"Home is that place you run from, because it tells who you are." -- acerbic Sung proverb
Dugong Marsh, outside the city of Namu.
6
th
of the Month of Abundance, 3125.
Bayati of Kichinka stood taller than me by a head. But that wasn't the reason I found her so intimidating.
She possessed a tragic beauty, with skin the color of sweet dates and graceful lines that dragged her lips into a perpetual pout of disapproval. Finger-thick braids were tied back from her high forehead. She had dressed plainly under the steady rain, with a dun-colored side wrap that bared one wiry shoulder and overlaid a strip of cloth across her chest. The wrap skirt she wore fell to her calves, but slits bared smooth flesh up to the thigh. Her willowy frame belied a toughness, like fine leather. After a morning of slogging through the sand and mud of the Dugong wetlands, she looked as steady as ever.
Like Zhura, Bayati wielded a steel-shod staff taller than I was. On her back, she'd slung a sheath full of more lethal weapons -- the
mambele
throwing axes that I'd only seen veteran
askari
wield. She was one of three warrior women I'd ever known, and her aura of grim resolve made me want to drop to my knees, to start kissing her feet and work my way up. But just now she eyed me as if I were a snake she wanted to crush under her heel.
I was Keya -- scholar, priestess, and first daughter of House Oko. Bayati was a village girl from a tiny, backwater kingdom. Yet she awed me.
"I am not sleeping while she has that summoning stone," Bayati said, speaking to Zhura and Ngo as if I wasn't there. "As soon as we close our eyes, she'll have the thing stuffed between her legs, conjuring up her pet demon."
"Blossom is no danger to you," I said. I could control the beast. I'd prevented the demon from charming my servants. Back when I had servants.
Bayati arched an eyebrow. "Is that the lie you told Amankar San, before you bewitched him?"
Zhura scanned the light, sandy scrub of palms, thistle and sedge that surrounded us. Her frame was heavier and her garb lighter than Bayati's -- just a brief halter that bared her belly, and a skirt that couldn't hope to reach her knees. She and Ngo carried large baskets strapped to their backs.
We all worried that someone trailed us from the beach, especially if they were searching for me. We needed to be vigilant until we were far from the city.
Zhura turned to Bayati and I with a pained expression. "When we make camp, she'll take a turn at watch like the rest of us. Whether she calls her demon is for her to decide."
"What is even the point of having her take watch?" Bayati scoffed. "She couldn't drive off a hungry anteater, let alone something dangerous."
I couldn't understand the reason for Bayati's distaste for me. Yes, I had used Blossom's magic to charm Amankar. But the lecherous old man richly deserved it, and her contempt for me had been evident before that had even happened, the first time Bayati and I met.
She was common-born; a trader's daughter. Ngo was a village chief's son, and Zhura the cast-off of an upjumped king. But they had each lived common, earnest lives despite their connections to the highborn.
Perhaps it was my nobility that embittered the woman.
"Keya is one of us," Zhura insisted. "We're not going to pamper her, nor will we treat her like a prisoner. She's suffered enough of both."
She came between us to face the taller woman, rain dripping from her thick braids and down her arms. I caught the faint smell of the coconut oil on her skin, and it reminded me of the single, torrid encounter we'd had.
"I trust her," Zhura said, finally.
Ngo observed the confrontation, munching on a bit of honeyed rice cake. His eyes danced with amusement as he watched. He wore a green cloak, hood pulled up to ward off the rain. His skin was the color of night, nearly as dark as Blossom's.
When he wasn't smirking as if I were the punchline to a joke, the spearman seemed utterly indifferent to my presence. I couldn't claim to understand how men thought. The only ones I had truly known were my brother and one that had been sworn to serve my House.
"That's good enough for me," he grinned. "I'm not afraid of anteaters."
Bayati's eyes became slits. "This is a mistake."
Zhura stepped past us, her sandaled feet lightly crunching on sodden sand. "If it is, it won't be the last," she muttered.
The taller woman's gaze lingered on me before she turned to follow.
I understood that message. The debate was not over.
How unusual it was that Bayati and Ngo followed Zhura by choice, not because of her birthright or coin. That bond was foreign to me. I couldn't understand how it could last. And yet, these three had risked their lives for each other.
But Zhura was a remarkable woman. After knowing her for only a week, I could see how others felt drawn to her. It was only then that the obvious occurred to me. Were the three of them lovers? Did jealousy explain Bayati's contempt?
The last bit of dried meat stuck in my throat like a piece of rawhide. I sighed and trudged along to rejoin the march. The dull pain in my feet and legs continued to gnaw at me as the four of us continued our journey.
We walked in a spread-out single file, several paces separating each of us. Bayati took the lead now. They all seemed to know these marshes well, and they maintained their distance from the deeper waterways that made up the river delta.
There was a Dugong Marsh district of the city of Namu that lay outside the city's walled enclosure; a cluster of farming villages that cultivated rice and palm orchards. By midday, we'd left that populated area behind. We tramped through floodplains of high grass, with only dragonflies, mosquitoes and birds to keep us company.
In the distance, I spotted clumps of mangroves. Foul smells of marsh gas, saltwater and decaying vegetation were dampened, at least, by the fresh rain.
If anything, the dismal weather of the Month of Abundance lifted my spirits. I had drawn the hood of my long cloak back from my hair, allowing the kinky golden mass to soak up moisture, letting it trickle under my clothing and caress my skin. I loved the rainy season. It was the only time of year I didn't have to fear sunburn.
It was all I could do not to tear off every stitch and cavort naked in the storm, baring my pallid skin to the world. Was there anyone here who would think less of me? I was a princess no more.
Of course, on clumsy sore feet, a few moments of dancing in the rain and I'd probably end up face down in the mud. So I remained clothed, and plodded on.
On occasion I glanced behind us, past Ngo, who swished through the grass, like an emerald beetle under his shield and basket of supplies. In his hunter's opinion, he'd told us that without a line of sight no one could track us far through this rain.
I could put to rest my fears that Barasa San's agents would find me. Namu, home for all of my twenty years, was in the past. The sacred Ancestors had granted me the most precious of all gifts -- a second life. Once I crossed the border and left Ikanje State behind, I could truly know freedom.
As the sun passed us by and fell towards the horizon, the terrain gradually climbed. The land grew firmer, the air grew fresher, and poplar and spiky thorn trees sprouted up on the plain.
Though this was not Zhura's native land, the herb-witch seemed to have studied the local plants. She stopped as we passed a grove to gather bright colored berries. She took a nibble from one and sucked the juice.
"These are like
maramu
grapes," she said to Ngo, "but less bitter than the ones in the Valley."
The spearman, whose home was a village close to hers, took a taste and nodded in agreement. We picked more of the berries, dumping handfuls into empty gourds.
The animals of the marsh had the same idea. We passed troops of red, white and black monkeys who scampered through the grass, feasting on the fruit. They screamed and yammered at us like we were interlopers. I'd seen the same species caged in the markets of Tanga District.
I had never walked so far. By afternoon, the blisters had stopped stinging. Overwhelmed with pain, my ankles and soles grew numb.
At first, I had welcomed each stop we took to rest. But then I found that it hurt more to get my stiff legs and feet to start moving again. Zhura threw me a few sympathetic looks, but the other two simply ignored me. They spoke little, even to each other. Sometimes when I ventured near Bayati, I heard her sing softly in a foreign tongue. I assumed it was Nubic, from her homeland. But I couldn't discern the words.
Before the sun set, Ngo picked out a space under the boughs of a stand of spreading jackalberries. I was tasked with collecting sheaves of grass while the other three set up shelters. Ngo and Zhura unpacked linen sheets that smelled of beeswax and coconut oil. They spread them over wooden stakes, creating a pair of small lean-tos that we bedded and covered with grass. By darkness, we had two snug tents and a damp supper while we sat in the clearing between them. Lamps under the shelters provided some light, though not much.
We left our gourds open for the rain to fill. Although we were close to marsh water, it was brackish and foul-smelling. Crocs and other predators would prowl near the water. So we relied upon the rain while we could.
"I miss my
sanju
demon," Zhura said. "When it was around, I knew I wasn't being followed."
"We're not being followed," Ngo insisted.
"Then why do I feel like I'm being watched? Like there's something skittering about just beyond the corner of my eye, and when I turn my head it is gone?"
"It's the rainfall," said Bayati. "There's movement all around us."
Zhura nodded as she took another mouthful of the yellowish berries we had gathered. The fruit added a sweet acidic flavor to the dry blandness of rice cakes and desiccated meat.
"You must be right," she said. "The only creature so elusive is the
sanju
. But if Mili was following me, it would have answered when I called."
"We had you covered when you came to meet us on the beach this morning," Ngo said. "There was no one following. Anyone who might trail you through the warrens of the city would be unprepared to march this far through the marshes. And within a day, our trace will be washed away by the rain."
"Of course," Zhura said, "someone, or something, could randomly stumble across our camp during the night and attack us."
