t care for a reading, ada’na? Sir?” He looks up at them again with a crooked smile.

“Think of our own grumbling stomachs, ada’na,” puts in the other man, patting his belly.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Early Morning, 27 Bethas, 2720
The Town of Tsaha’ota

Nkemi grins, following the gesture of the man’s hand to the soft roundness of the stomach he pats. “Ophur’s blessings may come in many forms,” she says, prefect-solemn in her tone, but her lips still twitching at a smile. “But not this one, today.”

There is a swirl of paint on the cards in his hands; they are lovely, and the beringed wick’s voice warmed as he spoke of them, glowing in the cool morning air. Anetol watched them, and then looked away, back to his lentils.

The bald-headed wick clucks his tongue in a laugh.

“We will come for Ohihú's Úwaq’dzola," Nkemi adds. “If he is in a good mood, he will have us." She grins; she has never been turned away from one of Ohihú's readings, but it is not uncommon for him to puff out his thin chest and boom one visit or another away for being too loud - too unruly - too clouding in their energy.

“Iki’dzof,” Nkemi says, turning back to Anetol, “has been up to his usual mischief.” She settles in, comfortably; she has finished the first of her fritters, and starts in on the second. “Juela writes that this time he found a soft spot in the earth, and dug himself a hole beneath the edges of the fence. She came across him at the pump, standing proudly with his hooves on the upturned basket – not hiding in the least, but looking up at her with a smug-goat-smile, very pleased with himself and his belly all soft with dirt.”

The wicks are still sitting with the cards when she and Anetol leave; Nkemi nods to them, and thanks Ada’na On warmly, promising to sing the praises of her kofi.

As they have sat and eaten, Tsaha’ota has finished its morning routine – wrapped up the long flowing hair of its market stalls, filled the air with the scent of breakfast and dug hungrily in. There are voices calling Mugrobi and Estuan through the air: goats! camels! leira! Spices, shouts another voice, loud over the crowd: saffron, buy it here at to bring to Thul Ka; the quality is like a dream! Latest news, shouts another voice, latest news: Crocus party and Pipefitters rivalry shows no sign of cooling off before the rainy season! Bull Elephant readies for the Symvolio! Read all about it here!

Nkemi glances at the horizon, squinting at the sun. She tucks her arm through Anetol’s, and guides him, slow and sedate, through the winding paths between stalls. The path is narrow and crowded, but the Mugrobi flow around one another easily; no one jostles the two of them, for all that a sleeve may come close enough to brush delicately against Anetol’s. They do not go yet to the heart of the market, but creep along its edges, until the shouts of men and women are drowned out by the clucking of chicken, the baaing of the goats, and the hiss-spit of the camels.

Nkemi guides Anetol past the chickens, the goats – she tsks her tongue at the look of them, shaking her head – and the leira, too, their spines gleaming in the morning light.

Where she stops is the enormous jet black beetle, curved horns rising up as if to meet in the space before his face, wings pressed tight to his back. He is bigger than either of them – as big as a camel – and he sits. His wings flutter, faintly, revealing a hint of gold beneath, and hold glossy back against his back once more. “This is not the way to see him,” Nkemi says, softly, standing at the edge of the cage. She settles a soft palm against the bars of it; rust flakes off against her skin, and she grimaces.

“Don’t touch, ada’na!” The boy sitting on a stool nearby clicks his tongue. “He does not like this cage,” he raises his eyebrows at her.

Nkemi draws her hand back, and raises her eyebrows back at the boy. “Why does he sit in it?” She asks.

The boy shrugs. “Damaged his wing during a race, the brute,” his tone is warm and affectionate. “Jara leaves him here to see if it heals. Else,” he shrugs, but he looks away, and there is a twisted set to his lips. “They eat too much,” he says.

“You ride him?” Nkemi asks.

“Not in a race,” the boy glances back; he grins. “You have seen racing beetles before, ada’xa?” He wiggles his eyebrows at Anetol, beaming.

[Tom Cooke]

Tsaha’ota • By the Turga

Just After Dawn on the 27th of Bethas, 2720

I
t hangs in his mind, the twist of the wick’s lips in his beard as the bald-headed kov belly-laughed and shrugged his big shoulders. It hangs like smoke, the fingertips tracing a gold-dusted line on one card, glimmering in the sunlight that flickered in underneath the canvas. But now, ada’na Ota and the wicks and the kofi are behind them, and they move through a street like a river, flowing through easy-like.

It’s good to have his feet on the ground. It’s better to have yats in his stomach, and no churning or offering to hurl. The insects’ song is louder and louder, an ever-present hum underneath the criers and the hiss of frying oil and the animal-noises.

He’s happy, this morning, to let himself be guided, at a slow and easy pace. Thoughts of Serkaih and desert wicks wash back like a tide, replaced by goats. Iki’dzof was a name, too, he repeated, until he got it right, laughing – not at his botched attempts, but at the thought of a grinning goat-face and impetuous silly eyes. He’s thinking of it as they pass round the pens, his eyes lingering as hers do on the patchy, skinny-legged ones, which look much more like the sort of thing you might see on market day in Voedale.

None of this, though, is familiar. He drinks it in, grateful for her arm looped through his, steady and solid. He’s not so tall here as he was at Thul’amat; tall, heavyset natt move by, and he gets glimpses through the swell and passing of the crowd. Once, he sees a number of leira perched at a stall, sunning. They look better-kept than the few that made their way to the wharf in the Rose, though he once knew a kov who kept one like a princess.

Once, he spots scales brilliant green in the rising sun. “Bajea!” A long tongue flicks out, and there’s a scratching and a scuffling.

“Mind yer fuckin’ camel, adame!” Shouts another voice, half-angry, half-laughing, and then a string of sharp, wick-accented Mugrobi.

He’s an urge, once, to take a paper from a crier. They flow through, the current sweeping by on either side, but he wonders like an itch he cannot scratch if there’s more text than printed images, this time.

But these streets are less crowded, and he hasn’t seen a crier in a while; he’s seen, he thinks, more chickens than men. For all he’s overwhelmed by the colors and the sounds, he sees what Nkemi means to take him to rightaway, and he stiffens and nearly freezes in his tracks.

“What…”

He thinks it must be a trick of the eye, at first, before his mind catches up. The cage is empty; the beetle’s big, but not – but the bars are in front, and the bug is behind, not close enough to seem so large. He blinks, but the thing, glistening-black, does not change. His jaw is grit tightly as Nkemi takes him closer, and though he does not resist, his steps are very slow.

This is not the way to see him, Nkemi says softly.

The lad nearby is grinning; he looks at him, and then at the thing. His eyes follow the long sweep of each horn. They search round the horns for eyes, and there’s a flicker of movement, black-on-black, as glossy as the rest. He doesn’t have a sense of whether it’s looking at him or not; he looks into the eye, and he doesn’t know what he sees.

There’s a flash of gold at its back, and he starts.

Nkemi goes to the cage, and he hangs back. He glances to the lad again, all wiry angles and dusty feet. “I wouldn’t – like it much either, in there,” he admits, looking back to the bug. He frowns, then blinks again when the lad wiggles his brows. “Racing beetles, ada’xa?”

There’s a pause. Then the lad throws his head back and laughs, and says something in Mugrobi he doesn’t in the least understand.

“To see if it heals?” he repeats suddenly, frowning.

The boy’s lips twist again. “Jara thinks he may not be fit for the races again. Bhe; Tseto, a pack beetle.”

The wing flickers again; one of the legs, thin and covered in tiny hairs, twitches. It doesn’t move like a camel, he thinks, or a moa. He imagines it scuttling about the marketplace, straw bug-tongue tasting what it can find.

But he’s no coward, is he. Gathering his wrap about him, he steps closer. There’s another flicker at its eye, and he’s the distinct feeling he’s being looked at, this time. He looks at the rusty bars, frowning. “Careful, ada’xa,” calls the lad, and he resists the urge to jump again; the lad laughs.

“When I think of beetle races, I usually think of the, uh – smaller kind.” He turns to Nkemi, raising his brows.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Early Morning, 27 Bethas, 2720
The Town of Tsaha’ota

Nkemi grins brightly at Anetol. “Oh, yes, we have those too,” she turns back to the black-backed beetle in the cage, smiling.

The boy snorts. “Nothing like it!” He grins, perched on the stool still, dirty hands pressed flat against the seat of it. “The smaller kind – bhe – didn’t you tell him, ada’na?” He demands, turning to Nkemi.

Nkemi shakes her head, lightly. “They are raced with a rider,” she says to Anetol, looking back at Tseto in his cage, “through the desert canyons. Tseto is far from home,” her fingertips come closer, then lower, once more; she does not touch the bars. Tseto twists his head; multi-faceted eyes catch and gleam from a thousand surfaces, reflecting all the colors of the marketplace back in strange, broken patterns.

It is hard to describe the races. They take place at dusk, usually – dawn, sometimes, but there is more sport to racing to beat the dark as well as the other men, through the narrow, twisting air above the riverways. Tseto, Nkemi thinks, has fierce horns; she is not surprised to hear he is racer. His antenna, lightly bent, twitch in the air; one brushing against the side of the iron-rusted bars, quivering, then draws back.

“Not so far,” The boy argues. “You want to buy one, ada’xa? There’s plenty of men who sponsor their own beetles, but I’m not sure any – uh –” He squints, “Anaxi,” there is a questioning tone in his voice, but he goes on, “have done so. You could be famous!”

“Tseto is for sale?” Nkemi asks, studying the boy curiously.

“No!” The boy huffs. “No, of course not, but – his line, sure. It’s best to start them from a larva, anyway, so you can train them up properly in the way you like. Jara can do that for you too, of course,” there’s a more comfortable pride in his voice now; he goes on. “There’re some who bought a whole clutch, just so they can race the one they like best, ada’xa…?”

Nkemi found herself describing the races when they went on, her arm tucked through Anetol’s once more. “They are strange, wonderful things. Not all the beetles are so black as Tseto; he must be beautiful when he flies, with the gold beneath his wings in the sunset.” She does not look back, but she thinks of him – she wonders how his wing will heal, cooped up so, but she knows there is much she does not know.

“The beetles can only fly a race once in many days,” Nkemi says. “They are ridden, as they fly; the jockeys who guide them are small, and sit above the joining of the wings, and urge the beetle on through the race course, through tumbling rock and all the rest.”

“There have been races,” Nkemi says, “in the canyons not far from Dkanat; but it is not the season, now, for such. Perhaps you shall return to Mugroba in summer, some day,” Nkemi smiles up at Anetol.

They come around to the far edge of the market – not the desert edge, where the caravans sit, but the river edge far from where they entered. The shore of the Turga gleams, washing distant; down at the other edge of Tsaha’ota, a steamship belches smoke into the air and begins to wind away.

Here, before them, in many small cages, are baby camels. Long tongues twitch out to taste the air; it is full of the sound of hissing. One cage shakes, dramatically; small sharp teeth rip at the metal. A large, full bearded man, staunch from his chest to his waist, stands at the other end, talking to a wiry man shaved clean, who studies the camels intently.

Nkemi crouches to look inside. Spit-pupiled eyes turn to regard her; teeth clash against the bar of this cage, too, long thin sharp things.

“They temper with age,” Nkemi says, glancing up at Anetol with a smile. “It is forbidden to bring those which are not trained close to people.” The bearded man is wearing thick leather gloves from his fingers to elbows in the sweltering sun – it is morning, still, but the sun is well risen now, beating down over the horizon – and they are marked, deeply, in a thousand places.

[Tom Cooke]

Tsaha’ota • By the Turga

Just After Dawn on the 27th of Bethas, 2720

H
e wonders, for a moment, if she’s going to make an offer; he wonders then if she would’ve, if the answer had been yes. He wonders, looking at the strange beast, at the way Nkemi doesn’t quite touch the bars – at the way she says, Tseto is far from home – if he would’ve. Even after he’s stared down the lad’s offer with bewilderment, even as they’ve begun to drift away, he thinks on it.

He still never found what he was looking for in those eyes. The thought of reaching out to touch that slick dark carapace still gives him the shivers; he thinks of the way the wings flick, the way the head tilts, thinks of the beetle that crawled slowly up his window-frame aboard the steamship.

Anatole Vauquelin, famous for keeping racing beetles. Now there’s an Ever, even if he’d made a little face at the word larva, and then the phrase a whole clutch.

Tseto’s a rare one, Nkemi’s telling him, and if he tries hard he can picture the setting sun sparking off wings the gold of spilt concords, and he thinks there’s something fine in the wicked curve of those horns, something admirable. The thought of darting round canyons on the back of one is beyond him, the rush of the wind and the tilt – his stomach is settled, and he’d like to keep it that way – but he thinks again of the rust flaking off the bars.

He’s silent as Nkemi speaks. “Perhaps,” he says, smiling over at her, a glimmer in his eyes. “Perhaps I’ll see one of Tseto’s offspring, someday. Who knows?”

His arm is looped through hers, still. The morning light’s bright in her headwrap and her smile. It refracts through the thick lenses of the goggles round her neck; he glances down at his own, and they put him in mind of Tseto’s eyes. He suspects he’ll look rather strangely, a pair of goggles for eyes. He’s wistful for a moment, thinking of the headstrong thing laid low, hemmed in. He knows better than to bring up what can’t be changed.

Down by the river, he breathes in the familiar smells of a steamship, and the other smells the river breeze sweeps up. The water ripples with it, even as the sunlight dances hot off the Turga.

He blinks, eyes widening again. This time, he doesn’t freeze or tighten, but he’s grateful for these cages. The big natt’s occupied; he spares a glance at the gloves, hanging back while Nkemi crouches. He watches one of the cages rattle, and a long pink tongue flick out.

To his surprise, he finds himself laughing. “Most do,” he replies with a wry grin, raising his brows. “Most.”

He meets her eye as she looks up, then comes to crouch next to her. He grunts, creaking, rolls his shoulders and adjusts his hat on his head; there’s a few beads of sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades. He braces himself with a few fingertips pressed to the dirt.

Up close, from under his hat, it’s easier to see what’s past the bars. He catches a sharp, slit eye and a hiss. He understands why they’re at the edge of Tsaha’ota, now. “Tsuter nanabo,” he murmurs, shifting, smiling. “How long does it take to train them?” There’s something almost like wistfulness in his voice.

“At least five years,” comes a nasally voice, “maybe six or seven, or more, depending on temperament. They are long-lived creatures.” He rises, dusting himself, and turns to see the wiry man approach. There’s a cursory caprice – perceptive, but strange somehow – and a bow, and the flick of dark eyes between himself and the prefect. They linger on him. “Nnamdi pez Ekene, ada’na, sir. Are you looking for a trainer?”

The natt with the gloves stands at a distance; he greets them and bows, in a voice that seems rough from disuse.

Another glance at the cages, then at Nkemi. “I’m afraid not, ada’xa,” he says, with another small bow. “Thank you.”

Hot as it is, the river breeze was a respite. He’s pleased to find them taking the long path round Tsaha’ota, closer to the river.

“Ep’ama ep’ama – ada’na – ada’xa!” From the shade between two small houses nearby, a boch breaks, flying barefoot across the path; they’re nearly halted by another, giggling, rushing after, who stops only for a moment to gawk at him. “Last one to the river is a – a wrinkled old leira,” calls the first, and they take off again. He raises his brows, tutting.

He laughs. “The sun’s getting high,” he says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s been half a house.” A small black buzzing beetle, carapace glinting, glides lazily across their path; he smiles.