This book is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places, and

incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
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living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2023 by Suyi Davies Okungbowa

Excerpt from The Nameless Republic: Book Three copyright © 2023
by Suyi Davies Okungbowa
Excerpt from The Jasad Heir copyright © 2023 by Sara Hashem

Cover design by Lauren Panepinto

Cover illustration by Dan dos Santos
Cover copyright © 2023 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Okungbowa, Suyi Davies, author.
Title: Warrior of the wind / Suyi Davies Okungbowa.
Description: First edition. | New York, NY : Orbit, 2023. | Series: The
Nameless Republic ; book two
Identifiers: LCCN 2023013528 | ISBN 9780316428972 (trade
paperback) | ISBN 9780316428958 (ebook)
Subjects: LCGFT: Fantasy fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PR9387.9.O394327 W37 2023 | DDC 823/.92—
dc23/eng/20230330
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023013528

ISBNs: 9780316428972 (trade paperback), 9780316428958 (ebook)

E3-20231019-JV-NF-ORI
 Contents

Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Content Note
The Story So Far

The Third Account

Ochela
1: Five Hunthands
2: Lilong
3: Lilong
4: Lilong
5: Lilong
6: Kangala
7: Esheme
8: Nem
9: Lilong
10: Danso
11: Lilong
12: Esheme
 13: Nem
14: Nem
15: Lilong
16: Danso
17: Danso
18: Lilong
19: Lilong
20: Danso
21: Lilong
The Eighth Account

Nameless
22: Esheme
23: Kangala
24: Esheme
25: Kangala
26: Lilong
27: Lilong
28: Nem
29: Basuaye
30: Lilong
31: Danso
32: Biemwensé
33: Biemwensé
34: Ifiot
35: Nem
36: Ifiot
 37: Biemwensé
38: Kangala
39: Lilong
40: Danso
41: Danso
42: Kangala
43: Danso
The Twelfth Account

Risisi
44: Nem
45: Danso
46: Lilong
47: Danso
48: Lilong
49: Esheme
50: Esheme
51: Lilong
52: Danso
53: Kangala
54: Lilong
55: Lilong
56: Lilong
57: Lilong
58: Kangala
59: Nem
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Persons of Interest
Glossary
The Written Codex of Danso DaaHabba, First Jali of Bassa to
Journey over the Soke Borders
Acknowledgments
Discover More
Extras
Meet the Author
A Preview of The Nameless Republic: Book Three
A Preview of The Jasad Heir
Also by Suyi Davies Okungbowa
Praise for Son of the Storm
For those buckled and bent, but never
broken.
Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.

Tap here to learn more.

 Content Note

This book is intended for an adult readership, and contains themes,

depictions, and/or instances of: albinism, animal death, artificial
insemination, blood/gore, caste and class segregation, colourism and
discrimination, death, pregnancy loss and miscarriages, murder,
PTSD and anxiety, violence, and xenophobia.
Reader discretion is advised.
 The Story So Far

IN THE UNICONTINENT OF Oon, surrounded by the Neverending Sea, the

prosperous city of Bassa sits at the geographical and political centre
of the mainland. Being the most fertile of all three regions
(mainland, desertland, and islands), the empire of Bassa has long
ruled by might and by tale. But everything is changing—the land, the
winds, the seas. As resources dwindle, so does Bassa’s might. And
unknown to the city, its story is about to be rewritten.
BOOK 1: SON OF THE STORM
DANSO, a disillusioned scholar at the University of Bassa, stumbles
upon an ancient manuscript while skimming a restricted section. The
written codex of the Manic Emperor contains stories about Bassa’s
past that challenge everything Danso knows about his nation, raising
even more questions about his past: his mixed heritage of an
islander mother and mainlander father, which has earned him the
lowest caste position of Shashi (though he is let into the scholar
guild reserved for the elite Idu nobles, the highest caste position,
due to his excellent memory). The codex also discusses a mythical
mineral called IBOR, with which a gifted user, called an
IBORWORKER, can perform supernatural feats. His quest for further
answers puts him in trouble with his family, the university (which
suspends him), and most importantly, ESHEME, his intended.
Things come to a head when an intruder breaches Bassa’s border.
LILONG, from the Nameless Islands (believed by most Bassai and
mainlanders to be extinct, alongside its peoples), is chasing the Diwi,
a family heirloom of inert red ibor that has been stolen by NEM, a
fixer (and Esheme’s mother). By a twist of fate, Lilong ends up in
Danso’s family barn, where she is spotted by him. Her presence
confirms Danso’s beliefs that the codex’s words were true: Islanders
aren’t extinct, and ibor is real, proven by Lilong’s use of amber ibor
(to change her skin shade and control her blade, among other
feats). When Lilong leaves, Danso opts not to report her presence.
In the course of retrieving the Diwi, Lilong discovers that Nem
has learned iborworking, and ends up attacking her. Both get
wounded, Nem more so than Lilong. Lilong returns to Danso’s barn,
and Danso helps her, but encounters Esheme in the process. In a bid
to protect herself, Lilong attacks Esheme, and Danso’s Second, ZAQ,
is dutifully required to attack Esheme’s Second, who intends to harm
Danso. With a search for the intruder on, the three—Danso, Zaq,
and Lilong—are forced to flee to Whudasha, a coastal protectorate
where other Shashi are permitted to live outside of Bassa. To do
this, they must head through the Breathing Forest.
Their journey through the forest is filled with challenges,
including constant quakes and an attack by a lightning bat called a
SKOPI. Here, Danso learns that such beasts are attracted to ibor and
feats of iborworking. But after killing the beast, the Diwi—which has
been inert in Lilong’s family for generations—is awakened by Danso’s
touch, and the dead bat is brought back to life under his command.
Back in Bassa, Esheme has taken over Nem’s affairs while she
recovers from a coma. She comes into possession of a broken-off
piece of the Diwi, held by Nem. She also inherits a debt Nem owes
to the powerful First Elder DỌTA. Dọta, who knew about Nem’s
dalliances with ibor, wants his hands on the mineral, and tasks
Esheme with retrieving the full Diwi from the fugitives, threatening
consequences if she doesn’t. This sends Esheme down two paths.
The first: sending her Second, OBODA, to Whudasha in pursuit of
the fugitives. The second: a meeting with the Coalition for New
Bassa, in which the coalition’s leader, BASUAYE, and one of his
generals, IGAN, sign up to protect her and her house until Dọta’s
threats wane. But Basuaye wants something else in return: to use
the funeral of the Bassai Speaker—who died in a strange attack
(later revealed to have been facilitated by Nem for his knowledge of
her actions)—to push his goals for the coalition, which are to disrupt
the Bassai elite and galvanize the people to his cause. Esheme,
chosen to give an address (on behalf of the absent Nem) about the
recent attacks (which have been pinned on the intruder), is asked to
speak in favour of the coalition.
On the day of the funeral, Esheme delivers her speech, which she
infuses with her own rallying cries, revealing truths about the Bassai
elite’s secrets. Her speech ignites a fracas, during which Esheme is
rescued by Igan. Afterward, Dọta sends his people after her, but due
to the protection of the Coalition for New Bassa (and her newfound
respect by the Bassai), is unable to reach her.
Back on the road, the fugitives (Danso, Lilong, Zaq) arrive in
Whudasha on the back of a tragedy: an attack by a crop of bounty
hunters on their tail, which Danso deals with by setting the Skopi’s
lighting on them. They are discovered by BIEMWENSÉ, a Whudan
outcast who nurses them back to health. Zaq, harbouring doubts
throughout the trip, finally abandons Danso, but is picked up by the
Whudasha Youth, led by the Supreme Magnanimous, KAKUTAN, who
pressures the truth out of him. Kakutan sets upon Biemwensé’s
home, hoping to avoid Bassa’s wrath by rounding up the fugitives
and returning them to the city. But Biemwensé holds her ground,
defending Danso and Lilong—before Danso quells the attack using
the Skopi. Kakutan allows the fugitives to go if they leave
immediately, which they agree to. They head for the headquarters to
retrieve Zaq, but more surprises await.
Oboda, who has traced the fugitives to Whudasha, has
commandeered the Whudasha Youth and set Zaq to a pyre in order
to draw out the fugitives. This leads to a battle wherein Oboda is
killed by Lilong, and Zaq is burned at the stake. Zaq’s death weighs
greatly on Danso. Kakutan, realising what Oboda’s death means for
her people, decides to lead all of Whudasha across the border—
underneath the Soke mountains, through the Dead Mines—to the
desertlands beyond, where they may be safe with a secret group
who runs these passages. Danso, Lilong, and Biemwensé follow on
this journey.
In Bassa, Esheme learns she is pregnant with the child of her
desertland immigrant lover. While processing this, she receives
Oboda’s deceased body, which, upon her touch with the small piece
of red ibor, is brought back to zombie-like life (like Danso’s bat) and
is compliant to her commands. When Dọta shows up in person with
his personal army to retrieve the red ibor, she decimates him and his
group in a bloody attack by her newfound weapon, Oboda.
Afterward, Nem awakes from her coma, and Esheme fills her in on
everything. Nem pieces together that Esheme’s carriage of a mixed-
heritage child must be the reason she can wield red ibor (giving us
an insight as to why Danso also can). Nem believes that protecting
this secret is important, and therefore all mixed-heritage peoples
must be prevented from learning it—especially Whudans.
This leads Esheme into capitalizing on her newfound power (and
support from the people) to take over the Coalition for New Bassa
(which she does by murdering its generals and imprisoning its
leader, Basuaye). With a rousing speech, she commandeers the
coalition into an attack on the Great Dome, which she leads herself,
using Oboda and Igan. In view of the public, she gives the Bassai
elite over to the people to be maimed, after which she is rewarded
with their support and loyalty, and is proclaimed by them as saviour
and the new emperor.
With her newfound position, Esheme gathers Bassa’s best forces
and sets upon the Soke border, catching the escape of the Whudans
in the nick of time. On the last bridge across the moats, where
Danso, Lilong, Biemwensé, and Kakutan are escaping, she tries to
barter the Diwi for Danso’s father, whom she has brought along. This
ends in a battle where Danso’s father dies at Esheme’s hands (by
burning), Oboda and the Skopi are lost in the moat, and the four
fugitives escape. They are picked up by the secret group, who they
learn are called the Gaddo Company.
Back in Bassa, Esheme is crowned the new emperor.
 The Written Codex of Danso DaaHabba, First Jali of
Bassa to Journey over the Soke Borders: Hereafter lie
his personal accounts of travels and travails through
the desertlands, from the western vagabond colony of
Chabo, to the fabled eastern Forest of the Mist.

The Third Account: The salt-taste of triumph.

Triumph is salt. It is blood rushing back from throat onto

tongue, warm and stale and sick. It is the ache of bones after
victory, the agony of wounds treated.
—The Manic Emperor, Nogowu, Twenty-Third Emperor of Great
Bassa

I FIND SOLACE IN a madman’s words once we have crossed underneath

the border’s mountains and make our way to a future beyond Bassa.
Our journey across the lower Savanna Belt lasts many days and ends
in a colony obscured from the naked eye, whose roads only familiar
feet know. Here, we dismount and venture into the shadows.
In the quiet, I discover madness. What else is left to lose but
sanity when one has lost everything they love, has left behind all
whose freedoms may well depend on their actions? So, while around
us people sing happy songs, seek friendship, eat good food, and
make home, I find no respite, and neither do my companions; there
is only dust and sweat and hearts jumping into our mouths.
Silence is safety, but also anticipation.
As an old jali’s saying goes: There is no rest under the throne.
But a child who says their parent will not rest, will not rest either. All
of us, eyes open, will stand through the dark of night.
Second Season of the Red Emperor
 Five Hunthands

The Lonely Roads West

Fifth Mooncycle, 19–21

CHABO WAS A COLONY of vagabonds.

Every soul in Chabo was running from something. People of
disrepute who, if their feet were to touch the dust of any city or
settlement in the Savanna Belt, would be pounced upon and sent
into a forever darkness. Those who lacked ambition, aspiration, or
resourcefulness, making Chabo the only place on the continent that
would not eat them alive for it. Those who moved between worlds,
who needed a place of dishonour that operated by its own rules to
pause and rethink their strategies.
Chabo asked nothing of those who came. There were no councils,
no civic guards, no warrant chiefs, no vigilantes, no peace officers.
Nothing but a haphazard collection of rogue communes in the
western armpit of the Savanna Belt. It was generally agreed that any
soul without a wish to be absorbed into this colony was to remain on
the northward trade routes that sprouted from Chugoko, a real city.
It was advised not to turn even one’s neck westward, let alone one’s
kwaga.
Except, of course, if one wanted to turn their sights on Chabo in
search of something that did not wish to be found.
Five mooncycles into the second season of the Red Emperor, a
wagon carrying five men turned westward like so, sidling the Soke
mountains and border moats, and set themselves upon the Lonely
Roads West to Chabo. Each man was dressed in armoured hunthand
garb—skirts, chest plates, iron headwear—and bore a short spear
and long blade. Faces half shielded by veils, eyes alone betraying
grim temperament. In their wagon: shackles, blindfolds, an iron
crossbolt.
They rode in the open wagon and spat in the browning grass by
the wayside, not an eye taken off the roads, minds focused on the
colony ahead of them. They camped without event on the first day.
By the next day, they came upon the first person they had seen in a
long time: a wrinkled old desertlander who sat in the dust and
batted flies from his lips.
They kicked aside his alms bowl and shoved a worn leaflet into
his nose.
“In the name of the Red Emperor, tell us what you know of this,”
the leader of the hunthands—a dark man with tribal marks etched
into his cheeks, remnants of his hinterland origins—said in halting
Savanna Common.
The almsman cocked his head and licked his dry, cracked lips. He
squinted at the sheet of paper, struggling to make out the faint
markings in the glare of the sun. It was unclear what language the
words were written in. Besides, the man couldn’t read. He shrugged
after trying, pointed at his ear, then at his head, to say he
understood neither their words nor the markings.
“We seek the jali who made this,” said the leader, switching to a
smoother border pidgin, more easily understood. “We are led to
believe it came from Chabo.”
The almsman shrugged again. The leader smacked him on the
cheek.
 “Listen, you millipede,” he said. “This jali and his accomplices are
fugitives of the Red Emperor. If you have seen a Shashi in Chabo,
you better tell us now.” When the almsman struggled to process the
word Shashi, the leader added: “He rides a dead bat that is not
dead, and can call on lightning. He may be travelling with a
yellowskin.”
The almsman blinked at that, then stifled a chuckle, and that was
all it took.
One of the men punched him in the face and broke his nose.
They left him bleeding into the dry grass, red reflecting in the hard
heat of noon.
Next, they came upon a nomadic group of cattle and goat
rearers. They stopped and asked the same questions. The rearers, a
ragtag group of poorly armed men, said they sounded ridiculous. A
bat-riding Shashi and a yellowskin? They had walked the length and
breadth of this Savanna Belt and had never seen such things. They
waved the hunthands aside and asked to be left alone.
One of the hunthands took off his veil to reveal his mouth: lips
sewn shut, copper wires criss-crossing top to bottom, leaving dark,
reddish patterns where they pierced.
Immediately the nomads saw this, they fell to their knees, heads
bowed in the sand. “We did not know you were the Red Emperor’s
peace officers,” they pleaded. “We thought you were bandits or
swindlers trying to take our goats.”
The lead hunthand, in response, mounted the crossbolt and shot
it between three goats. The rearers swallowed their hurt and rage
and sorrow as the hunthands made them chop up the meat, dry it
over a fire, and salt it for the rest of their trip.
On the third day, a few hours outside of Chabo, the hunthands
met another vagabond.
This man happened to be headed away from Chabo, toward
Chugoko, and luckily for them, knew about the tract. He had seen
others like it being read back in Chabo, passed from hand to hand.
All nonsense stories, he said, lies about the Red Emperor and Bassa.
But it was popular in the colony, often read around night-fires
among the companies that plied their trade there.
 They thanked him, but for good measure, stripped him of his
belongings.
They had barely gone another hour when they met another
vagabond, this one cloaked in every sense of the word. Their
wrappers went up to their wrists and ankles, and a veil shielded their
face, leaving only their eyes visible. Even their hands and feet were
wrapped in strips of cloth, as if they’d once been buried beneath the
sand.
Upon sighting the hunthands from afar, the vagabond stopped in
the middle of the road.
The men, unsure of what they were dealing with, disembarked
from their wagon. The leader shouted his questions—in Savanna
Common, in Mainland Common, in two border pidgins. None evoked
any response. Then the man with the sewn lips revealed his face,
and the vagabond snickered.
“If you were truly peace officers,” the vagabond said in High
Bassai, “I would already be dead.”
The leader’s eyes narrowed. The man with the sewn lips removed
the false wiring, tossed it in the sand, and wiped the fake blood from
his lips.
“Who are you?” asked the leader.
“Come and find out,” said the vagabond, then ducked into the
bush.
The men moved before they thought, drawing, unsheathing, a
synergy born of seasons of hunts together. They piled into the bush,
but one ran to the wagon, mounted the crossbolt, aimed it in the
general vicinity of the vagabond, and fired. The iron bolt whizzed
through tall grass, parting vegetation, headed for the retreating
figure’s spine.
Out of nowhere, a flash of colour, as a gem-hilted blade appeared
and struck the crossbolt clean in the head, altering its trajectory. The
bolt missed the vagabond narrowly, tearing through their wrappers,
splintering one tree, embedding itself into another.
“Ambush!” cried the leader, but it was too late. The vagabond had
stopped running and had now turned to face them.
A second figure materialized in the grass: a man in a boubou
kaftan, head in a turban, the curved sword in his hand pointed at
the hunthand leader. Various people dressed and armed in a similar
manner began to appear, their curved swords pointed likewise. In a
moment, the hunthands were outnumbered, outarmed, outfoxed.
“If you know what is good for you,” the man in the boubou said,
“drop your weapons.”
The lead hunthand, though not fully understanding the Savanna
Common spoken, recognised the language of a well-executed trap.
Especially once he spotted the vagabond from much earlier—the one
who’d told them about the tract—among the group.
He surrendered his weapons and signaled for his men to do the
same.
The cloaked vagabond stepped forward. Up close, he could see it
was a woman: young, low-brown, desertlander. Raised scars peeked
out near her collarbone, stretched and leathery, as if belonging to
some other skin.
“You will be returning those,” she said, of the belongings they
stole.
The lead hunthand nodded solemnly, then asked again, softer this
time: “Who are you?”
“We,” she said, “are the Gaddo Company.”
 Lilong

Chabo
Fifth Mooncycle, 21, same day

LILONG RODE BACK TO the colony beside Kubra, in the lead and on the
kwaga gifted to her by the company. This was how crucial she had
become to company affairs over the few mooncycles since her
arrival. So integrated, in fact, that she barely spared a thought for
their targets anymore, especially when they deserved it like the
hunthands they had just stripped of everything and abandoned in
the savanna.
It’d started with Kubra asking her to join their raids. Not a
request per se: It was customary for Bassa escapees to work off the
cost of their escape. Between the four in her group, Lilong was the
best choice, being the most skilled, most easily adaptable, and least
recognised.
Initially, she’d accompanied them only on food raids, robbing
Bassai merchant caravans along the trade routes. But the caravans
soon became harder to defeat as the routes saw increased patrols
by the Red Emperor’s bounty force of peace officers. So Lilong opted
instead to provide first points of attack closer to home, fitting so
seamlessly into the role that, within the season, she had become
Kubra’s second-in-command.
They rode into the colony through the widest of the four
mainways, that which contained both the depository and the public
house. At this time of day—early evening—a motley selection of
people milled about at the height of their business. There were no
stables, so most tended to their mounts—camels and kwagas both—
in back corridors. Most also trained their wild beasts in the street,
like the feral camel that spat in Lilong’s direction as they went by,
the owner trying to rein it in.
Chabo welcomed them as it often did: by paying no attention at
all. The colony had a character of its own, a spirit of organised chaos
that possessed all who arrived here. It had to be a possession,
Lilong surmised, since no matter how deadly a vagrant one was
before joining the colony, it was only a matter of time before they
turned out differently (though worse in other ways, she thought with
an eye on their tattered clothing, rotten teeth, and general lack of
hygiene).
There was an odd sense of belonging one developed to the place,
something Lilong had sorely missed in all her time traipsing the
mainland. The full-bellied laughter of colourful strangers who did not
wish her death, and whom she did not want to strangle in turn.
Singing by the night-fire. Combat training with fighters she barely
knew yet shared a common goal with.
But that feeling, she reminded herself often, was dangerous. No
one here had anything in common with her. No one here had to
return home—a home that awaited with jaws open—to reclaim their
family’s honour. No one here held the future of the continent in their
hands.
“It’s time,” said Kubra, pulling Lilong out of her thoughts.
She blinked. “For what?”
“The meeting. The audience with Gaddo you asked for?”
Lilong’s eyes narrowed. “You said after fifty successful raids. I
have not done fifty.”
“And yet they would like to see you anyway,” said Kubra.
“Something urgent. Come by our quarters tonight and I’ll take you.”
Lilong wanted to allow herself a moment to exhale, to scream
with joy and say, Finally, Lilong, you’re going home! She wanted to
envision her daa’s face, pretend he was still alive (until she knew
otherwise for sure). She wanted to imagine her siblings’ excitement
when she returned with the Diwi in hand. She wanted to envision
the Elder Warriors of the Abenai League patting her on the back for
doing the right thing.
None of those things were going to happen. But that was not the
reason for holding her breath.
She didn’t detest the Gaddo Company. She could even say she
enjoyed working here. There was recreation, camaraderie, gifts like
the kwaga. Two mooncycles in, Kubra bestowed upon her a “colony
name,” which the company used in the field in lieu of one’s true
name. (He named her Snakeblade—snake for her ability to, in his
words, “shed skin,” and blade for her skillful ability with her short
sword). It was a nice gesture, even though it was in keeping with
the Code of Vagabonds—the loose list of rules of conduct by which
every resident of the colony lived—which stated: Never inquire about
a person’s past or their true name—a colony name and all the past
they offer is sufficient. (Other rules: Stay within assigned territories;
keep weaponry unconcealed at all times; company leadership must
remain secret.)
Regardless, her impending journey east was an open secret.
Traversing the Savanna Belt to the eastern coast where the Forest of
the Mist lay would be a perilous task. There was a bounty on her
head. Peace officers prowled the region. Bandits and wild beasts
littered the open savanna. Even if she could somehow overcome
these, there was the little matter of food, water, and reliable
transport for the length of the trip, costly things she could not
afford. She’d learned the hard way on her initial trip to Bassa that
lacking these could kill you just as quickly as a sword.
So she’d requested a meeting with Gaddo to ask for help.
The Gaddo Company was one of the largest companies
headquartered in Chabo, bigger than the Savanna Swine, Ravaging
Mongrels, Tremor of the Sands, and other fledgling companies
roaming the savanna but keeping base here. The Code of Vagabonds
ensured that every company adhered to Chabo’s rules, but also
served to strengthen the standing agreements between the
companies and the law, which once consisted solely of vigilantes
employed by Bassa-ordained warrant chiefs. But with peace officers
now in the region, the warrant chiefs’ vigilantes no longer held as
much sway—not even in Chugoko. The identities of company
leadership were now at a premium. A headless group is a multi-
headed one, Kubra had said, not as prone to decapitation.
So Lilong ended up never meeting Gaddo, despite working for
them for a season and a half. But suddenly, out of the dust, an
invitation?
“Tonight is not good,” said Lilong. “That is no time to prepare.”
“There’s nothing to prepare,” said Kubra. “They know all there is
to know about you.”
Lilong eyed Kubra. “What have you gossiped?”
“Me, gossip?” Kubra chuckled. “Your suspicion knows no bounds,
Snakeblade. You four need to keep an open mind until the meeting.”
Lilong lifted an eyebrow. “Us four?”
“Yes: you, the Whudans, the jali. Gaddo wants to meet you all.”
Lilong did not like the sound of that.
“And speaking of the jali,” Kubra continued, “can you tell him to
stop distributing those tracts? We have better things to do than
intercept hunthands.”
Lilong pursed her lips. “He is… going through some things.”
“Then he better go through them fast,” said Kubra. “Or one day, it
will land in the hands of a peace officer who can read, and then we’ll
all be doomed.”
Back at her quarters before the sky turned sunset orange, Lilong
took the secret entrance—the rear one built of wood, made to look
like an abandoned shack. She made straight for the washroom,
wiped her sweaty parts, and switched back to her regular
complexion before heading for the common area, praying that the
evening dish would already be laid out. Sure enough, as she
emerged from the darkness into the only room with windows not
boarded shut, Biemwensé and Kakutan sat on short stools at the
dwarf roundtable, surrounded by pounded yam, dika nut soup, and
ram.
“Ooh, ram,” Lilong said, reaching for the bowl of meat.
Biemwensé, without looking, stretched out her stick and smacked
her hand before it reached the dish.
“Wait until your brother joins us,” she said.
Lilong massaged her smarting hand. She wasn’t sure if it was just
a language thing, the way Biemwensé used brother to refer to
Danso and auntie to herself and Kakutan. Other things she insisted
upon: all four of them living in the same quarters; requiring
everyone to be home before dusk; having the evening meal
together. It was play-acting family, a fantasy, and Lilong hated it.
Each had their own family, and this little gang of four was not it.
Biemwensé herself never wasted an opportunity to speak about how
much she missed her children, how much she wished she was back
in Whudasha with her boys. Even Kakutan spoke often of returning
to do right by the Whudans, gather them from every corner of the
mainland and lead them back to safety.
Each had their own way of coping with the limbo they were stuck
in, but Lilong’s patience for indulging them was wearing thin.
“Maybe you should tell brother,” Lilong said, “to stop leading
bounty hunters here.”
Biemwensé pretended not to hear, instead resetting each dish in
scalding water to keep the food warm. Lilong took the opportunity to
snag one of the diced chunks of papaya lying in a side dish and
stuffed it into her mouth.
Kakutan, transformed from Supreme Magnanimous to Chabo
commoner by losing her warrior garb and cutting her hair short—
part camouflage, part comfort, she’d say when asked—leaned in.
“What happened?”
“I have good news and bad news,” said Lilong. “Pick.”
“Bad,” said Kakutan, at the same time Biemwensé said, “Good.”
“More hunthands who can read,” Lilong said, pulling out the
yellowed tract seized from the men and slapping it on the table.
“Mainlanders, these ones. I don’t know how this travelled all the way
there.”
The women stared at the tract. Not that they needed to. As much
as Danso denied it, everyone in this house knew it was him writing
and distributing them.
Kakutan shook her head, saying, “Several times I’ve warned him.
And yet.”
“Please don’t bring outside on my table,” said Biemwensé. With
her stick, she shoved the tract onto the floor.
“He has to stop now,” said Lilong, “or all this hiding is for
nothing.”
“Then tell him,” said Biemwensé. “He listens to you.”
Lilong shook her head. “Not anymore.”
Silence bit at them, interrupted only by Biemwensé’s impatient
tapping of her stick.
“What’s the good news?” asked Kakutan.
“Meeting with Gaddo. Finally.”
The former Supreme Magnanimous sat up, flush across the face.
“Say again?”
“Tonight. Kubra will take us.”
“Us?” Biemwensé said, at the same time Kakutan said,
incredulously, “Tonight?”
Lilong nodded. “They want to meet with all of us.”
“Why?” asked Biemwensé. “You’re the one who needs help.”
“You are the ones going back to the mainland,” Lilong retorted.
“Right,” said Kakutan, rising. “Well, we can’t eat now! I hear
meeting company leaders is like meeting royalty. I suspect there will
be a hearty meal, and we cannot disrespect them by suggesting
we’re full.”
“So what happens to all this?” Biemwensé gestured at the meal.
“After I spent seasons preparing it?”
Kakutan shrugged. “We are sorry?”
“I can eat,” said Lilong, reaching for a bowl. Biemwensé’s stick
came back up, but this time, Lilong was ready and caught it.
“What is wrong with you?” said Lilong. “You are not anybody’s
maa here. Stop this.”
“Lilong,” said Kakutan, cocking her head. “Be gentle.” To
Biemwensé, she said: “You know she’s right.” Then the former
Supreme Magnanimous left it at that and went to prepare.
Biemwensé remained unfazed. “We all eat,” she said,
strengthening her grip on the stick, “or no one does.”
Lilong slapped the stick away and left the room.

Danso was holed up in the dark, writing in his codex, when Lilong
knocked and entered. He did not acknowledge her.
“You missed evening meal,” she said. “Biemwensé is upset.”
“Not hungry,” he said without looking up.
A beat, then she said: “We caught hunthands today. They had
your tract.”
“Not my tract.”
Lilong collected herself. Be gentle.
“I know you are bursting with stories, and that you want to”—she
put on his voice—“liberate people’s minds. But this actually hurts us.”
Danso said nothing. Lilong changed tack.
“Listen,” she said, stepping closer. “As a jali, I know this is the
one power you have.” She did not mention the other power, the one
he had forever abandoned and forbade her to speak of. “Your codex
—its purpose is storytelling, yes? Tell all the stories you want in
there. I promise you these tracts will not be missed. Nobody wants
to hear the truth about Esheme—”
“Don’t say her name.”
 Lilong held up her hands. “Fine. The Red Emperor.”
“Don’t say that either.”
Lilong scoffed. This was fruitless. “Look at us, arguing about
names and tracts. We could be putting this time to better use. Like
practicing with the Diwi.”
Danso stiffened. She hurried forward, giving him no time to
respond.
“I have thought it through, Danso. We wrap ourselves up like I do
on raids. No one recognises me out there, even when I do not
skinchange—no one will be able to tell! We ride off to the outskirts,
start out with the small critters—lizards, scorpions. Try bigger after.”
She waved a hand over the scattered papers of his codex. “This isn’t
the power that will save us if we come upon the emperor’s forces.
Ibor is.”
Danso’s writing hand stopped moving. A shadow of a smile
tugged at his lips.
“You have been practicing that argument.”
Lilong wrinkled her nose. “And what if so?”
“It’s a good argument.” He went back to writing. “But I told you.
I’m not touching it again.”
Lilong exhaled, defeated. “Danso…”
He turned, anticipating the rest of her sentence. His hair, now
moon-sized and unbraided, had not seen grooming in many
mooncycles. His beard was the same, encroaching down his neck,
moustache threatening to block his nostrils. His eyes were bloodshot
from peering in the dark, refusing to light anything more than one
candle.
What exactly are you going to say, Lilong? she thought. That she
understood what it meant for one’s family, friends, home, livelihood
—everything they loved, knew, and believed in—to be snatched
away forever? Had she seen her daa murdered by her own
intended’s hand? Had her closest associate been burned to a crisp
right before her eyes? Had her sole actions broken the world and
cost everything in the process?
She, too, had lost things, but not like this. It had to be hard,
living every day knowing he escaped Bassa’s grip, but everyone else
he cared about was still trapped there: friends, uncles, mentors. Had
to be hard knowing he could do little or nothing to help them—not
even with stories, the one thing he was good at. And how could he
save them if he wasn’t safe, if he couldn’t even go outside without a
disguise?
At least everyone under this roof had something to look forward
to, a people to return to, no matter how fractured the situation.
Danso had nothing.
So what did she really know about what he was going through?
“Never mind you,” she said. “I just came to give the news.”
This made him perk up. He put down his charcoal stylus and gave
her his undivided attention.
“We have the meeting. Tonight.”
His eyes lit up. “Gaddo?” She nodded. “All of us?” She nodded
again.
“The aunties want you to… make yourself proper.”
“Ah,” he said, then chuckled. She hadn’t heard that sound in a
while.
“So, this is real?” A small vigor had crept back into his once-
defeated manner. “We’re going home?”
He said home like the Ihinyon islands were theirs to share. Maybe
they were. Agreeing to come east with her was the right choice,
seeing as he had nowhere left of his own. Perhaps it wasn’t a bad
idea to start thinking of Namge as home. And who knew? Maybe the
seven islands might be more welcoming than she envisaged.
 Lilong

Chabo
Fifth Mooncycle, same day

MEETING GADDO WAS INDEED like meeting royalty. Now that company
leaders were only learned of by word of mouth, tales about them
abounded, each trying to outdo the others through exaggeration.
Lilong doubted the commander of the Tremor of the Sands had ever
slain a lion with his bare hands, or the matriarch of the Savanna
Swine truly descended from a desertland goddess of war. Such tales
were primarily to instil fear into merchants who were unlucky
enough to encounter their companies.
Of Gaddo, the songs were more realist. No one had seen enough
to tell if they were man or woman or neither or both. While every
other company leader was a fugitive of some sort, Gaddo was best
at disguises, hiding in plain sight, and therefore had never been
caught or imprisoned. Lilong knew it was a huge feat to orbit the
savanna in this way yet remain anonymous, so she was equal parts
curious and anxious about this meeting.
Kubra took the party of four on a trek through an extensive
thicket, one of the last few of such still standing in the desertlands.
Chabo boasted a couple only due to its closeness to the coast.
“You’d think that weeks in the Breathing Forest would make me
less uneasy about walking into forests at night,” Danso, beard and
hair now trimmed, whispered to Lilong as they went deeper and
deeper into the thicket. “But look.” He stretched out trembling
hands.
“Kubra cannot harm us,” Lilong whispered back.
Danso appraised the man, who was walking in front of the
Whudan women.
“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “He and his employers are still blank
slates to me.”
Lilong shrugged. “Do we have a choice?”
Kubra meandered some more, holding a lantern up, until they
finally arrived at a dense wall of vines. He handed the lantern to
Kakutan and pulled the vines apart. Behind them was a sturdy wall
built with slender trunks, disguised as trees by greenery tied to the
top of them. Kubra led them in, squeezing through some space, and
they finally arrived at a tunnel-like opening. They trudged forward,
toward light streaming in from the opposite opening.
A scent wafted over to greet them.
“Is that—” Danso started.
“Bean pudding?” Lilong said.
“We call it moi-moi here,” Kubra said. “Come, let me show you.”
They emerged from the opposite end into a clearing, and it was
all Lilong could do to keep from gasping.
Before them was a garden, set into the mist of night. Lanterns
hung from branches and cast soft glows on flowers arranged in
various patterns. At the centre of it all was a large hut—couldn’t call
it a hut, really, because it was too large, but it was built to look like
one anyway. The grass was soft and inviting, meticulously tended to.
Off to a side was a tiny patch of farm with various plants growing. In
that farm were two figures: a woman, holding up an open-flame
lamp, and a man, bent over and picking some fruit from a shrub.
 “They are here,” Kubra announced.
Both figures rose as one, and the woman lifted the lamp to show
their faces. They were both elderly—Lilong surmised them to be
about the same age as Biemwensé. The woman—mainlander, high-
black as humus—had a permanent warm smile affixed to her face in
a way that uneased Lilong. The man—low-brown, desertlander—
presented as aloof, as if only just remembering people existed
outside of the woman next to him, and Lilong couldn’t decide if this
was a front or not. He rubbed the fruits he had been picking up—
yellow lantern peppers—in his palm.
“Welcome, dear ones,” the woman said in crisp High Bassai.
“Please, have a seat.” She waved them toward open space outside
the hut, mats spread over the soft grass. To Kubra, she said, in
Savanna Common: “You may guard the entrance.”
Kubra went over to do just that. The party remained standing,
confused. When no one else seemed willing to ask the obvious
question, Lilong blurted out: “Is it you we are supposed to meet?”
“Ah,” the woman said, dusting her palms together and interlinking
her arm with the man—Lilong assumed they were some sort of
partners. They made their way over to the group.
“You must be Lilong,” the woman said, the smile still plastered on
her face. “The Snakeblade.”
“And skinchanger, don’t forget.” The man had a shrill voice, as if
he was perpetually excited. “Also: extraordinary Ihinyon warrior.”
Lilong frowned. Kubra had been right. They knew a lot.
“We take it upon ourselves to know everyone who works for us,”
the woman said. She pointed at Danso. “You’re the scholar—my
apologies, jali, yes? And you”—she pointed to Kakutan—“must be
the Supreme Magnanimous of Whudasha. Well, former Supreme
Magnanimous.” She looked Biemwensé over. “And you’re the one
we’re still trying to piece together.”
The Whudan women glanced at each other. Danso, the only
person who seemed pleased to be recognised, offered a wry smile.
“Jali novitiate,” he corrected. “But I was close to graduating.”
Lilong offered nothing, turning things over in her mind. She had
expected to be recognised, sure, but these people did not even refer
to the seven islands as Nameless like everyone else. They had used
their real name.
“So you are… Gaddo?” asked Kakutan.
“As we live and breathe,” the man said. “You may call me Pa
Gaddo. This here is Ma Gaddo.”
“And those are your real names?”
The two looked at one another and smiled.
“Real enough for our purposes,” said Ma Gaddo.
“So there are two of you,” Danso added. “And, you are…”
“Old? Not warriors? Warm and welcoming?” Pa Gaddo said.
“From opposite sides of the border?” Ma Gaddo said.
Lilong was wary of people who answered questions before you
asked them.
“There is nothing to be said about us that we haven’t heard.
Come, sit.” Pa Gaddo placed the lantern peppers in Ma Gaddo’s
hand. “Let us spice up that moi-moi and then we will tell you
everything you need to know over a meal.”
Lilong watched the couple through the door of what she assumed
was their kitchen as they fussed over steaming pots. She noticed
that Kakutan, seated next to her in the grass, watched with the
same intensity. Biemwensé and Danso had wandered off to a corner
of the garden, whispering over flowers and fruits.
“You really believe it?” she whispered to Kakutan. “Chabo’s
biggest company led by two old lovers living jolly in the bush?”
“They sure have much explaining to do,” Kakutan whispered back.
Lilong, who once found the former Supreme Magnanimous a risky
ally, considered this moment one of the reasons Kakutan was a good
fit for their group. She often held a healthy amount of scepticism, a
trait useful for continued survival.
The moi-moi, when it came, was indeed spicy—those peppers
were no joke. When the leaf wraps were opened, steam rose from
the pudding-with-meat, stinging the eyes. With it came the wave of
a memory for Lilong: Ma Guosa doing the exact same back home,
though her daa’s wife made her pudding with a different kind of
beans, steamed with a different kind of leaf and often containing fish
and shrimp rather than meat. She remembered her older brother,
Issouf, and her younger brother, Kyauta, scrambling to open every
wrap to find the one with the biggest fish and take it for themselves.
They would dig in, just like Biemwensé and Danso did now, sucking
in their breaths to calm the pepper’s heat, eyes watering. Lilong
would fight them for the biggest piece of fish or crayfish they had
found, and hand it to their baby sister, Lumusi.
Lilong shut her eyes, letting the memory wash over her and
remind her why she was here. Ground yourself, Lilong. She opened
her eyes, but did not touch the food. Kakutan, next to her, did not
either.
“The doubters of the bunch, I see?” Pa Gaddo said.
“We just want to know why we are here,” said Lilong. “And
present our ask.”
“We know your ask,” Ma Gaddo said. “You want to journey east,
so you’ll need a mooncycle’s worth of food and water, maybe a few
weapons, all stocked in a sturdy travelwagon drawn by kwagas
trained for the wilderness.” She angled her head. “Well, at least you
need that. These two”—she pointed at the Whudan women—“want
to return to the mainland.”
The four glanced at one another.
“I reckon you must’ve heard,” Ma Gaddo said, “what the Red
Emperor is doing to your people?”
Biemwensé and Kakutan tensed. The news had indeed filtered
into Chabo little by little—a companyperson here or there, returning
with tales gleaned from those who had managed to escape the
mainland. They had learned that every Whudan left on the mainland
who wasn’t old, frail, or a child too young to possess agency had
been given two choices. One: leave Whudasha and be integrated
into Fifteenth Ward, where the civic guard could keep an eye on
their activities, but they’d still be far enough from the centre to
bother anyone of note. Or, two: be taken into First Ward’s prisons
and left to rot for the rest of their days. Seeing that both were the
same imprisonment by different names, many Whudans opted for
Fifteenth Ward. Only a few had ended up in prison.
“How do you know so much?” Kakutan asked.
“Our job is to know things,” Ma Gaddo said, then tapped a bowl.
“Now eat. It would be disrespectful for us to put forward our
proposition before you have eaten.”
“What is the proposition?” Lilong pressed.
“Eat,” Ma Gaddo said. “Talk after.”
So Lilong ate, reluctantly at first, but soon a bit more eagerly
than she’d expected. The food was surprisingly tasty, the black-eyed
beans well ground and the chewy bits of meat—camel or goat or
kwaga, she still couldn’t differentiate—soft.
“If I may ask,” Danso said, mid-meal. “What is the tale here?” He
pointed to each half of the Gaddo couple.
“Is this going to be in one of your tracts?” asked Pa Gaddo.
Danso swallowed and looked away.
“If we tell you,” said Ma Gaddo, “perhaps it will make you trust us
a bit more?” She said this with an eye on Lilong, who didn’t respond.
Ma Gaddo continued anyway.
“I was given over for joining at a young age. Too young. The man
I was joined to was… well, bastard is the kindest word I can use to
describe him. Pa Gaddo was a soldier—too young, just like me—
conscripted under the Manic Emperor to fight for the Bassai side. He
helped me cross the border. Back then, the Soke Pass was more
porous than it is now.”
Danso’s eyes widened. “You two were alive for the Second Great
War?”
“The tail end of them, mostly,” Ma Gaddo said. “I was much too
young to remember anything of note. Pa here might have some
stories for you.”
Pa Gaddo shrugged. “Eh. I never fought, was never close to the
coast, which is where the real battles with the first landers
happened. For me, it was mostly orders, orders, orders. I was in
supplies transport, see. Scrawny little travelhand driving teams of
kwagas. Boring, depressing. Most exciting thing was meeting Ma
when she stowed away in one of my wagons.”
Lilong noted how much of their story—stowaways, intendeds,
sneaking past borders—mimicked hers and Danso’s. Was this why
the Gaddos took an interest in them, among all the people they had
liberated from the clutches of the mainland?
 Danso, on the other hand, seemed ready to burst with curiosity.
“I have so many questions.”
“I have only one,” Lilong said, cutting in. “We have yet to pay the
debt for our crossing, and you have said nothing about erasing the
rest of it. If we are not yet free to leave, then why do you speak of
our journeys?”
“As I said,” said Ma Gaddo. “We have a proposition.”
Lilong rose. “Then say it now, or we are done here.”
“Sit,” Ma Gaddo said, so sharply Lilong had no choice but to obey.
She started to speak, but the woman held up a silencing finger. The
couple, done with eating, washed their hands together, a small,
silent ritual they seemed to take seriously. As the group watched,
the couple muttered prayers under their breaths, whispering into the
air, turning their faces up, down, side to side.
“To the Four Winds,” Pa Gaddo said, after they were done. “One
must give thanks after a meal and ask for favour.” He waved his
hands in the air to dry them.
“You are indeed correct,” said Ma Gaddo, finally. “We do not
speak of your debt, because we are willing to erase all that’s left of
it. Transport, supplies, maps with the safest routes—name it, and
you’ll have it for your journey east. For those of you who wish to
return to the mainland, we will sneak you back in and connect you
with our network, who will hide you until you can make your move.”
Lilong nodded. “But you want something from us first.”
“Yes,” said Pa Gaddo. “We want you to break into a prison.”
 Lilong

Chabo
Fifth Mooncycle, same day

“YOU WANT US TO do what?” Lilong spat.

Ma Gaddo shushed her violently. “You will wake the baby!”
A gurgle started up somewhere within the hut, then broke into a
cry that pierced the stillness of the thicket’s night.
“Ah, now you have done it.” Pa Gaddo kissed his teeth and went
into the hut.
“You have a baby in there?” Kakutan asked. “Who are you
people?”
The crying soon stopped. Pa Gaddo emerged, a wrapper tied
about his midriff. Nestled in the cocoon of wrapper folds at his back
was the child—less than three seasons old, by Lilong’s guess. Pa
Gaddo danced foot to foot, bouncing and humming a song to lull the
child back to sleep.
“This one has peed,” Pa Gaddo whispered. “I’ve wiped her, so she
will be back asleep soon, if you can manage to keep your voices
down.”
Lilong watched Pa Gaddo with the child, images flashing through
her mind: her daa, the day Lumusi was born, strapping her to his
chest. Dancing in the house to keep her quiet. Chiding the boys for
playing noisily while she was asleep. It was a long time ago and the
details were fuzzy, but Lilong remembered how she’d felt back then:
jealous, upset that her daa had chosen someone else over her. She
shook off the memory.
“What is in this prison?” she asked.
“Not what, who,” Ma Gaddo said. “And perhaps that answer will
interest you more than you think. But first, I will tell you the story of
this baby.”
Ma Gaddo rose, went over to Pa Gaddo, and patted the child
strapped to his back.
“This is Thema, daughter of our one and only son, Alaba.” Ma
Gaddo kissed the baby. “Now, Alaba should be here to take care of
his child, should he not? But our son, winds bless his soul, is a
coconut head with a heart of gold, a burdensome combination. He is
off in Chugoko, seeking to release Thema’s maa—whom he has
decided is the love of his life—from the Chugoko Central Prison.” She
patted the baby once more, then turned to face the group. “Now, I
understand young love. I have felt it once, and look, Pa Gaddo and I
are still here because of it. But this foolish quest Alaba is on, he
cannot succeed. Reasoning has never been his strength, though,
and Thema’s birth has made him all the more determined to free her
maa. So, because we are loving parents and do not want our son to
needlessly perish, we’ve decided to get help—proper help—to see it
through. That is where you come in.”
“We are to help him… break his lover out of prison,” Kakutan said.
“Are you being serious?”
“Am I smiling?” Ma Gaddo shot back. “Do you see my teeth?”
“Let me understand,” said Lilong. “You want us to risk our lives
for your son because he is foolish.”
“Or,” Pa Gaddo inserted, “maybe wait until you hear the person
you’re rescuing.”
 Ma Gaddo turned to Kakutan. “The high-ranking Bassai you once
helped secure passage through our route in the Dead Mines, you
know who she was, yes?”
“Oke,” Kakutan said, nodding. “The former speaker’s daughter.”
“Surely you must know her story?”
“I hear she got lost over the border.”
“Not lost, no,” Ma Gaddo said, turning to Danso. “But did you
know that she also read the Manic Emperor’s codex? And left the
mainland right after too? Luckily, her leaving didn’t raise as much
dust as yours. But unluckily, before she could do anything with that
information, she was caught by vigilantes, arrested, and placed in
prison. The Chugoko Central Prison.” She angled her head further.
“You see what I’m getting at?”
Danso’s and Kakutan’s eyes bulged.
“So that is who you want us to risk everything for?” Biemwensé,
since quiet, suddenly found her voice. “A spoiled Bassai Idu and her
wayward desertland lover?”
“Wayward desertland lover, yes,” said Ma Gaddo. “Spoiled Bassai
Idu, no.”
Ma Gaddo turned to Lilong.
“You are here because someone from your side of the continent
was at the Weary Sojourner Caravansary when it burned down.
Meeting with someone from this side of the continent. A Bassai.” Ma
Gaddo held Lilong’s gaze. “A Bassai who knew about ibor.”
The mention of ibor stiffened the group’s countenance. Humidity
sucked away, leaving behind air that was bone-dry, prickly, prone to
catching.
“No,” said Lilong. “It can’t be. Everyone who didn’t die in that fire
was a merchant or worker. The housekeep told me so.”
“That’s because Oke wasn’t there when it burned down,” said Ma
Gaddo. “She left long before, sensing something amiss. She was
captured in the wilderness nearly a season later, dehydrated and
pregnant. She’d been trying to make her way east.” She held Lilong’s
gaze again. “East.”
Lilong looked at the baby on Pa Gaddo’s back, now fast asleep.
She tried to imagine the parents’ faces—the stubborn daa, the
dogged maa. She tried to imagine Oke and her own daa, Elder
Warrior Jaoudou of the Abenai League, seated together at the Weary
Sojourner, ibor on the table between them, him divulging the secrets
of the seven islands, inviting her to the Forest of the Mist. She tried
to imagine Oke in the middle of the savanna, wading through grass,
evading bandits and wildlife, regretting leaving the comforts of her
daa’s wealth.
The web was simply too tangled, even a spider couldn’t weave it.
A tale so convoluted could be only one thing.
“Let us assume what you say is not a lie,” Lilong said, slowly.
“Why me?”
“There’s not a skilled companyperson I can hire who will not
immediately be recognised in Chugoko and rightly pounced upon.
Now someone who can alter their appearance…” She left that
trailing.
“A throwaway Bassai escapee is not worth the risk,” said Lilong.
“And your son does not deserve my sacrifice.”
Ma Gaddo smiled, then ushered Pa Gaddo to return the baby to
bed. Once gone, she sat back down.
“You know what it means to traverse this Savanna Belt. You’ve
done it once before, Lilong—have you told your friends what it’s like?
If I remember correctly, you got wounded by bandits on your way
west—and that’s you, a trained warrior with… abilities. Now imagine
all that, tripled by the dry harmattan, plus a bounty on your heads.”
Ma Gaddo sat up straight. “Stop being so stoic. You need help, and
we are willing to give it. You need answers, too, or you’d never have
come west in the first place. If this goes well, you get both those
things.”
Lilong hadn’t really thought of rescuing Oke as a pathway to
finding answers. Mostly, it was anger that filled her belly. Like: How
dare it be a Bassai that may have led her daa to his demise? Like:
How dare her daa spill the secrets of the seven islands to some
stranger, when his own daughter was right there? If anything, she
was happy to rescue this Oke person from prison if it meant she’d
get to put a blade through the woman herself.
But then there was also the promise of return: of traipsing the
Forest of the Mist, crossing the isthmus, Diwi in hand. Receiving a
hero’s welcome. Reclaiming her family’s honour. Saving the
continent. Saving her daa—if he was still alive.
Ma Gaddo was right: The next best thing to killing Oke was
finding out all she knew about the islands, ibor, her daa’s plans—
then using that to her advantage.
Lilong turned to her comrades. “Thoughts?”
The Whudans looked conflicted and Lilong could guess why. They
now understood why the Gaddos had wanted to meet with all four of
them—to make it difficult for Lilong to refuse their offer, since they’d
all benefit from her success. If Biemwensé and Kakutan told her to
accept the proposition now, it would seem selfish. But telling her not
to would sound like they didn’t care about her own desire to return
home. It was a perfectly laid trap, and Lilong decided that the
Gaddos were much more calculating than their warm disposition let
on.
“Maybe,” said Kakutan, canny as ever, “it doesn’t have to be just
you? Partaking in the heist, I mean.” She turned to the Gaddos, Pa
Gaddo now returned from laying the baby down. “We can all play a
part, can we not?”
“Depends,” said Ma Gaddo. “What can you bring to the table?”
“Assume we possess a variety of useful skills.”
The Gaddos glanced at one another, shrugged. “I guess we can
use more hands with no ties to the company,” said Pa Gaddo. “Four
of you plus Kubra could mean no one else need be involved.”
“Four plus Kubra and Alaba,” said Ma Gaddo. “He’ll be there to
represent our interests.”
Kakutan turned to Lilong. “You stand to lose the most if
something goes wrong, so I say it’s your decision.” She nudged
Biemwensé. “Right?”
Biemwensé, who had something else at the tip of her tongue but
decided against it, acceded: “Your decision.”
Lilong turned to Danso. “What about you?”
Danso looked distant. “I don’t know. If we get caught, you—we—
will never go home. Everything we’ve struggled through, everyone
who’s died, everything we’ve lost…” He trailed off, a faraway look in
his eye. “I just want a chance to fix things, and I need to be alive to
do that, you know?”
“We understand it’s not an easy decision,” said Ma Gaddo. “Go
home, sleep, speak among yourselves. But be hasty about it.”
“Why?” asked Lilong.
“Because the Ochela, Chugoko’s Festival of Nomads, is about a
fortnight away. And that is when we move.”
 Lilong

Chabo
Fifth Mooncycle, 23

TWO DAYS AFTER THE meeting, Lilong ventured into the outskirts of
Chabo at twilight, soon finding herself in a less crowded locality.
Here, all the roads disappeared, and the real belly of the colony
showed itself. Unlike the abodes near the centre where company
powers held sway, constituents living closer to its edges had less of
an affinity for order.
Lilong’s path took her into the only thoroughfare available—the
space between ramshackle abodes and lean-to constructions,
stacked precariously upon each other like chickens in an acrobatic
pyramid. All navigation was done via such alley-like connections,
zigzag mazes no person in their right mind could memorise. Lilong
herself had learned to navigate by using the clotheslines criss-
crossing overhead from one abode to the other. Most residents
labelled their clothing and wares tied to the lines using personal
symbols, and Lilong had learned to read these and use them as her
cardinals.
Soon, she found the door she sought and rapped on it in quick,
coded knocks.
“What’s the word?” a low voice inquired from inside. Lilong
whispered it and the door opened. A hand stretched out, gripped her
tunic, and pulled her inside.
The clandestine public house was soaked in darkness and near
empty. Lilong did what she did each time she came here: She went
to the counter, ordered a spirit, hunched over the drink when it was
offered, but did not touch it. As usual, she was approached by at
least one drunk who wanted to know why she was so tense, if they
could give her a massage and remedy that. She offered her usual
response: Touch me, lose your hand.
After she was sure she hadn’t been followed, she poured the
drink in the dirt and took the back exit. Behind the building was the
shed she sought, and within the shed was the trapdoor to which
only she had a key—because she had paid for that privilege. She
opened it quickly, and within it was a strongbox, demanding another
key, which she also had. Soon, that one opened as well.
Inside, an object was bunched up in rags tied with strips of cloth.
Usually, all Lilong would do was to open it and inspect, ensuring the
Diwi was still in one piece. But tonight, she simply laid down the
strongbox, trapdoor, and key, and walked away with the wrapped
stone-bone tucked into her wrappers.
She left the public house as quickly as she’d arrived and plunged
back into the outskirts. Night had fallen proper, making navigation
more difficult. A deep chill had set into the air. Lilong draped an
extra wrapper over her head, holding it tight and close.
Perhaps it was that which prevented her from seeing the
movement around the corner. It was right next to her before she
sensed it—the warmth of a person—reaching out.
She swivelled, primed to Draw and Command. Her blade rattled
in its sheath, ready to swing into the face of the figure before her.
“It’s me, it’s me,” Danso said, hands up. He pulled his wrapper
over his head.
 Lilong swore under her breath and recalled her power. The blade
stopped agitating and settled back into the sheath with a snap.
“What are you—” She stole a quick glance back at the corner she
had just turned. “Are you following me?” Lilong swore again. “I could
have wounded you! That is a risky joke you are playing.”
“And that was a very long evening stroll you were taking,” he
said.
“What are you doing here?” She eyed the lump in his own
wrappers, the shape of rolled-up papers. “Let me guess—new
invitations to our enemies?”
Danso scoffed. “Whatever.” He walked away. Lilong sighed,
caught up, and fell in stride.
“I did not mean it like that,” she said. “But you know me, I will
not stop saying this—what you are doing is dangerous for us.”
“I know.”
“And yet you continue.”
“Because I have no choice.”
What does that even mean? Lilong wanted to press, but decided
against it. She had learned the hard way that Danso was like a lever
with no balance on the other end. If you pushed too hard, the return
swing could knock you out.
For their first few days in Chabo, Danso had been close to
delirious, muttering half sentences in which Lilong only managed to
catch a name here or there—often Zaq or daa or the names of his
triplet uncles and friends. Then a fortnight or two in, he stopped
talking altogether. All he did was write, throwing himself into the
codex (and as they would soon discover, the tracts). Lilong tried
everything she could to get him to open up to her, offering
everything from promises of Red Iborworker training to stories of
Namge to cheer him up. Danso was a stone wall. Only after she
stopped trying did the wall start to come down. But even then, he
only let himself show in trickles.
“I know what you have tucked under there,” Danso said,
motioning to her own wrappers. “You went to get it because you’re
ready to leave.” He glanced at her. “I guess you’ve made up your
mind, then.”
 She had, and it hadn’t taken long. The stakes of getting caught
and imprisoned or killed were high, yes, but the costs of saying no,
of never going home, were even higher. What life awaited her out
here, where she could never be who she truly was, who she really
wanted to become? What kind of life would it be to never find her
voice, her truth, her heart?
The tipping point, therefore, had been the promise of answers.
The opportunity to learn what her daa had been up to. Whether she
liked it or not, her fate here or in the islands was tied to those
events, and she needed to understand them through and through.
Better, even, if she could do so before taking a step toward the
journey home.
“I want us to have a safe trip,” she said. “If that means we break
into a prison, then we break into a prison.”
They had come upon an overlook, one among many present in
the only ridge in Chabo. The colony wasn’t mountainous, but being
so close to the Soke mountains, one rogue ridge had slipped off and
run its way past the colony’s southwest edge. This gave passers-by a
scenic view in four directions: the Soke mountains to the south and
southeast, the coast to the southwest, and the expansive Savanna
Belt everywhere else. They stopped and sat in the sand, gazing out
to the horizon, as the two moons overhead prepared to cross.
Danso pulled the tracts from beneath his wrappers and laid them
out. They were not freshly written, from the look of them, but old
and worn, already read.
“Oh, that’s what you were doing—gathering them.”
He arranged them in a stack, pulled out a fire striker, and struck.
Sparks flew.
“You’re not the only one who’s ready to leave,” he said, setting
the papers on fire. They watched the tracts burn, Danso’s loopy
markings becoming even loopier as orange flames encroached on
them.
“I want to defeat the empire,” Danso said.
So driven, so raw, the way he said it. Lilong had always known,
from the moment Esheme had set his daa ablaze in the Dead Mines,
that Danso would want some kind of revenge or retribution. But this
was bigger than that. This was about defeating the empire—not just
one woman, but the entire infrastructure that held her up.
“I can’t just escape Bassa, then run away forever,” he continued.
“What happens to everyone I’ve left behind?” He shook his head.
“No. If these tracts have proven anything, it’s that I can’t truly help
them if I cower in hiding, and stories alone cannot do the job. I
need something else. Or someone else.”
Lilong could see where this was going.
“You want to meet Oke,” she said.
Danso nodded. “Someone who also read the Manic Emperor’s
codex, who was also moved by its revelations to leave Bassa, seek
truth, find ibor. Someone who was driven to bring change and was
willing to brave a journey east to do it.”
He was right. Their journeys were truly similar.
“But she didn’t even get halfway.”
“And maybe that was fate!” A feverish quality had crept into his
voice. “Now, we get to rescue her, maybe join forces, maybe finish
whatever it is she started with your daa.”
That last part stunned Lilong. There was no chance that Lilong
was going to help Oke with anything, especially not revealing even
more secrets of her islands to strangers and outsiders. But she
reminded herself that this was not the best time to have that
debate.
“So you think we should do it,” was all she said.
Danso nodded. “I think we should do it.”
A handful of onlookers arrived to watch the mooncrossing
happen, causing Danso to stamp out the fire. They tightened their
cloaks around themselves to retain their disguises. Chabo wasn’t
under Bassai rule, so there was no mooncrossing festival to speak of,
but watching the sister moons cross was still an event of note for
some. Sitting here together, Lilong felt this was of note for them,
too, in a way. It was the closest she’d felt to Danso in many
mooncycles.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” he said, motioning toward the Diwi
tucked in her wrappers.
“Yes?”
 “Should we destroy it?”
“Destroy?” Lilong scoffed. “What is doing you today?”
“I just thought, on the journey, we don’t want it to attract…
them.”
She assumed he was referring to the wild beasts like the Skopi
that could sense ibor’s presence. They hadn’t encountered any so far
since the Breathing Forest, but if she had to guess, the probability of
encountering one on their journey east may not be low.
She had once considered destroying it too, for this same reason,
but quickly reminded herself that if she returned without it, her
chances of being arrested and imprisoned by the Abenai League
would rise. Worse, she would be putting Danso at risk. Though the
Elder Warriors weren’t known for summarily executing people, she
was sure they could make an exception for a Bassai who knew all
there was to know about the islands.
But the real reason she had decided against destroying the Diwi,
the one reason she didn’t want to admit, was that no matter how
troubled she was by her daa’s choices, by the league’s choices, she
was still an Abenai warrior through and through. She still had her
duty and honour. Without those, who was she, even?
“We will need it to gain entrance,” she said. “Remember that I left
without asking permission. We will not be welcomed with open
arms.”
“What if we shatter it into many pieces, then, like the ones in
your arm? Won’t attract them in that size.”
“We would have had to shatter it before you bonded with it.
Shatter it now, and it will simply become dust.” She paused.
“Besides, we would not have to worry about beasts if someone
among us would just, you know, Possess the stone.”
He stared into space, impassive. The moons above them came
together and shone brighter as one. The onlookers, having had their
fill, began to wander away. Lilong reached out to pat him on the
back, then decided against it.
“Something leaves them, you know?” he said out of nowhere.
“What leaves who?”
“When they die. You can see it fade, the life or whatever it is.
And then I touch them, and you can see it return, but not really. Like
it pauses midway and just never makes it back. Like I’ve stolen it
from them, then prevented its return so they can come under my
Command. When they open those red eyes…” He gulped.
“I’m sorry,” she said, suddenly feeling horrible for asking him all
this time. Is that what red iborworking feels like? Now she
understood why he struggled to accept that the Skopi was gone,
why he would forever be haunted by the image of Esheme
Commanding undead humans.
“I know I’m tethered to the Diwi, so I can’t run away from it,” he
said. “But it deals in death, and I don’t know how much more death
I can take, Lilong. I don’t know.”
He took a stone and tossed it so that it bounced down the
overlook, skidding before embedding itself into a mound, spraying a
cloud of sand below.
“You don’t have to touch it ever again if you don’t want to,” said
Lilong.
“I know.” He paused. “You think Zaq would’ve—” He gulped
again. “You think this—all of this—is what they would’ve wanted us
to do?”
They, she understood this time, were all the names that hurt.
“I think they would be glad we tried,” she said. And I think, she
didn’t say, they would wish they had done better by us, and that we
do better for them.
 Kangala

Sahel: Lake Vezha

Fourth Mooncycle, 17

MOY KANGALA WAS KNOWN as the Man Beyond the Lake because he did
not need to be known by anything else. The Sahel had only one lake
—the whole of the desertlands did, to be precise—and he was the
only person that mattered where it was concerned. The beyond part
was a misnomer because Kangala did not actually live on the Idjama
side of the Lake Vezha, but existed in various places at once,
culminating in him existing nowhere in fact, other than on lips
whispering into ears and tongues held back in silence.
Still, when desertlanders spoke of Kangala, the image that came
to mind was uniform: He was the man who ensured that whatever
crossed the Savanna Belt into the Sahel with the aim of heading into
the Idjama desert—or had any interest in moving in the opposite
direction—went through his multitude of ventures. The few who
thought themselves clever and attempted to bypass this did not, as
many believed, come to violent ends by Kangala’s hand. Kangala
prided himself in not being a violent man, but a man of the greater
weapons of words, tact, and innovation. But if said people thought
they would not come to other sorts of ends—violent or otherwise—
by hands not his, they were sorely mistaken.
Kangala himself was an unassuming fellow. He was sugarcane-
thin, lanky, and often picked at his teeth. Sometimes, they bled
while he did business, and he would swirl with spit and swallow,
then flash a bloody grin at his guests to discompose them. He
performed the same ritual at home with the youngest of his twenty-
seven children, who was only nine seasons old. His young daughter
would giggle with a childish mix of disgust and pleasure. He could
not say the same of his guests.
Few knew what Kangala looked like, because he only met with
guests of the highest calibre, and delegated everything else to his
eldest children, his seconds-in-command: Oroe was head enforcer,
and Ngipa ensured all the moving parts of his enterprises kept
running. Together, the three ensured that the communities of
travellers, vagrants, and mainstays that sprouted from the lake and
made home in trading settlements littering the routes down south,
or scattered across the grasslands to the east and west, knew who
they must pay fealty to whenever they wished to cross the Lake
Vezha.
So, it was with great reluctance that he decided to meet with a
woman who was from neither of these places. His seconds-in-
command informed him she was a former member of the now
overthrown Bassai government on the mainland, and had arrived
from exile in Chugoko to seek his audience.
When Kangala’s canoe pulled into shore on the waterfront, gentle
water slapping against the wooden hull, he stepped onto the jetty
less than eager. It was high afternoon, and though he walked
beneath a canopy held by attendants, he sweated beneath his
headdress, wrapped so intricately as to disguise his features. The
heat did not stop the lakeside from buzzing, dockworkers sweating
as they moved crate upon crate. Most paid little attention to the
entourage; it was a recognisable though infrequent sight. Kangala
prided himself in being a master of performance, establishing the
element of mystery: Show the people just enough to keep them
guessing, but never enough to give them understanding.
Understanding, Kangala believed, bred comfort, comfort bred
contempt, and contempt in the hearts of a significant populace was
a considerable threat. Look at what happened to Bassa, for instance.
They crossed the jetty quickly, Oroe’s party clearing a path. The
air stank of raw fish brought here from all around the lake for
export. Smoke from the large smoking houses employed in drying
them hung low in the air. But it was not the only thing that hung
low. Kangala could see the uncertainty in the eyes of his workers,
the sag in their shoulders, the conversation in hushed tones. They
worried about their futures here, as did he. The coup down south
and its infamous new emperor had shaken up the rest of the
continent. Trade along the northbound routes had significantly
dwindled, stores were getting empty, and no new stock was coming
in. Everyone was waiting for the emperor’s long hand to reach north
before deciding their next steps.
Kangala was less worried about the emperor and her antics and
was more concerned with the things he could not control. His wells,
for instance, which were drying up at an alarming rate. Salt yields
from the Idjama side were dwindling. But worst of all, the lake itself
was dying. He had canoed here on tide that was so low he could see
the bottom of the lake even though the water was not clear. Soon, it
would be impossible to canoe at all. There would be no lake, and
with that, no enterprise.
He pushed the worries aside and focused on the business before
him.
The woman who sat in his workroom rose when he arrived and
greeted him with the Bassai bow and hand on the bridge of her
nose. He’d heard enough about hair arches to tell that the number
on this woman’s head meant she was high-ranking. Or once was, if
she was now here seeking his audience. Her clothes were more
sensible, the dust of a trip through the savanna evidenced in corners
where her wrappers folded. Her travelling party, a bunch of
attendants and armed private hands, carried the same signs of
travel.
“DaaKangala,” the woman said in High Bassai, and Ngipa
translated to Kangala’s native Sahelian. “It is an utmost honour to
make your acquaintance.”
Kangala sat before the woman and waited. Another thing he
understood about performance was that it wasn’t always about the
things said and done, but things left unsaid and undone. Empty
space was not empty just because one couldn’t see air. But people
who didn’t understand this always tried to fill that perceived
emptiness. And when they did, they divulged more than they’d
initially planned to.
“My name is MaaButue,” she said. “I have come from Bassa to
seek your audience.”
Ngipa continued to translate. Kangala nodded but remained
silent. The woman took that to mean she could continue.
“I would like to propose an agreement, if you are willing to hear
it.”
Kangala nodded.
“I have come this long a way because Bassa is in turmoil. The
nation I once knew is no more, now in the hands of a brutal yet
inexperienced emperor. As a former Second Elder and member of
the Lower Council, I cannot in good faith continue to work with and
for a government that does not serve my interests. To that end, I
have put Bassa behind me and decided to move my interests here. I
would like to settle along the Vezha, but I would also like to retain
sovereignty for me and my family. Perhaps we can come to an
agreement beyond fealty. I bring much that can be beneficial to
you.”
Kangala cocked his head.
“I am a trained member of the craftworking guild with a
specialization in textiles, and I bring with me that expertise. I can
offer consultation for best practices in handling of raw textile
sources, including cotton and leather. I am well aware you are a
savvy man of commerce and innovation—your well pumps are
acclaimed all over, and no one has yet to replicate their secret
technology. But I presume you do not currently possess the kind of
expertise I just put forward. Perhaps we can help each other.”
Kangala asked for a toothpick, and when it was brought to him,
he began to pick and suck at his teeth noisily, mulling over his next
step. She was not wrong—that was indeed useful expertise. But it
did not solve his current problems with the drying lake. Worse, what
she was offering was not on the same level as what she was asking
for, and she knew this. She was attempting to be crafty. Kangala
didn’t like people who started out crafty. They were future problems
disguised as current opportunities.
“What say you?” Butue asked. “A deal? I have brought a few of
my most precious textiles with me. I am willing to offer some as a
gift. A sign of goodwill, if you say.” She waved her people forward,
and they presented bales of various textiles to Ngipa: wrappers,
headcloths, leather wraps, wool overcloths, velvet spotted with coral,
bronze, gold.
Kangala eyed the bales without acknowledging them, then leaned
forward, looking Butue in the eye, before saying to Ngipa: “I want
her to tell us what this new emperor is like.”
Ngipa related the question. Butue frowned.
“That is not in my place to say,” the woman replied. “I would
rather refrain from speaking about Bassa’s emperor, if you will.”
“Then tell her we are done here,” Kangala said. “She either offers
me this information, or we do not even discuss a deal.”
After Ngipa relayed Kangala’s words, Butue was pensive, then
began to speak. She spoke about the Red Emperor’s powers, about
how she could command the dead. She spoke about how her eyes
would turn red, and how anyone who spoke against her often ended
up dead, and then resurrected again, a reanimated corpse. She
commanded the corpses of her enemies like so, building a personal
undead protection unit known as the Soldiers of Red.
She spoke of the emperor’s preoccupation with demanding
respect and enforcing loyalty from all corners of the continent; how
she was currently touring the mainland to ensure this in person. The
desertlands were next, that was sure. The emperor’s continued
search for her former intended, believed to be travelling with a
yellowskin warrior from—Kangala couldn’t believe his ears—the
extinct Nameless Islands, was sure to bring her here, if the peace
officers were not already a sign. Both fugitives were said to possess
a mineral called ibor, which helped the bearer perform supernatural
feats—the same mineral the emperor employed in reanimating
corpses.
Kangala had heard snippets of all of these before, gossip curated
from traders who came up here from the settlements along the
trading route. He considered it typical gossip from the mouths of
merchants, traders, and dockworkers, sources that could not be
trusted. But hearing it in such detail, coming out of the mouth of a
Second Elder who used to walk in the very halls of the Great Dome
of Bassa—now that was privileged information. In fact, more
privileged than whatever else she thought she was bringing to the
table.
Moy Kangala rose and walked out without offering Butue a
response. His group converged to shield him, but he waved them
aside, taking off his headdress and walking into the light of day. The
sun beat down on his face, caused his cheeks to shine and his face
to look radiant. Most workers gasped upon seeing him. Some
shielded their eyes, unsure if they should be looking.
“What are you doing?” Oroe said, he and Ngipa coming to stand
beside their daa. “They can see you!”
Kangala shut his eyes and inhaled the salty, smelly air.
“You see all of this, my children?” he said. “This is ours. It was
not given freely to us. We have earned it through sweat and
innovation, without lifting a blade in conquest. Perhaps it is time
people see the face of their leader. A leader with a face means a
striking hand, and a striking hand may be feared and respected. But
a faceless leader is a conquerable one and encourages dissent, a
lesson Bassa has learned the hard way and that perhaps we need to
learn sooner.” He glanced at his employees on the dock, then turned
to his children. “This new emperor the woman speaks of, ehm—”
“The Red Emperor,” Ngipa offered.
“The Red Emperor, yes. She sounds a bit foolhardy, heavy-
handed, but she understands this lesson. One suspects she can be
reasoned with. And this Butue woman has just given me an idea.”
 He stepped forward, walking along the pier. His children followed.
Workers scampered out of the way, one man falling off the jetty and
into the water. At the end of the pier, he turned to look out to the
lake, watching the water lap softly against the abutment. Far in the
distance, on the opposite docks of the Idjama side, canoes dotted
the horizon. Soon, they would be stuck there forever, unable to cross
a dry lake.
“We will go to Bassa,” he said.
His children’s eyes widened.
“No,” said Oroe. “No, no, no.”
“We cannot grovel to the emperor,” Ngipa said. “We mustn’t.”
“We will do a great many things, but grovelling is not one of
them,” Kangala said, patting his children’s shoulders. “We will offer
gifts, loyalty, a proposition. A good proposition, one with heft, not
the diluted kind Butue has brought to us.”
“Like what?” asked Ngipa.
“The secrets of our pumps.”
Ngipa was aghast. “That is your life’s work! You cannot barter
with that.”
“Look around, daughter.” He waved his hand over the lake.
“Those pumps will be useless soon either way, if this lake turns to
nothing but sand. We must diversify, and if we don’t, we will perish
anyway.”
“What do we get in return, then?” Oroe asked. “Just ask her not
to kill us? Yes, I’m sure that madwoman will listen.”
“Mad, yes; stupid, no,” said Kangala. “She single-handedly took
the Great Dome. She will recognise a good opportunity and won’t be
as eager to put a spear through it. All we need is to gain an
audience.” He counted on his fingers. “Gifts. Our pumping secrets.
The services of our champions, if she needs them. In return, we ask
for the same thing Butue has asked for: land to install new ventures,
and the self-governance of it.”
His children regarded one another. They were used to Kangala by
now, the way his mind ticked, sometimes too quickly for them to
catch up. But they knew he was right. Each day saw more migrants
crossing from the Idjama side, moving southward due to a complete
lack of water up north. That complete lack of water was bound to
catch up with the Lake Vezha at some point. Catering to their
extensive dynasty would be impossible without a venture on its
banks. Bassa or no Bassa, they were going to have to make the
decision to leave sooner or later. Better sooner than later, if they
were to have a chance at negotiation.
“Gather your champion siblings,” Kangala said to Oroe. “Prepare
your parties, all of you. We head into the savanna in a matter of
days.”
“All eighteen of us?” Oroe frowned. “That’s a company of
hundreds. Will the emperor not think us an invasion?”
“We will camp outside Chugoko. I alone will meet her in Bassa.”
His children did not like the sound of that, but they trusted his
judgment.
“What about this Butue woman?” Oroe asked. “What do we do
with her?”
“Same as the others.”
“Are you sure?” Ngipa queried. “This is a Second Councilhand.”
“Was a Second Councilhand,” Kangala corrected. “Now, a mere
fugitive of Bassa. And as we have always said, Bassa’s rejects will
have no place with us.” He looked to Oroe. “Try to be quieter about
it this time.”
Oroe nodded and left, calling his party along. Soon, there were
faraway sounds of struggle, iron clanging iron, tumbles, crashes,
thuds. Cries of pain, whimpers of persons succumbing to death. The
dockworkers continued to work, unperturbed. Kangala and his
daughter remained at the end of the pier, unmoved, their wrappers
swaying in the light afternoon breeze.
 Esheme

Southwest Hinterlands
Fourth Mooncycle, 32

THE HINTERLAND SUNRISE WAS a loud, ever-present orange. Back in

Bassa, Esheme barely saw the sun manifest this way. Even high up
on the Great Dome’s portico, the Soke mountains to the east
prevented such a sight until it was too late, when the skies had
already left their beauty behind. This was her life in a nutshell:
something delicious and exciting within purview, yet fleeting, still out
of reach.
Esheme shut her eyes and focused on the moment, drinking in
the sounds and smells of nearby forested areas as the royal caravan
trudged into the hinterlands. The constant shrill of cicadas. The
babble of streams branching from the confluence. The prevalent
stink of rotting bark. Nothing particularly exciting, but at least
different from the drudgery of the Great Dome.
The trip wasn’t without its inconveniences. This far south, the
terrain was denser, the clayey roads soaked and sticky. The royal
travelwagon had gotten stuck once already, so that Igan’s posse had
to come down and push. It rained hard and often despite the fact
that it was harmattan season everywhere else on the continent.
Satti, who hailed from the hinterlands, had warned the royal
planners of these ghost rains, explaining that even hinterlanders
themselves didn’t know what caused them. The royal planners had,
in turn, advised Esheme against a trip south, citing these challenges.
But Esheme had persisted. When she overthrew the empire’s
leaders, it was so she could be free, not become shackled by duty
and performance. She couldn’t stand another season of mundane
appearances in the city. Emperorship, it turned out, was its own
prison. Any reason to escape the overwhelm of the Great Dome was
a good one.
This trip south, however, was for more than just that.
“Who would have thought,” Esheme said to Ikobi, “that all those
times you tried to get me to venture outside Bassa, see more of the
world—that I would be doing it eventually, and with you in tow?”
Her mentor-turned-advisor chuckled. Igan, the only other person
in the travelwagon, said nothing.
“Perhaps it was your destiny all along,” Ikobi said.
“Destinies are never written in stone, unless one does the writing
themselves.”
“Let me guess,” said Ikobi. “Your lips, but Nem’s words.”
Esheme smiled wryly. She had chosen Ikobi to be her second
advisor not because of her scholarly accomplishments, but because
the woman knew her well. She’d also needed someone to rely on
during this trip. As First Consul, Nem had to remain and handle the
Great Dome’s affairs while the emperor was away. And Igan… well,
Igan had been unrelenting in their disapproval of many things,
current trip included.
Her Second-turned-lover-turned-Second glared out the window,
refusing to meet her eyes. Esheme chuckled quietly. Any other
person, and she would have them put to the dust. But Igan was
special in many ways—and worse, they knew it. Perhaps that, too,
was why Esheme found herself drawn to them anyway. Someone
who did not simply bow to her every whim. Nem and Igan were the
only two people on this continent who complemented her desire for
resistance, who gave her something to push against.
Voices brought her to the present. The two lookouts who
regularly rode ahead of the caravan galloped back to detail their
sightings to Igan.
“A welcome party,” Igan reported in a businesslike tone, avoiding
Esheme’s gaze. “Clan leaders have heard of our arrival.”
They said heard with a blade in the back of the tongue, like: I
told you so.
“If you have something to say, say it,” said Esheme. “I may
tolerate your petulance, but I will not have dissent on this trip.”
Igan, never one to back down from a challenge, dug in. “I told
you,” they said. “We should not have abducted the Tombolo leaders.”
“Abducted—” Esheme kissed her teeth, long and hard. “You know
what, I take that back. Maybe it’s better you stay quiet.” To the
lookouts, she said: “Tell the party they may present their best face.”
When the royal caravan met the welcome party, it was quickly
established that they were there only to offer gifts. Oxen, ass, and
buffalo drew wagons that bore the southwest’s most precious prizes:
maize, beans, cassava, kolanuts, craftwork, ornaments in various
metals.
“Announcing!” said the royal jali. “The Twenty-Fourth Emperor of
Great Bassa, Sovereign Scion of Moons, the Red Emperor of Oon
and all that light touches, Emperor Esheme and the Royal Court of
the Great Dome.”
The welcome party already had their heads bowed, eyes lowered
to the ground. The jali looked to Esheme for instruction. She gave a
slight nod.
“You may speak,” said the jali.
A small person of a third gender—an envoy, perhaps—stepped
forward. They were dressed the same way as every member of the
party: headwrap, short wrapper beneath the arms, and another from
the waist down, leaving the midriff bare. Esheme marvelled at how
beautiful and fascinating it was, but her excited questions rested at
the tip of her tongue. This was what being emperor had reduced her
to: someone who could not smile, lest it be mistaken for approval.
How different was that from the average Bassai woman?
“Sovereign Scion of Moons,” the envoy announced, “I am Gevah,
leader of the clan of Enuka. On behalf of the clan leaders of the
protectorate lands west of the confluence, I welcome you. We are
here to guide the royal caravan to our home. We have prepared
festivities in your honour, and it will be our pleasure to celebrate
your name, if you let us.”
Esheme glanced at Igan, who eyed her back. They had both
expected a different response, something akin to the one they’d
received at the Tombolo hamlets. The Elders there had been mostly
demure, but two of them—the eldest and the youngest of the lot—
bore dispositions that were not as welcoming. The youthful Elder in
particular had worn a steely gaze, all but frying the sand between
his feet. So Esheme had had Igan rest the sharp edge of their axe
on his shoulders and drop him to his knees.
She nodded to the jali before her, who turned to the welcome
party.
“Do you know why the emperor is here?”
Gevah looked at their fellow party members. “I’m… not sure?”
“But you are aware of the royal tour west and south?”
“We only heard about the… events at Tombolo,” said Gevah.
“That is all we know.”
“What did you hear?” the jali pressed.
Gevah swallowed. “That a number of Tombolo leaders now ride
with the emperor? And a new civic guard battalion was installed
there? Among other events.”
Smart, thought Esheme. Managed to avoid the snake pit that was
that question. She decided she liked this Gevah person.
“Let’s see what these festivities look like,” said Esheme.
Igan waved them forward. The party turned about and led the
royal caravan off the muddy roads and onto a wide earthen way,
clean and polished.
“Looks like an Emperor’s Road, does it not?” Esheme asked.
Ikobi nodded. “Satti says they’ve preserved it all this time. My
belief is that they hoped for a return.”
 “Of emperors.”
“Yes.”
“And you think that means something.”
Ikobi shrugged. “Perhaps not everyone is as opposed to your rule
as you believe?”
Esheme chuckled. Ikobi often thought good things, offered
people and circumstances the benefit of the doubt. It was the
reason she agreed to be Esheme’s mentor at the university in the
first place. Where other scholars had eschewed the task of moulding
a fixer’s daughter into a model of the Bassai Ideal, Ikobi had relished
the challenge. And though she never quite succeeded, she still
believed, to an extent, that her role as advisor offered her the
opportunity to continue where she had left off.
“Only those doing the ruling remain unopposed to it,” Esheme
said. “It is in the very nature of ruling to be resisted.”
“Another one of your maa’s adages,” said Ikobi. “Tell me—if you
believe that, then why are you so worried about what the citizens
think?”
Because thoughts are dangerous, she wanted to say. Most Bassai
were no different from those two Tombolo Elders. They worshipped
her only because they had no choice; duty out of fear, not respect.
They were happy for her to be their redeemer, but emperor was a
role too far. For someone so young! they said, words spoken in the
wards filtering back to her court at the Great Dome. When has an
emperor so youthful ever done anything but destroy us?
And she did want to destroy them, when these words reached
her ears. Gather all her disparate pieces of red ibor and ravage the
city. That would teach them to respect her.
But then Nem would speak, and they would be back to useless
politicking and administration, and her fantasy would be squashed
there and then. It didn’t help, of course, that Igan thought Nem was
right to, in their words, find non-violent ways to solve this problem.
“I believe,” Esheme said to Ikobi, “that you get what you
demand. So I will demand what I want, including how and what they
think about me.”
The caravan snaked deeper into the heart of the hinterlands.
Soon, the silty and rockier terrain began to give way to flatter,
muddier undulations and even thicker vegetation. For a moment,
Esheme forgot she was the Sovereign Emperor of Bassa and Scion of
Moons. She pushed open the window and poked her head out of the
travelwagon.
Nothing she had seen in Bassa prepared her for what the
hinterlands would look like. She had heard little in all her time of
counsel study, and therefore believed their ways to be
unsophisticated, uncivilised. But as she neared Enuka, the seat of
the southwest hinterlands, clan abodes began to come into view.
Multi-storeyed houses of mud sculpted in the shape of bananas, with
exterior design patterns of okras. The architecture stood sturdy on
opposite sides of streets as smooth as those in Bassa, in just as
orderly a fashion, and lined with all the accoutrements she was used
to seeing in the capital city: street lamps, sculptures, trimmed
bushes, canals. She also noted the advanced trading and commerce
infrastructure, including various warehouses.
As they neared the city—because she had started to think of it as
one now—she noticed every activity seemed to be halted in favour
of a welcome for the emperor’s caravan. Clan members stepped out
to each side of the road, waving broad leaves and palm fronds.
Many had the red mud of the hinterlands smoothed over their faces
and bodies in decoration.
“Well, there you go,” Ikobi said to Esheme, who peered through
the obscured blinds. “Now you have what you want.”
But this was not what Esheme wanted—subjects compelled to do
things in her name. She already had that back in the city, and as
long as she had iborworking, she could eke it out of anyone. No, she
wanted people to come out and welcome her because they believed
in her, because they respected her, loved her from the bottom of
their hearts.
She just needed to show that she was mighty, powerful, that she
could protect them. This was why she had come here: to dissolve
the doubt in their hearts, make space for love and adulation. Moons
willing, she would find a way.
After another hour of hinterlanders lined up in welcome, the royal
caravan finally arrived in the centre of town in Enuka, where the
emperor’s meeting with the clan leaders was to take place. The
buildings were of the same okra-banana style as the houses she had
seen before, but much larger and sculpted by obviously more
experienced hands. Seven of such abodes interconnected into one,
which told her that this was their Great Dome of sorts. The leaders
of all the clans in the southwest hinterlands were gathered there,
and before them were spread out even more gifts to be presented:
plantains, yams, textiles, livestock.
Igan got down first, and their posse followed. Then Ikobi and the
jali, followed by the civic guard squadron travelling with the caravan.
And just like they had done back at the Tombolo hamlets, the
emperor would emerge last. But first, she would send the Soldiers of
Red ahead to set the stage.
Esheme closed her eyes and Drew.
The pit of her belly stirred, and painful anguish tightened in her
stomach. She gritted her teeth, the effects of losing her last
conception to iborworking now commingling with the demands of
employing this new conception in its service.
Breathe, Esheme, breathe. She Drew further, biting her tongue to
keep from screaming, stretching her consciousness until it gripped
every Soldier of Red, locked itself around them. Then she breathed
and gave the Command.
The last wagon in the caravan, where the Soldiers of Red lay in
stasis, rocked. The Soldiers jumped down one by one and marched
in loose formation, limbs in the staccato movements of something
caught between living and dead. Heads shaved, feet unsandaled,
skin grey and devoid of shine. Eyes brimming red, lifeless and
demoniac.
The crowd stepped back as one.
Esheme had not quite meant to start an army of undeads. After
losing Oboda to the moats, she had only wanted a replacement. But
it turned out that a usurper emperor had no shortage of people who
needed booting out of her path. Both goals simply coincided: Why
waste a good corpse when she could collect them and Possess and
Command at will? What better assurance of safety than an army she
could trust to carry out her commands to the letter?
What better way to become invincible?
The Soldiers of Red encircled the royal travelwagon in a ring of
protection and stood still in wait for the emperor.
“The Royal Scion of Ashu and Menai,” the jali announced. “The
Sovereign Emperor of Bassa and of all the world, she who slays her
enemies with nothing but a look—the Red Emperor of Oon.”
Every person in sight bowed, eyes to the ground, as Esheme
stepped from the travelwagon onto the stool-cum-dais placed on the
wrappers the people of Enuka had spread out for the emperor to
walk upon. This part of being emperor—revealing herself to those
who did not know her prior—she enjoyed. It reminded her that
three-quarters of retaining power was all about performance, and
only one-quarter actually expending it.
“People of Enuka,” the jali continued. “You may announce your
address.”
Another person dressed just like Gevah stepped forward gingerly.
“I turn to the right, I turn to the left,” they said. “May the crown
last on your head, the shoes on your feet, the command in your
mouth. Hail the Red Emperor, Sovereign Scion of Moons.”
“Hail the Red Emperor, Sovereign Scion of Moons,” the people
chorused.
“Permit me to speak in Mainland Common?” the speaker said.
“High Bassai is as far from our tongues as the Great Dome is from
us.”
Esheme glanced at Ikobi, who nodded and gave the go-ahead.
“Thank you, oh most gracious Sovereign,” the clan leader said.
“Permit me to introduce myself: I am Manemena, leader of the clan
of Wanneba. Along with Gevah, clan leader of Enuka, whose sands
your esteemed feet now bless, we welcome you on behalf of all of
the clans of the western protectorates.”
The jali told them their welcome was accepted.
“We have waited for this day, Most Sovereign, for true leadership
to return to our land, true leadership to which we can fully
demonstrate our fealty.” Manemena dared to glance up for a
moment. “And we have spared no thought or expense in showing
you, today, that we wholly succumb to your leadership. We have
prepared a feast for your welcome, and if you do wish to bless us
with your presence for longer, we have an abode fit for the gods
themselves. We have prepared gifts from our land—your land—to go
with you on your journey.”
With that, the clan leader fell back in with the rest.
Esheme stepped out of the encircled protection of the Soldiers of
Red so she could stand in full view of the people.
“Look up,” she commanded. Tentatively, they lifted their heads.
“I do not come here for festivities,” she said. “I come here as a
reminder to you of whom this land belongs to. The waters you fish
from, the crops you grow, the timber you fell, the forests you fell
them from—all that the wind touches on this continent belongs to
the nation of Great Bassa.”
She searched the line of leaders. Not a squeak. Nothing like the
Tombolo Elders.
That was power. Now love.
“But I will abide your festivities,” she said. “You have
demonstrated faith in me, and I will therefore return the favour. I
will remain with you for the night and will partake of the gifts you
offer. And while I am here, you may consider my blessing and
protection, and that of the moon sisters, granted upon you.”
A cheer rose from the crowd of clan onlookers. Esheme let it last
its course, then quieted them down.
Now, respect.
“From this day forward, consider your arrangements with the old
Upper Council gone. You may now conduct your business and pay
taxes according to the new Great Dome’s laws.” She motioned to her
caravan. “And to help you do it, I will leave a battalion of civic
guards with you like I have done everywhere else I have visited. In
the coming moons, I will send even more.”
Murmurs. Some movement. She held up a finger.
“I have promised to protect you,” she said, “and protect you I
will. Whatever enemies may rise against you, you shall not fear, for
the Great Dome will be with you, even when you are far from it.”
A small lift of their heads, a tiny puff of their chests. This was
that hinterlander pride everyone spoke of. But this one wasn’t pride
in themselves, but in her.
Best to press home the advantage.
“Lastly,” said Esheme, holding up a finger, “if you wish for your
voices to be heard all the way up in the Great Dome, then your
voices must get there and be loud on your behalf.” She pointed to
the clan leaders. “So, decide among yourselves which two of you will
return with me to the Great Dome.”
This raised eyebrows, but not from the clan leaders. It was Igan,
perhaps not quite thinking, who stepped forward.
“Esheme,” they said, before correcting themself. “Emperor—”
“Back,” Esheme hissed. Igan bowed their head and stepped back.
Esheme gave the clan leaders the go-ahead to respond.
“We are your subjects,” said the clan leaders, speaking through
Gevah and Manemena. “We will do as you wish.”

After, while the caravan offloaded and Esheme had been shown to
her quarters—the interconnected abodes, as she had guessed—Igan
came in.
“I want to apologise, Emperor,” they said. “It was reckless of me
to behave like that in public.”
Esheme regarded her Second with amusement. Even though their
relations were not quite a secret to those closest to them, Igan had
always maintained a determined effort to keep public interactions
respectful and professional. In fact, they often did it with such
precision that it sometimes unnerved Esheme—if they could keep
this appearance up with such ease, what else could they hide from
her? Igan didn’t know it, but today’s outburst was a breath of fresh
air to Esheme, a reminder that they were just as fallible a human as
anyone else. That didn’t make it any less egregious, though.
“Now you call me Emperor,” said Esheme.
 “It was a slip of tongue.”
Esheme scoffed. “It’s not about the mode of address, and you
know it.”
Igan nodded solemnly.
“Why do you do that?” Esheme asked. “Why do you try to be my
Second all the time?”
“I am your Second.”
“Yes. But I don’t always need a general watching over me like a
hawk, tracking every step and relaying back to me how wrong I am.
We have Nem and the rest of the Great Dome for that.” She gazed
into their eyes. “Sometimes, all I need is a lover.”
Igan bit their lip and nodded. Esheme tapped the beddings where
she sat. Igan unlatched their long axe and laid it down, then their
boots, then their armour, then their underclothes, until they were
standing there with nothing on.
“Latch the door,” Esheme ordered.
Once it was dark, and they were alone, Esheme let them undress
her with the small, patient motions that Igan never exposed to
anyone else. Then she lay in the beddings, and Igan came and lay
behind her, encircling her in firm, muscled arms.
Warmth, small and intimate, gathered between their bodies.
Skins—one battle-hardened but moist, the other suppled by fine
essential oils—melded into each other in a way that felt both familiar
and new. Into a private universe of their own they sank, an eternity
held in silence, the world disappearing around them.
This was yet another reason Esheme was always wanting for the
road, though not one she could admit to anyone else. Out here, Igan
was always within reach, never far away. Esheme wanted to feel
safe, and in Igan’s embrace, she always did.
“I say these things because I care for you,” Igan whispered into
her back, breath hot on her neck. “I do not want to see you come to
harm.”
Esheme reached back a hand and clasped her Second’s thigh,
wrapped their leg tighter around herself.
“I am the emperor of the world,” she said. “I think I will be fine.”
 Nem

Undati
Fifth Mooncycle, 28

NEM DID NOT APPRECIATE the Undati prison holdings. They were below
ground, dug into the eastern half of the Soke mountain range, only
sharing a name with the nearby new mines but not a part of them.
They had once been located in First Ward, but were moved out here
when the old mine was emptied out and relocated. The move had
been triggered by a spate of successful escapes from the Chugoko
Central Prison and beneath the border, where escapees disappeared
into the desertland populace. This new location meant civic guards
had the higher ground, preventing escapees from crossing the Pass
or going westward and disappearing into Bassa. Such escapees
would be forced to wander east instead, and surely get lost in the
mountains and wilderness, where they would eventually die of
starvation.
There had been no successful escapes in many seasons.
 Had Nem not been First Consul of the Royal Court of the Great
Dome, her foot would never have touched these grounds. It was
much too far from the Great Dome, and having spent two days on
the road, seated, only moved from rolling chair to travelwagon and
back, her bottom had begun to ache. And now, being carried down
the steps that led deep into the heart of the holding facilities, she
wasn’t looking forward to the time she was going to spend here.
“We can leave if you want, MaaNem,” Satti said. The woman, now
transformed in title from Nem’s regular Second to Royal Second to
the First Consul, walked behind the two civic guards tasked with
carrying Nem down the stairs. She still used Nem’s old title out of
habit, and Nem didn’t mind. She liked that there was always a close-
by reminder of who she once was, who she would always be.
“We’ll be gone as quickly as I can help it,” Nem said. “But this bit
of business must be done first.”
Once at the bottom, Satti rolled her the rest of the way. The
warden assigned to guide them to their destination ushered them
past packed holdings that might as well have been pit latrines. The
people in them stank just as badly. Most were dressed in rags, a few
completely naked. Coughs aside, each had at least one skin disease,
fluids oozing out of some orifice. Nem tried to keep from retching.
Since her accident, her body had become more unforgiving, and
offered fewer ways to resist such discomfort.
This level seemed to contain a lot of mainlanders, judging by
their complexions. But Nem knew that this prison held more
desertlanders than any other people, as they were the most
susceptible to landing here. Illegal border crossers were often sent
back over the Pass and handed over to the warrant chiefs of
Chugoko and their vigilantes to handle. The same was done to those
who crossed legally but ended up convicted on the mainland for
small crimes. But the ones held here were those whose crimes were
far more egregious, to the point that they had been deemed a
danger to both mainland and desertland. Bandits, armed robbers,
murderers. Victims of political warring. Nem had sent a few people
here herself, in her heyday. She wished not to run into any of them.
Her daughter, the Red Emperor, had also sent a number here
since her rule began. A significant number, in fact, especially if one
included the recaptured escapees from Whudasha. Those, Nem also
hoped not to see.
“Here,” said the warden, putting a key into a keylock and turning
it. The pins within snapped, and he pushed the gate open. “Would
you like a guard inside with you?”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Nem. “He’s not dangerous.”
The warder bowed and left them alone with the person in the
holding area. The prisoner was the only one in here, isolated upon
Nem’s request.
“Dehje, Cockroach,” Nem said.
The man before her was a shadow of the fearless one that once
ruled the Coalition for New Bassa with a shrewd sure-handedness.
Basuaye had always looked undernourished, sure, but now each
bony joint jutted out at an impossible angle. When he rose to greet
her, he stood tall, gaunt, emaciated. His neck had holes deep
enough to hold water, his eyes buried deep within their sockets.
“Dehje, MaaNem,” he responded.
“That’s First Consul Nem to you now.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “Permit me to sit, First Consul? My body is not
equipped to hold itself up as long as it used to.”
“Permitted,” said Nem. Basuaye slowly lowered himself to the
dirty ground. Nem took the time to request some privacy. Satti
stepped out, the gate clanging behind her, and the two were soon
alone.
“How are you doing, old friend?” asked Nem.
Basuaye chuckled. “Old friend, is it? I bet the new emperor
doesn’t think of me that way.”
“You will have to forgive her,” Nem said. “She is doing what she
believes is right in the circumstances she has found herself.”
“Forgive.” He chuckled again. “I don’t know what that word
means anymore. Captivity does something to your head, you know?”
He tapped his temple and laughed. Nem thought he looked a little
bit unstable.
“It does, does it?”
“Yes. Helps you appreciate life, the little things once taken for
granted. Insects: ants, houseflies, mosquitoes, cockroaches. Water
and thirst. The sweet, welcome taste of bland, unsalted bread.
Sanity—particularly in isolation such as this. You learn that memory
is more of a thing you create and shape rather than one you are
burdened with.” He smiled. “Perhaps this is why the concept of
forgiveness is like a raindrop on my already wet tongue. It relies on
memory, doesn’t it? Yet memory is only what you make it. And if you
think that raindrop nothing but the spittle already in your mouth, it
doesn’t exist now, does it?”
Nem wasn’t sure what to think of his rambling, but understood he
meant to say he could forget whatever he needed to if he wished.
So perhaps, all he needed was the right motivation.
“I need your help,” she said, plain and simple. “And if you agree
to give it to me, I will get you out of this dungeon.”
Basuaye sat quiet for a long beat. Nem let him take his time. She
had known this man for almost all of her fixer career. Back when she
was a young girl far away from the Great Dome and closer to the
hinterlands than she’d liked, Basuaye had only just been a jali
hopeful at the university. He never made it to graduation, which was
why he took his oratory gifts to the streets, where his more direct
methods were most useful. There, he could speak in words that the
Emuru welcomed, refraining from dipping his tongue in haughty
High Bassai like most scholars did.
He’d been written off as a madman, back then. But Nem had
seen his power early enough. Once she had begun to make her way
into Bassa’s upper echelons, she had been wise to find him and add
him to her list of allies. It did not matter that, soon, he guided the
Coalition for New Bassa from being a fringe group into becoming the
central opposition to the Idu nobles. They had continued to help
each other whenever needed, and their goals never came into
opposition because Nem served no master—her only master was
herself.
Then ibor happened. And the yellowskin. And Esheme.
So Nem gave him time to think, because she knew he understood
that the circumstances that had caused their parallel roads to split
apart were just that—circumstances. And though he may have
harboured resentment against the current emperor, it was nothing
throwing him a few bones wouldn’t fix. A place at the university,
perhaps. But only after he’d done what she needed of him.
“Tell me,” was all he said when he finally spoke.
“Your coalition,” she said. “You will need to corral and put an end
to them, once and for all.”
He scoffed, then coughed. His ribs showed with every flex of his
chest muscles.
“Me?” he said, wiping his mouth. “Corral—corral, is it?—a
nonexistent coalition? All the way from my holding cell a whole day’s
ride from Bassa.”
“No,” said Nem. “I will get you out. Then you will corral them.”
“Who are this them you speak of? Am I going insane, or was it
not your same daughter who usurped me, murdered my generals,
co-opted brave ordinary citizens, and took the Great Dome? What
them is left to corral?”
“There are still loyalists,” said Nem. “In Fifteenth Ward and in the
outskirts of the city, some spreading as far as the forests of the
confluence. Too far for us to reach from the Great Dome. I hear
whispers, stories. They dream of a return—of your return. You have
fed them a diet of messiahs for so long that they do not know how
to live without one. And so they have made one up in their heads. I
want you to go there and tell them to stop whatever it is they’re
thinking or, worse, planning.”
Now Basuaye frowned, and Nem could see the cockroach in him
rise to the surface.
“Interesting,” he said.
“What is?”
“This.” He gestured between them both. “You coming to me,
asking for my help.”
“We have always helped one another, Basuaye. We have always
been friends.”
“Indeed we have. But you have not always had the kind of power
that you now have at your side. You have not always had, for a
daughter, an emperor that can command an undead horde to wipe
out whomever she pleases.” He leaned forward. “So it begets the
question: Why would you, despite that power and access to it, take
a day’s ride from the Great Dome to meet me down here and ask for
help toward a peaceful solution?”
Cockroach indeed, thought Nem. Skittery and sly. In only a few
moments, he had deduced the reason she was here: because she
did not trust her own daughter to make the right choice.
“The time for violent solutions is over,” she said instead. “Bassa
needs the peace—”
Basuaye’s laughter cut her short. “Over?” he asked, once done. “I
lie here, in this dungeon—do you not consider that a violence? Is it
not violence that I’m forced to knock my knuckles bloody simply to
converse through walls with my fellow man? Is it not violence that
we now treasure the smell of paper because it’s the only thing that
reminds us there’s a life outside these walls? Nothing is over, my
dear friend. Not while I and others like me whom your emperor
considers enemies are kept imprisoned.”
Nem hated that he was right. She did want and cherish this
power. She had to protect herself and her family in a world designed
to keep them under, so she was willing to do what it took to hold on
to her newfound status. But this, right here, was a reminder that she
was not the true holder of this power, that it was all in the hands of
someone else, who could do with it as she pleased, including making
all the wrong decisions. So here Nem was, yet again, trying to hold
on.
“I could have done things differently in the past,” said Nem. “But
the past is gone. I strive to do things better going forward.”
Basuaye leaned forward. “Tell me—does the emperor approve of
this?”
Nem shifted uncomfortably. “I did not come here for a dance,
Cockroach. Tell me now: Will you, or will you not?”
“What if I say no?”
“Don’t be daft,” Nem snapped. “I am well aware of your physical
ailings, worsening every moment more you spend in this place. I am
willing to put an end to that and, at the same time, apply a salve to
our singed relationship. Neither of these will come without
exchange. If you are as wise as you claim, then you will accept my
proposition. I will get you out of here, you will travel to the fringes
of Fifteenth and down to the confluence, and you will rein in those
who have strayed from the emperor’s guidance.”
Basuaye let another moment of silence pass, then said, “Fine. But
only on one condition.”
“Which is?”
“It must be genuine.”
“What does that mean?”
“It has to be real, otherwise they will not believe me. And if that
happens, they will simply slit my throat and continue on their
business. As you and your emperor know from experience, you can
hold back the tide of a misled people for only so long. If I am gone,
someone larger than life will simply appear to mislead them into
even greater things.”
Nem considered his words. “What do you have in mind?”
“A place at court.”
“Excuse me?”
“Hear me out,” he said. “Once, they believed in my name, but
only because my name demonstrated a power they could look up to:
that of revolution. I don’t know about you, but losing a revolution to
someone else tends to strip one’s name of said power. If I must
approach them and hope to get them to listen, I must approach
from a position of power—a new power. And the only power worthy
of any ear right now is that of the Court of the Great Dome.”
“Then that defeats the whole purpose,” said Nem. “They will
simply know you came from us.”
“Perhaps you’re not quite keeping your eye on the goal, here,
First Consul Nem. The goal is to prevent agitation. Whether they
know on whose behalf I come is irrelevant.”
Nem turned to look at the walls of the holding cell. “This will
require me to convince the emperor. And the current members of
court.”
“Then I believe you have more convincing to do, don’t you?
Judging by how you have convinced me, I believe this will make for
small work.”
Small work indeed, thought Nem, clapping her hands loudly. The
gate reopened, and Satti and the warden came to her attention. To
Satti, Nem said: “We’re leaving.” To the warden, she said: “Get him
some clean clothes.”
The warden looked flabbergasted. “May I ask what for, maa?”
“No, you may not,” she snapped. “Get him the clothes and bring
him up to my caravan.”
She signaled for Satti to roll her away. Down the corridor, the civic
guards carried her back up the stairs and out front. Outside, as
domehands put Nem’s chair back into its place in the travelwagon,
Satti asked, or more like said: “The Cockroach is coming back to the
Great Dome with us.”
“Yes,” said Nem, twisting her fingers, nervous in a way she hadn’t
been in a while. “No matter how big you are, some wars are just too
big to fight all on your own.”
 Lilong

The Lonely Roads West

Sixth Mooncycle, 4–6

A DAY BEFORE DEPARTURE, Lilong and her group returned to the thicket
with Kubra for a final meeting with the Gaddos. After pleasantries,
Ma Gaddo spread a map of the Savanna Belt over a table in the
garden.
“We’ve decided each one of you is going to play a crucial role,”
said Pa Gaddo, who was still on child duty, Thema strapped to his
back.
“Is that—” Danso leaned over. “This map is wrong. It’s too—”
“Large?” Ma Gaddo leaned away to pull another, smaller, worn
map and spread it over the table.
Lilong could immediately spot the difference. The bigger map
covered a large swath of the Savanna Belt, with many cities,
settlements, hamlets, and nomadic group hotspots noted, and major
trading routes labelled and named. The smaller map was much
sparser. The mainland and desertlands were both represented, with
the Soke mountains and its Pass separating them. But the
desertlands were depicted as half their true size, with only Chugoko
and one throwaway settlement named. The rest of the desertlands
were presented as bare and unpopulated.
“This was made by your Emperor of Enlightenment—Tumwenke,
fifteenth or sixteenth, I can’t remember now,” Ma Gaddo was saying
to Danso about the smaller map. “Jalis drew this falsity right there in
your university library.”
Danso looked crestfallen.
“Don’t take it personally,” said Pa Gaddo. “Tumwenke knew that if
desertlanders believed their land—the biggest arbiter of property
and influence—was smaller and less populated than it really was,
they’d be smaller in mind too.” He tapped his temple. “Power is only
where they make you think it is, son.”
“Okay, that’s that.” Ma Gaddo placed a hand on the big map.
“Now, the desertland’s annual Festival of Nomads—the Ochela—
brings travellers from across the Savanna Belt, even up from the
lower Sahel. Lasts three days, so it’s a good enough reason to have
strangers like you there. But most importantly, the show-off parade
for the pageant contestants happens here on the third day.” She
jabbed at a spot in Chugoko marked with an emaciated skull, then
traced a finger along the zigzaggy roads that led to it. “Starts in the
outskirts but moves through the city square, right past the central
prison, where large crowds will gather.” She straightened. “It is the
most chaotic event of all three days of the festival. Everyone, even
the warrant chiefs and chief warden of the prison, goes to those
parades. This is why we have chosen this day to get you in.”
Lilong realised Ma Gaddo was pointing at her. “Oh, me.”
“Yes, you. In your… whatever shade you decide is least
conspicuous, of course. You will be dressed as a vagrant, blending in
with the prison population so you can find Oke and then use your—I
don’t know, what is it that you do? Anyway, you get her out. Also,
your blade will be within calling distance, in case you need it, though
it is our hope you won’t.”
Then Ma Gaddo turned to Danso. “You—you will be the spectacle,
provide our distraction. And you will do so by enrolling in the
pageant.”
“Excuse me?”
“It is a pageant for young men, and you’re the only young man
here, so there’s no argument. We need a spectacle to draw as many
people as possible toward that parade. And if there is anything you
can provide, it is spectacle.”
“Why can’t your son do it?”
Ma and Pa Gaddo glanced at each other.
“Alaba will do his part,” Pa Gaddo said. “Which will mostly involve
staying far, far out of your way. He may offer useful information,
perhaps a better description of Oke than we can give you. Maybe a
map of the prison, even. But on that day, he cannot be seen within
spitting distance of that place.”
“Preparing you will take some work, seeing as you have not worn
facepaint in a while,” said Ma Gaddo to Danso. “Alaba’s other lover,
Ugo, will help you see to it. Nothing some dye and shea butter
cannot fix.”
Lilong could see everyone had a question about this second lover
on their lips, but no one asked it.
Ma Gaddo pointed to Kakutan and Biemwensé. “Biemwensé will
keep a lookout and be ready with a wagon. Kakutan, you will be
dressed as a prison guard and will get Lilong in, then wait to offer
support in getting Oke out. Then, we will—”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Danso interjected. “This plan has way too
many possibilities for failure. One thing goes wrong, everything
comes falling apart. And guess who will be in the public eye if that
happens—me! I do not see myself escaping peace officers while
dressed in colourful regalia.”
“Nothing will go wrong,” Pa Gaddo said. “Kubra has networks in
Chugoko he can call on for emergencies. Alaba can provide other
forms of assistance too. Plus, don’t discount the Chugoki. Majority of
them are not content with Bassa’s fingers everywhere in their
business. They might just be happier than you think to see their
prison wardens bested.”
“And peace officers?” asked Lilong. “If we come up against
them?”
Silence settled among them. This was the one part no one had an
answer for.
“What if Oke doesn’t want to come?” Kakutan asked, breaking the
silence. “Or what if she is weak and we have to carry her?”
“Oke can take care of herself once freed,” Ma Gaddo said, then
paused. “If she still has her powers, that is. Which would cause one
to wonder why she has not yet used them to escape…” She trailed
off when she saw Lilong’s quizzical expression.
“Oh, you don’t know?” She glanced around, and after seeing no
understanding, turned to Lilong and said: “The Speaker’s daughter—
she can do things too.”

Lilong rode to Chugoko in a travelwagon with Danso, Kakutan, and

Biemwensé, with Kubra outside driving the team of kwagas. Beyond
stowing away on the one that took her into the mainland, Lilong had
never travelled inside one of these things. Abenai warrior life
demanded nothing more than riding on kwagaback and in open
wagons. In here, she felt cut off from the outside world, like a
stowaway all over again.
She tried not to think about what she’d learned from the Gaddos
about Oke being an iborworker. A Grey Iborworker, from the
descriptions they’d received from their son. Lilong tried to envision
the situations that would explain how she’d come to know about this
power as well as come into possession of the stone-bones required
to wield it. No matter how much she skirted the matter, the same
bitter truth always reared its head: Her daa, an Elder Warrior of the
Abenai League, had sold all their islands’ secrets out to a mainlander.
A deep and ugly anger welled up inside her, one that she could
only avoid lest it burst open and spread through her chest. She
spent the trip in solitary quiet, watching the bare roads.
 The Lonely Roads West, which connected back to the northern
trade route, took them through parts of the desertlands unfamiliar to
all four of them. Danso, who had grabbed the errant map from the
Gaddos and sworn to rectify it, had his nose in the large sheet,
scribbling in any new locations they managed to identify. Most of
these they gleaned from the conversations Kubra had whenever they
came upon one of the several checkpoints patrolled by vigilantes of
warrant chiefs. Each time, the process was the same: pleasantries
exchanged, the company’s travelwagon identified, the distance to
the next settlement or checkpoint discussed, and then a few copper
or bronze pieces changing hands.
“No wonder the Gaddos were so confident,” said Kakutan. “All
these people are tucked into their wrappers.”
Soon, however, the checkpoints thinned, and it didn’t take long to
see why. Charred remains of small settlements and hamlets soon
came into view whenever such a checkpoint was missing. The ash
mounds of once-standing abodes tussled with dust in the restless
desert air. Silhouettes of burnt trees and tentpoles posed at high
noon, shadows like black webs in the sand. Scorched skeletons
mimicked their poses, legs still lifted mid-flail, arms still held up mid-
shield, mouths still opened mid-scream.
The weight of those images pressed them into silence for the rest
of the trip. No one said it, but Lilong knew what they were all
thinking. This—all of it—was their fault. They had let Esheme get
away with that tiny piece of the Diwi, and with it she had conquered
the mainland and empowered these murderous peace officers. Now
they roamed the desertlands in search of the emperor’s enemies,
real or imagined, catching innocents in their web of brutality.

Chugoko was a shining city overcast by a perpetual cloud.

At least that was the impression Lilong had when they finally
arrived after a day of travel. They did not enter through the city’s
main entrance, but through one of its side gates, sparsely guarded
and poorly coordinated, especially now that the festival had almost
begun. They changed into dust-laden wrapper-cloaks more suited to
visitors attending the Ochela and merged into the crowds before
them. As Lilong would come to realise, every district in Chugoko was
a market. Chugoko was really just a large trading settlement in itself.
But that was where its major differences from Bassa ended.
Lilong soon began to see similarities between both cities that ran far
deeper. Many buildings here were mudbrick and thatch, despite the
heat of the savanna. Then there was the streetside art. Imagery of
the sister moons—the mother hen Ashu and the fiery leopard Menai
—splashed over pillars and walls. Even the trading stalls that bore
titles had them written in High Bassai.
Then, of course, there was the melting pot of peoples, rhythms,
and languages, a chorus and dissonance all at once.
“They don’t call this place Little Bassa for nothing,” Kubra said,
reading their quizzical expressions.
“High Bassai for the signs is a little extreme, I think,” said Danso.
Kubra snorted. “If you were a shopkeeper seeking to attract
customers—half of whom are the mainland elite travelling for trade,
and the other half of whom are desertlanders seeking to curry the
mainland’s favour—tell me, in what language would you title your
business?”
The districts ballooned in size and bodies as they moved closer to
the city centre, where there was more activity pertaining to the
Ochela. Vendors cooking fast food at the roadsides, offering tasting
portions to willing passers-by. Hawkers hassling people with their
trinkets. Shopkeepers calling out to whoever could hear for trading
contracts, storage services, hair and makeup ahead of the next day’s
pageant. One hairdresser pulled down Danso’s cloak and ran her
hands through his hair, explaining how he would surely win the
pageant once she was done.
Lilong was still struggling to adapt to this frenetic pace when
Kubra suddenly put out an arm and held all four of them back.
“There,” he said, jutting his chin forward to avoid pointing with
his finger.
Lilong had never seen a prison before. Namge had no prison, and
as far as she knew, Hoor, the island next to them, did not either. She
could not speak for the islands farther down the archipelago, but the
Ihinyon people simply did not favour imprisonment as a pathway to
restitution. Punishment that placed offenders in the eye and service
of the people was preferred, with said penance producing benefits to
the community. In many ways, shame was the real punishment
there, and she suspected the other islands in the archipelago
thought so as well.
The building stuck out like a sooty pot among washed ones:
gargantuan, monstrous, devoid of life. Its stone walls seemed to go
on forever, lengthward and upward, uninterrupted by windows or
airways.
“Ugly,” said Biemwensé.
Kubra began to pick fruit from a nearby stand to blend in with the
crowd. Lilong and crew followed his cue. The fruit seller suddenly
materialized and asked them to leave if they were not going to buy
anything. Kubra apologised and asked for a handful of dried dates.
The seller wrapped it in leaves, he paid, and they were back on their
way.
They ate the small, sweet fruit as a group, each pinching a couple
at a time and munching. They went past the front of the prison,
pretending to be seeing the sights, even stopping for a moment and
pretending to marvel at it. Lilong and Kakutan used this time to
glean information for their walk in and disguise: guard numbers and
shifts, entryways, windows or the lack thereof. Afterward they split
into two groups to circle the prison and meet at a distance from its
rear. Danso and Lilong made sure to split themselves between each
group, being easier to recognise together.
Lilong went with Biemwensé. A distance away from the building,
the older woman stopped to stare back at it, not taking in any detail
in particular. Lilong knew she was thinking again about her children,
stuck in the prison that was the mainland.
Lilong, too, took this moment to remind herself of why she was
doing this in the first place. This was but one step in her path
toward return, a journey that was more than just going east. This
was her way back to the league’s blessing, to an honourable reward
for herself and her family. This was the way back to answers, to the
truth, to fulfilment. This was the right thing to do.
Biemwensé resumed, but there was a pronounced droop in her
shoulders, a resignation. Lilong put her hand around the woman’s
shoulders in comfort, but pretended it was an act for the onlookers—
just a young desertlander helping an elderly one catch the sights.
Biemwensé did not respond with her customary rebuff. Instead, she
put her own arm around Lilong, as if to say that she, too,
understood this sacrifice.

Once done with scouting the prison, Kubra led the group to meet
Alaba, who would show them to their hideout. The travelwagon took
them through a convoluted route down darker, dirtier streets and
corridors. Here, the city’s cultural potpourri resided neck to neck,
bald Chugoki beside those who imitated the Bassai with
outrageously plaited arches, beside those who simply let their hair
hang loose. The Savanna Common spoken here was so intertwined
with border pidgins that Lilong could not understand it.
After some meandering, the travelwagon finally drew to a halt in
front of a public house of lax build, zero decor, and lowlife clientele.
Inside was darker than Lilong had expected—she had never been in
one of these either. She’d heard stories of the kind of debauchery
that happened in such places, but there seemed to be none of that
excitement here. It was boisterous, yes, but that was quickly
overshadowed by the smell of sweat and stale spirits, and the
inability to hear herself.
“Stand tall, don’t look guilty, and we should be fine,” said Kubra
to them all, before going over to the housekeep.
“What are you doing?” the housekeep, a lanky man, whispered
fiercely, leaning over the counter. “You’re not supposed to be in
here.”
“We’re looking for somebody,” Kubra said.
“Go look for them outside,” the man snapped.
It took Lilong a moment to process the reason for the man’s
insistence. It became clear when she looked outside, into the
backyard where he was pointing. Everyone seated inside was Bassai,
and everyone outside was not.
“Never mind,” Kubra said. “There’s who we’re looking for.”
The outdoor drinking area Kubra was looking out to had dwarf
stools spread out in the dust before low tables, a range of desert
palms providing canopy from the harsh sun. There, among a row of
bickering and laughing drinkers, sat a man who was immediately set
apart. The moroseness of his posture, how distinctly hunched over
his drink he was. No sandals, hair that hadn’t seen oiling or
grooming in a while, and as Lilong could see when they moved
closer, skin that was flaky in places, not oiled well enough for the
desert’s climate.
But most importantly, this man was not a desertlander like those
seated around him. He was a proper high-black Bassai like those
inside the house, yet for some reason, refused to be seated in the
place of privilege reserved for those like him.
“That is who is supposed to help us?” Danso asked, perplexed.
“No,” Kubra said. “That is Ugo. He will tell us where to find
Alaba.”
Perhaps they had been standing and talking for longer than was
natural, because eyes began to wander in their direction, and
eventually one of them was Ugo’s. As soon as he sighted Kubra, he
shot to his feet, too quickly for someone who had been feeding his
body with a lot of wine and spirits. He lost balance just as quickly,
and righted himself, only to upturn his calabash in the process, as
well as that of the person next to him, and the person after that. His
fellow drinkers rained expletives in his direction, but Ugo seemed
unfazed, holding Kubra’s gaze. On second thought, Lilong realised he
was looking at someone behind them. Lilong turned.
The man was tall, with a similar complexion to Biemwensé and
Kakutan, but with hair more akin to Danso’s, difficult to stay in a
plait—so he held it up with twine, like a kwaga’s tail. His wrappers
were starched, knots and lines holding firmly. His feet were oiled and
toenails manicured, a worthy feat in the desertland’s dust. There
was pride in the way he stood, his squared shoulders, his angled
chin, his charming smile.
“Kubra,” he said warmly, then looked at the rest of them.
“Friends.”
“Dehje, Alaba,” Kubra said, putting his hand to the bridge of his
nose.
“Ha, stop it.” Alaba wrinkled his nose. “We don’t have to pretend
to be Bassai out here.” He held up a hand. “Excuse me a moment?”
He went up to Ugo and embraced the other man, and they kissed.
Alaba leaned back, observed the spilled drink on his lover’s
wrappers, made a click at the back of his throat, then pulled Ugo
along, beckoning to everyone else to follow him.
The group went around the building this time, rather than
through. But just as they came out front, a band of peace officers
pulled up at the public house.
 Danso

Chugoko
Sixth Mooncycle, 6

THERE WERE FIVE OF them, given a wide berth as they descended from
their kwagas. People re-congregated a distance away, murmuring
with dread. Not many could say they had met a peace officer and
lived to tell the tale. Rumours had it that peace officers spoke only
the language of violence; that all their words were spoken by a
separate mouthpiece—often a local assigned to speak for them in
exchange for protection. The mouthpiece asked the same three
questions each time, to which the wrong answers would invite
anything from a bruising to instant death. The first step toward
staying alive was never to get in a conversation in the first place.
The dust of their entrance cleared, and Danso could see the
mouthpiece of this group—a young desertlander woman with a bald
head—descend from one of the kwagas. She moved with swagger
and intent, a person who knew the power they possessed and was
unafraid to use it.
The five peace officers came into full view.
The stories had not been wrong. They were indeed a motley
collection of former hunthands, ranging in gender, complexion,
hairstyles, clothing, and even weaponry of choice, but bound
together by tall and muscular builds, a grim demeanour, and a
general air of otherworldliness. They wore no uniforms, emblems, or
any such identifying items. Save for the fact that their weapons were
all visibly Bassai-made, they could otherwise have been bandits.
The stories had also been incomplete. No one had mentioned
that silence was not a choice the peace officers made, but that
speaking was something they simply could not do.
All five peace officers had their mouths sewn shut. Copper wires
dug into the flesh surrounding their lips, binding them tight in puffy
ridges, like stray dogs muffled by a barbarous hand. Dark red
patches surrounded their mouths, perforated wounds never healing.
This explained their perpetual scowls, the intense, carnivorous gaze
that made Danso’s blood curdle.
“Scatter.” The voice was Kubra’s. “Now.”
The command was delivered with a whisper, but that did not dull
its acuity. The group separated like sand particles in the desert wind.
Kubra and Lilong went one way, Alaba with Ugo, Kakutan with
Biemwensé. Danso suddenly found himself standing alone, frozen
with fear.
The public house emptied just as quickly. The peace officers
themselves did not seem harried, simply standing around and
waiting for their mouthpiece. The woman prepared a sheaf of
papers, approaching the public house. But then she stopped mid-
stride, turned her eyes, and settled them on Danso.
Later, Danso would come to attribute this action to the innate
feeling of being watched, the weight of a gaze resting on the nape
of one’s neck. But in that moment, he did not waste time pondering.
The look, though brief and fleeting, was enough to get his feet
moving.
He did not turn around and run, fearful of being too conspicuous,
but instead began to move sideways along with the crowd, allowing
the wave of exits from the public house to carry him. But he was too
late, or too slow, because the mouthpiece’s eyes did not leave him.
They shifted when he did, staying locked on his face. There wasn’t
quite recognition yet in her gaze, only a wondering, quizzical.
Then she turned, as if resigned, and went up to the nearby wall
at the front of the house, where public notices were hung. She took
out one of the papers from her sheaf, planted it on the wall, fished a
nail from somewhere inside her mouth, and nailed it into the
mudbrick with a nearby stone.
Danso was still within reading distance, so he stopped to squint
at the public notice. It was written in High Bassai, but also translated
to Savanna Common and supplemented with plain symbols for those
who couldn’t read either language.
His chest went cold at the words.
A BOUNTY OF TWO HUNDRED GOLD PIECES, it read, FOR THE INVADER AND HER
ACCOMPLICE, ALIVE. ALL COMPANIONS TO BE EXECUTED ON THE SPOT.
Beneath the description were two hasty sketches of him and
Lilong. His portrait was a stripped-down version of his official portrait
at the university, the one all graduates were required to get done.
Which was why it still had the former Bassai plait, the novitiate
wrappers, the Idu jewellery and facepaint, the intense gaze the
painter had insisted upon. Thankfully, he looked absolutely nothing
like that now, with his new hair and beard, no earrings, no facepaint,
and a sea of desertlanders with complexions not too far off from his.
It would be near impossible to match that portrait to him.
Lilong, on the other hand, looked exactly as she did now. Her
short clumps of hair had grown somewhat fuller, but that was all that
had changed about her. The drawing was pretty close to accurate,
complete with the scars on her clavicle. It wouldn’t take a smart
person to recognise her from this sketch.
Beneath his own portrait, just one word was written: JALI.
Beneath Lilong’s, there were more warnings: ARMED AND EXTREMELY
DANGEROUS. SKILLED WITH A SWORD. A PRACTITIONER OF SORCERY WHO MAY
CHANGE APPEARANCE AT WILL. COULD BE ANYONE. BEWARE.
The onlookers who had once given the peace officers a wide
berth began to inch closer, whispering among themselves, discussing
the bounty, the scandal, the assassinations. Danso decided this was
the time to go. But when he lifted his head, the mouthpiece’s eyes
were back on him.
Her gaze was surer this time, less hesitant. She flung her sheaf of
public notices in the air, letting them scatter into the crowd and be
plucked by interested hands. Then she beckoned to the peace
officers to follow her and strolled forward—toward Danso.
Moons.
For a second time, he found it impossible to move his feet. The
shadow of the advancing gang drew closer and closer, until
suddenly, all six were upon him. The mouthpiece was smaller than
he’d thought, so that even though he tried to keep his eyes down,
he ended up looking right into hers anyway. They were accusatory,
almost like they could see past the beard and hair and lack of
adornment, and match him with the public notice by his eyes alone.
“Citizen,” she said, “have you strayed from the Red Emperor’s
guidance at this time?”
Danso’s brain, the only part of him that did not seem to be frozen
with fear, recognised this as the first of the three standard questions
the mouthpiece of the peace officers always asked. It was a trap,
this question, to lure one into a lie, to make a dishonest person out
of them. Because, as far as Danso was concerned, most people this
side of the border strayed from the Red Emperor’s guidance just by
existing.
“No, officer,” Danso lied. He spoke in broken and accented
Savanna Common, in the way Kubra had taught him to make him
sound Sahelian, as if he had migrated southward from one of the
settlements farther north along the trading route. “I have not break
any of the Sovereign’s laws.”
The peace officers shifted on their feet, impatient. The
mouthpiece tilted her head and squinted. He could tell she had a
different kind of question on her lips, one that tied him to that public
notice. But he assumed she couldn’t ask it yet until she had
completed the three standard ones.
“Have you come upon any of the Red Emperor’s declared enemies
at this time?” she asked.
Her mouth said this, but what her eyes really said was Are you
the Red Emperor’s enemy? to which Danso’s eyes were, unwillingly,
answering Yes.
“Not any that I have recognised, officer,” he said, forcing his lips
to ignore his brain. This question was another trap, and the next was
likely to be the one with the trip rope, the one that snapped and
held the weak animal tight in place, helpless.
The mouthpiece took a moment before she posed her last
question.
“Have you, at any point, aided any enemies of the empire, or
those who have strayed from the Red Emperor’s guidance?”
Yes, yes, yes, Danso’s brain said. Thankfully, his mouth did
nothing but gulp. And perhaps that moment of pause was too long,
because the peace officers responded. Their arms, which once hung
by their sides or were folded across their chests, dropped to rest on
their cutlasses, spears, axes.
“There you are!” a voice said.
The mouthpiece and all five peace officers shifted their gazes to
the speaker behind Danso. Danso did the same, turning around to
see Ugo walking up to him.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, brother,” Ugo said,
shaking his head like an exasperated parent. He was speaking in the
same exaggerated Sahelian accent that Danso was. “You run off
without finishing our game, eh?”
The mouthpiece’s death stare was enough to slow Ugo’s pace,
though he kept advancing anyway, throwing the whole gang a
formal salutation.
“Dehje, officers,” he said, hand on the bridge of his nose. “I hope
my little brother have not disturb your activity in any way?”
The mouthpiece’s eyes roved over Ugo, then over Danso.
“Little brother,” the woman repeated, with enough snarl to signal
that she did not believe it one bit.
“Oh, yes,” said Ugo, inching closer. “Different daa, of course, as
you can see. You know them Bassai merchants love everything
between desertlander thighs, yes?” He chuckled good-naturedly, and
therefore alone. The peace officers had faces of stone.
“You are Shashi, then?” the mouthpiece asked.
“In a way,” said Ugo, beating his chest. “Born and raised up and
down the northern trade route, me. Lucky to take the bones of my
desertland maa, but sadly little else.” Then he reached forward and
patted Danso’s head. “Jhobon is not like me, though. There is no
mainlander blood in him. This one is through and through
desertlander.” He cleared his throat. “Again, I hope he is not causing
any trouble? He only just come down to enjoy the Ochela with his
big brother, you know? Still struggle with the language, the customs.
Maybe he will stay back and learn a little, eh, won’t you, Jhobon?”
He slapped Danso on the back.
Danso looked hopefully at the mouthpiece. She wasn’t buying it,
but she looked tired. It was days to the Ochela’s main events and
she probably had many public houses to visit and put up notices.
She also seemed rankled by Ugo’s drunkenness.
The peace officers themselves remained expressionless, waiting
for nothing but the word Go. Danso reminded himself that these
were not civic guards, Seconds, or hunthands. They were not even
bandits. These were people given the licence to be worse than all
those put together, to deal out nothing but pain. One wrong word
from this mouthpiece and it was all over for him.
Which was why he almost wept with relief when the mouthpiece
shook her head, irritated, and said: “Be good citizens, both of you.”
Then she turned away, and the peace officers went with her.
Ugo grabbed Danso by the arm and yanked him in the opposite
direction.
“Don’t run,” he whispered, his Savanna Common suddenly correct
and unaccented. “Walk, slowly, casually.”
They had barely taken two steps when a voice called out: “Wait.”
They turned. The mouthpiece was facing them again. Danso’s
heart pounded.
“You never answered my third question,” she said.
Indeed, Danso hadn’t. As he opened his mouth to say the words,
he realised this was a life-saving lie indeed.
“I have not, at any point, aided any enemies of the empire,” he
said, repeating her words haltingly, “or those who have strayed from
the Red Emperor’s guidance.”
The woman’s eyes rested on both men for a beat more, then she
said with finality: “Go in peace.”
 Lilong

Chugoko
Sixth Mooncycle, 6–8

THE HIDEOUT WAS A small hut in a run-down part of the city outskirts. It
was built in a clearing obfuscated by tall grass and crafted in the
crudest way possible—mud-clay mixed with straw—to better blend in
with its surroundings. The structure was fragile, its largest pillars a
pair of wooden poles to which sinister winds could do real damage,
but it was sufficient for the singular purpose of lying low. Alaba had
also stocked it with more than sufficient resources needed for their
stay and the mission—food, water, clothing, weapons, and other
items for disguises.
“That was close,” said Alaba, to everyone and no one. “Very
close.”
They were all gathered inside the hut, halfway between
recovering from Danso’s near miss and acclimatizing to their new
surroundings. Kubra, Danso, and Kakutan offloaded the remaining
supplies from the travelwagon, which was parked some distance
away. Ugo helped Biemwensé find a comfortable corner in the
cramped quarters. Having now been seen with Danso, he could not
return to the city, so he had come along with the group. He would
be staying at the hideout for the remaining days until the heist.
Lilong thought the location was pea-sized for the original party of
five, not to talk about a sixth person.
“Make that seven,” Alaba said when she raised this concern. “I’ve
arranged for Thema to join us with the next company travelwagon
that comes this way.”
Lilong frowned. “These are no conditions for an infant.”
“True,” he said. “But you must understand: Oke has not set eyes
on her child since Thema’s birth in the prison. We were even lucky I
made arrangements to receive the baby, or Thema could have been
sold to any interested party out there.” He shivered at the thought.
“I just want Thema’s face to be the first Oke sees when she regains
her freedom.”
Lilong regarded the man. He had the presence and carriage of a
Bassai Idu, but a warmth and earnestness that felt antithetical to
that. The resulting dissonance had a disarming effect that made
Lilong uneasy. Being capable of getting people to let down their
guard was a weapon in itself, just as useful for good as it was for
evil. She realised, now, that this was why she’d felt just as uneasy
about the Gaddos. Though she was yet to see the foolishness they
had spoken about in this man, she considered him to be unlike them
anyway. His eyes simply did not possess the same sharpness of a
predator.

It was late evening once the unloading was done and everyone was
rested. Kubra pulled out the map, and they went over the finer
details of the plan.
 The group was to be split into three teams. The first, the duo of
Lilong and Kakutan, would make it into the prison itself, release Oke,
and find a way to get her back out. Kakutan would dress up as a
prison warden. In the heat of the pageant and parade, when half the
wardens were out to watch the procession, she would slip into the
prison by pretending to arrest and bring in Lilong, who’d be dressed
in rags, playing the role of a drunkard caught causing havoc. Such
arrests were reserved for the lowliest of wardens, making it less out
of place if Kakutan were not to be recognised.
Ugo—who it turned out was skilled in costumes and makeup and
had acquired the right clothing for everyone’s roles—presented his
procurements. Lilong looked perfectly ragged in her wrappers.
Kakutan tried on the warden uniform—thicker wrappers stitched into
a robe—and it suited her just as well. The warden baton she tested,
swinging with practiced ease, as if she had once been a warden
herself. Lilong thought that perhaps, in a way, that was what a
Supreme Magnanimous was.
“We still haven’t answered the question of how we get her out,”
Kakutan said.
Alaba turned to Lilong. “Can you”—he wriggled his fingers
—“Possess the lock?”
Lilong frowned at his use of the correct term. How much had Oke
divulged?
“If you can, then Ugo will give you another warden uniform. You
change into that, Oke changes into your rags, and it can be like she
is your prisoner and you are transferring her somewhere.”
“Sounds risky to me,” said Danso.
“And demanding,” said Lilong. “The Possession you describe is
not as easy as you think. It has… effects. I may become a
handicap.”
“Make that two problems,” said Ugo. “Because I could only
manage one uniform.” He made an embarrassed face.
Alaba sighed, then said to Lilong and Kakutan: “I can’t say I have
an answer, but what I do have is trust, and I trust that you two can
find a way that works for us all. Because if we can’t get her out,
then no part of this plan is useful.”
 The second team was made up of Danso and Ugo. Ugo would be
Danso’s handler for the pageant, which he had already signed him
up for. Now came the hard part of preparation. Ugo detailed the
different aspects of the pageant—makeup, clothing, headpieces,
song and dance—required to create the kind of spectacle that would
pull enough eyes toward him, prison wardens included. As he laid
out the specifics, Lilong saw Danso’s initial excitement slowly wane,
and could not help but feel that his job might just be the toughest of
them all.
The last team was to be made up of Biemwensé and Kubra. Being
the least mobile of the crew, Biemwensé would drive the
travelwagon that would whisk the escapees back to the hideout. She
was to be stationed nearby in wait, away from the parade’s route
and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Kubra was to be the
middleman between the prison exit and the travelwagon’s location,
ready to adapt to any changing situations at a moment’s notice.
It was a good plan, but not great. So much room for failure, no
one fully convinced of its success. But, Lilong decided, if she was
ever going to return home, this was her best—if not only—chance.

The next two days at the hideout were filled with preparation. Alaba,
the only one who could leave the hideout, went into the city to
procure further supplies, and returned with news of the festival,
which had already begun. On the last of such trips, he also returned
with something—or someone—unexpected: Thema. Everyone
crowded around the child and cooed, the persistent dour mood
lifted. Lilong peeked through the sea of heads to catch a look. Her
toes were so tiny. She was so small, so vulnerable.
After Alaba left, Ugo took her into his care—it took Lilong a while
to realise that he, too, was also her daa of sorts. Whenever he
needed to train with Danso, Biemwensé helped care for the baby.
 Theirs was the most intense of the preparations, Danso and Ugo.
Lilong observed them on the last afternoon as they took a break
from the dances. Ugo was teaching Danso the meanings of the
words the judges, who were mostly women, would be using. He also
explained the role of the leader of ceremonies, who would do the
work of connecting the crowd with Danso. Lilong failed to catch
much of it—too much information all at once—but Danso drank
every word with practiced ease. It was her first time seeing his
famed memory in action. Ugo even put him to the test, stopping
periodically to offer a question. Danso’s answers were languid, bored
even, but all exactly correct. Not one sentence or word gone awry.
He did not fool her, though, Danso. She could see the folds
beneath his eyes, grief scribing lines at their edges. She saw the way
he threw himself into every dance move, every lesson. He was trying
to escape something that could never be escaped, only faced. Lilong
crossed her fingers and hoped he could hold out for much longer.
Such torments often came to roost at the worst of times.
Later that evening, she sat with Kakutan on small stools outside
the hut and unfurled the crude prison map Alaba had drawn on a
piece of cloth. They were still trying to figure out a clean exit. So far,
they had nothing satisfying.
Kakutan lit a pipe and smoked, offering Lilong a puff, which she
declined. The woman chuckled.
“You may die tomorrow, or anytime on your trip after,” Kakutan
said. “Don’t you want a taste of everything life has to offer before
then?”
“I have tasted what I need to, thank you.”
“Well, there are some things I have not seen you taste,” said
Kakutan with a raised eyebrow. “At least tell me all your secret
sojourns into Chabo’s outskirts were not just to check on your
heirloom. Surely you must have…” She lifted her eyebrow higher.
“Found someone desirable?”
This was not the first time Kakutan had attempted to inquire
about her sexual life. Back in Chabo, she’d insisted that there was no
shortage of charming young vagabonds eager to take off Lilong’s
wrappers—and she had not been wrong. Opportunity was never the
issue. Lilong was on a mission, and casual matters like sex were
distractions that only increased the chance of being discovered.
But there was something else, something she had never told
them—not even Danso: that family and the Diwi weren’t her only
reasons for returning to Namge.
Lilong did indeed know what desire tasted like. She had loved
and been loved, once. A fellow warrior in the Abenai League called
Turay—a wisecrack, sturdy like a dwarf palm. Son of the oldest
warrior in the league, and an Abenai warrior himself. Unfortunately,
that had been the same reason it never worked out—romantic
relationships within the league were absolutely forbidden.
Turay had been ready to elope if need be. Take a dhow, find a
Grey Iborworker of dodgy means, and sail south in search of a new
coast, any coast. Start a new hamlet together away from prying
eyes.
But Lilong had believed in the league’s purpose, considered
loyalty to them to be loyalty to the islands, and therefore ranked
these above her personal desires. Much of her still did, though
recent events had caused her to wonder: If, upon her return, Turay
asked again, would her answer really be the same?
“I know desire,” she said to Kakutan, and left it at that.
“Ahh. An old flame. Those die slowly, don’t they?” Kakutan
tapped her pipe on her stool to get rid of ash. “Did I ever tell you
that I never wanted to be Supreme Magnanimous?”
“No.”
“True story. I loved a woman, once. She wanted to go to Bassa,
make a life there. She was going to be a weaver and wanted me to
come with her. Said I could become a civic guard.” She chuckled.
“Imagine that.”
Lilong wanted to tell her that a Supreme Magnanimous and civic
guard were the same thing.
“I’m happy I stayed. I believe in making one’s way in the world,
but there is no way to be made if fences lie in every path. We only
get the destinies we’re dealt. You don’t go out to the world and
waste it. You go to the place where you can make a difference. You
go home.”
 This was Kakutan’s way of saying why she was doing this heist,
Lilong surmised. Why she wanted to return to the mainland and do
right by her people. And though she didn’t know it, she was
reminding Lilong of why she was doing this too.
They got to work seeking a solution to their exit problem. Alaba’s
map showed that the prison had three floors, none of them below
ground. The route to Oke’s holding unit went up to the middle floor.
At the time of the map, it held just her as a solitary occupant, a
precaution once due to her pregnancy, but which could have since
changed—Alaba wasn’t sure. Yet another hole in the plan.
“Which of these do you think is best?” Kakutan asked, pointing to
the three possible exit points Lilong had identified and marked.
“By best, do you mean least physical or least risky? Because
those are not the same.”
“Start with least risky.”
“That is here.” Lilong pointed to a marked spot on the second
floor. “A window, but large enough. The trouble will be sending her
down without injury, especially if she is too weak to climb down on
her own.”
Kakutan clicked her tongue at the low odds. “And the risky one?”
“Through the front, as Alaba said. Walk out like we walk in.”
“But you don’t have a uniform.”
“So we get one before leaving.”
“How?”
“Take from a warden, maybe.”
Kakutan lifted an eyebrow. “Without causing a ruckus? I doubt
that’s possible.”
“We can if we are quick. Few blows, no bloodstains. Hide them so
they are not found until we are safe.”
Kakutan gave Lilong a look she hadn’t been given in a long time.
The one where the person was suddenly reminded of how deadly
she could be, and with how much ease. It used to give her pride,
this expression on others’ faces. Now, though, she did not enjoy
being thought of as this islander warrior who did nothing but kill.
She wasn’t even planning to kill said warden, just render them
unconscious. Kakutan had been Supreme Magnanimous once. She
understood these things were sometimes necessary.
Kakutan cleared her throat and pointed to the third exit. “And this
one?”
“Final option if the plan spoils: the roof.”
“Roof will be suicide.”
“Not for me.”
Kakutan gave her the look again, then said: “I guess I need some
light training before tomorrow. In case I have to climb with a whole
person on my back.”
After Kakutan left, Lilong studied the map some more, trying to
fashion a better escape route that didn’t involve running into stray
wardens. Her eyes began to hurt after a while, even with the
reading stones Kakutan lent her, so she abandoned the attempt and
went off to the edge of the clearing to stare at the tall grass. Once
there and out of sight, she pulled aside her wrapper and looked at
the stones embedded in her arm.
Of the twelve embedded when she’d started at the Abenai
League, she had used up a couple making the journey to Bassa
alone, and then a bunch more between Bassa and Chabo. In Chabo,
she’d used one up just to keep her complexion a steady desertlander
at all times. Now there were only four left. She had to conserve
these for the long journey back east and use more of her physical
abilities for everything else, this heist included.
No more iborworking. Or violence. Not unless it was absolutely
warranted.
 Esheme

Deltalands
Fifth Mooncycle, 16

DAYS AFTER THEIR STOP at Enuka, the royal caravan was deep in the
hinterlands, headed for the swamplands. Word of their exploits had
reached the clans farther south, so that every new clan they passed,
they found empty, with only the youngest and most elderly
remaining. Everyone else had fled into the bushes, trying to escape
—as one elderly hinterlander put it—“being included in the emperor’s
collection.”
Esheme, frustrated, had trudged through the mud and ordered a
nearby travelwagon be opened. Inside were four people: the two
clan leaders from Enuka… and the young and old Elders from the
Tombolo hamlets.
“Elders,” she said in Mainland Common. “Do you have any reason
to fear for your lives?”
The four looked at one another, dread and perplexity
commingling in their expressions. “No, Sovereign.”
“Do you believe my invitation to the Great Dome to be a
mistreatment?”
“No, Sovereign.”
She turned to Ikobi, to Igan, to everyone in the caravan. “Then
tell me why everyone thinks us here to capture and enslave them.”
Her advisors shuffled on their feet, answers on the tip of their
tongues, but decided that the emperor was being rhetorical, that she
didn’t really want an answer because she already knew it.
Now, the royal caravan was charting its way through the bush
paths of the wetlands. With the mainland’s waters thinning each
passing day, the swamplands had shifted farther inland than
expected, leaving behind pitchy ground that had seen no human
feet. Though the swamp peoples of the delta settlements lived in the
core of the wetlands, the region was still considered uncharted,
mostly because no emperor had ever come this far south. This was
evident in the lack of a royal road, and the only bush paths had been
overtaken by forest. The caravan had to be brought to a halt for
hands to clear a way through.
Esheme took the time to muse with her advisors about solutions
to the misinterpretation of her attempts at reconnection.
“Hinterlanders have a deep connection to their land,” Ikobi was
saying. “They consider removal from it akin to the removal of their
souls.”
“And yet all they complain of is distance from the Great Dome,”
said Esheme, beckoning to a nearby hand to hold closer a dish of
mixed sliced fruits, which he did. She plucked a slice of mango and
ate. Iborworking always made her ravenous, a situation doubly
exacerbated by her current pregnancy.
“How can they not see I’m giving them an opportunity for
representation?”
“Because it is not on their own terms,” said Igan. “And they know
that.”
Esheme took off her substitute crown, the smaller one she wore
often in lieu of the larger, official one. She set it aside, extending a
finger through her hairdo to scratch her scalp.
 “I hear your calls for integration, but this empire cannot be ruled
by assembly. We have learned that much from the Upper Council.”
She leaned back in her chair, shut her eyes. “They will like it. They
have no choice.”
The way had been cleared, and the hands and guards outside
shouted commands to get moving. But the caravan soon stopped
again.
The wetlands were not a kind place. Floodwaters covered every
area as far as the eye could see, and there was more mist in the
morning than could be travelled in. The size and ferocity of plant and
beast multiplied exponentially, with many prone to stealth and
attacking without provocation.
“Emperor,” said Igan, while their posse and the civic guards tried
to spear a stray crocodile outside. “I have been thinking—maybe this
is a good time to turn back?”
Esheme frowned. “Where is this coming from?”
Igan tilted their head. “There is a reason no emperor has ever
tried to contact the swamplanders, and why they do not want to be
contacted. Who can blame them? This place…” Igan looked out at
the crocodile, whose hide was so thick the spears weren’t going
through. “There is something wrong with this land.”
The crocodile was eventually driven off, but Esheme insisted the
caravan press on. Igan did not understand, did they? This trip was
not really about the things that would be done while here. It was
about what they brought back: the trophies, the pride, the tales of
the emperor’s exploits. Bassa’s power and might were built on such
things.
It was also about the reverence the Bassai would be forced to
have for her. The emperor they thought was too young to rule over
them would now be the first emperor to traverse the swamplands
and make contact with the delta settlements. Such an
accomplishment could not be denied, not even by the most
disillusioned Bassai.
Igan might disagree, but for Esheme, at the end of this road lay
nothing but success.
By evening, after moving with more care and deliberation, the
caravan came upon a massive wall built of bamboo and mud. This
was the first wall Esheme had seen that rivalled that of the Soke
Pass. It stood tall—so tall that looking up at it made her dizzy. She
wondered if it was the product of iborworking, as it also ran as far in
either direction as the eye could see. Despite the material, it looked
sturdy and fortified.
Behind the wall, a number of lights flashed.
“Arrows!” Igan ordered. “Positions!”
Archers from their posse and the civic guard squadrons popped
out in formation and stretched their bows, strings taut in wait. But
the attack they were waiting for did not come. Esheme nodded to
Ikobi, who nodded to the jali, who stepped forward.
“In the name of the Red Emperor of Bassa,” the jali announced,
his voice ringing throughout the swamp, “the Scion of Moons and
Sovereign Ruler of the world—”
A lone arrow flew from behind the bamboo wall and struck the
man in the neck. He fell, gushing blood into the swampwater.
And it was in watching him fall that Esheme noticed what the
others around her also did: that the swamp was not quite filled with
rotten foliage as they thought it was, but bones and rotting flesh,
human and beast alike.
Every person with a shield stepped back and surrounded the royal
travelwagon. Though fortified to withstand even the most ardent of
attacks, the wagon would need to be held until the emperor could
make a clean escape.
From behind the wall came an ululation, which started in one
location, but was soon picked up at various points along its length,
escalating down the line until it became a chorus, an alarm. Behind
the bamboo, there was significant movement. All spaces between
the sticks began to close up, quick fortifications set up behind the
barrier. Large shields appeared from nowhere and covered the top
row of the walls.
The ululation came to an abrupt end, but no attack followed it.
The emperor’s guard stood, waiting.
Then came a long and perilous trill, a rumble buried under breath
that shook the very trees of the swamp to their roots and caused the
still water to tremor. A ripple began around the swamp. In the
distance, a submerged creature peeked above the water. Even in the
small light of the setting sun still filtering through the canopy, its two
eyes, parted by a snout and crested by a rugged ridge, were clearly
visible.
It swam toward the caravan with a fierceness, begetting waves
that knocked bone against bone and swayed reed against reed.
“More crocodiles!” Igan screamed. “Guard the emperor!”
In a great wave, the advancing head rose, and a great long neck
emerged and continued to rise and rise until it was almost as tall as
the canopy of the swamp forest itself. Every head in the caravan
tilted to follow its rise, and every eye blinked as it opened its mouth
and let out another bellow that blew a gust over the swamp.
Four legs, separated by a thin yellow belly, and a great tail so
long it snaked out of sight. Mirror-like scales, reflecting a rainbow of
the sun’s stray beams across the swamp. Eyes as orange as a
bushfire. A great many pointed teeth. It was beautiful.
“Oh Menai,” Ikobi whispered breathlessly next to Esheme. “A
Ninki Nanka!”
Out of the beast’s mouth came a large rain of yellow saliva. It
bespattered the man foremost to the creature, whose face
immediately melted into a puddle, followed by wherever else on his
body had been smeared.
“Shield!” Igan screamed, and everyone with a shield held it above
their heads. “Back away! Back away!”
But Esheme, stretching to catch a glimpse of all this from the
royal travelwagon, was struck with awe. She felt the tug of red ibor
on her consciousness, and instantly knew why the beast was
heading her way, what it had smelled. Fear and fascination gathered
in her chest, just like back in the Dead Mines, when she had first
witnessed Danso give life to the large undead bat.
And just like that, she looked up and saw opportunity. An image
clouded her mind: riding into Bassa on the back of the Ninki Nanka,
the jali singing the tale of the Red Emperor who killed and
commanded the fabled dragon-serpent of the swamps, so elusive no
one on the continent had ever seen it. The jali’s voice filled her
head, songs about an emperor so mighty she reduced her enemies
into a puddle with one drop of her beast’s spittle.
And in response to the songs, every citizen of Oon, every person
who resided wherever the light touched, looked up at her with the
same feeling: fear, fascination, respect.
Esheme stepped forward, beyond her line of protectors, and
despite the shouts of warning from Igan, she shut her eyes and
Drew.
The Ninki Nanka sensed it, turned to Esheme, and snarled.
“What are you doing?” This was Igan.
But Esheme was already neck-deep in the costs of ibor. A
wrenching in her belly. The stone-bone attached to her upper arm—
the very last one, she remembered now—began to falter, nearing its
end. One more Draw, and it would disintegrate completely. The pain
stung deeper than she’d felt in a while. There was sure to be blood
after this.
But for control of this mountainous beast? Any price was worth it.
The Ninki Nanka let out another ear-rending bellow, then dove
into the swamp and shot toward Esheme.
“Protect the emperor!” Igan rallied their posse and the guard.
Esheme hurled the first Soldier of Red at the dragon-serpent.
The undead woman, a former Second Elder, had been one of
Esheme’s first converts, and was the strongest and longest-served
Soldier of Red. She flew with the alacrity of something fearless, eyes
gleaming red. In the air, she drew her cutlass, landed on the dragon-
serpent’s head, lifted, and struck downward.
The cutlass broke in two, succumbing to the superior strength of
the beast’s skull. The Soldier of Red, unfazed, pushed down the
remainder of the broken blade, breaking skin and bone both.
The Ninki Nanka hollered, black blood running down its crest, into
its face. The Soldier pushed harder, muscles straining to keep
balanced on the beast’s head. The beast, angered, swayed
vigorously, until the woman lost her balance and fell.
The beast didn’t wait for her to reach the swamp floor. With a
great swoosh, it brought its tail around. Ridged as its crest and back,
twice the length of its body, with a sharp end like a blade.
The tail sliced the Soldier of Red clean in two. There were
multiple splashes, syncopated, blood and body and organs separated
from their host.
Esheme sent three Soldiers of Red a more refined Command:
Aim for the neck.
The Command, once delivered, drained so much energy that it
brought her to her knees. Her aides and Second, still circled around
her, attempted to hold her up, but she put up a hand.
“Focus,” she said. “If they don’t succeed, you will need to finish
the job.”
The three Soldiers were already in motion. The Ninki Nanka, now
back to its full height, was impossible to reach by normal means.
The Soldiers found the nearest trees and scurried up them with bare
hands and feet, pulling themselves up with superhuman strength,
lacerating limbs but bleeding nothing.
The closest Soldier of Red flew spear-first, plunging a weapon
into the beast’s neck before falling the too-high distance into the
swamp and promptly breaking both legs. The two Soldiers left
descended upon the beast and did the same. Dark blood filled the
swampwater.
But the dragon-serpent, stunned from the attacks, was not done
yet. It located the Soldiers crawling in the swamp—now that their
legs were useless—and promptly stamped on their heads, iron-like
claws finishing what its thick feet didn’t. Then, the beast turned its
sight back on Esheme, baring bloodstained dentition.
Esheme pushed her final Command with everything she had left—
to all thirteen Soldiers of Red remaining.
Finish it.
Thirteen undead Soldiers moved as one.
The Ninki Nanka dug its head and pitched forward. Esheme
couldn’t see much now, her vision dwindling, body straining past its
limits, the power taking a toll. Her belly tightened like a washcloth,
twisting harder, past the cloth’s ripping point. She felt a rip of such
manner now, somewhere in the depths of her insides, a snap,
crackle, click.
The Soldiers of Red, as if sensing her waning consciousness,
fought faster, faster. Bodies flew from trees at the dragon-serpent,
slashing, slashing. Alas, one by one, they were caught between
ferocious teeth, torn to parts, unceremoniously discarded. Esheme
saw them only in blurs now, dissolving in the beast’s corrosive
spittle. Those that remained upright went at it again and again. On
her knees, Esheme watched the chaos unfold through cloudy vision
and muffled sound.
Then, a large shadow, and many shouts, as the beast finally
came down in slow motion. A strong arm—Igan, she recognised
from their armpit musk—picked her up as if she was a weightless
sack, and pulled her out of the way of the falling giant.
The Ninki Nanka hit the swamp with a deafening crash, raising a
great wave and drenching every last person in swampwater stink. A
loud silence befell the swamp after, a silence that spread through the
delta settlements so that even the frogs and crickets withheld their
songs, and only the sloshing of water and the swaying of reeds
stood between them.
A fine misty spray settled on Esheme’s cheek. She could see that
not a single Soldier of Red had survived. She could also see the
outline of the Ninki Nanka where it had fallen, where its head lay.
“Take me to the head,” she said to Igan.
Igan stood still. “Emperor—”
“Take me to the head,” Esheme repeated, and Igan obeyed. They
laid Esheme down in the swamp, next to the bloodied head of the
great beast.
Esheme put her hands to its head, ran them across its bloodied
face. Dead for sure. The images and jali songs from before flooded
her mind. She leaned in close, hands on the beast’s head, and Drew.
This was the last of the red stone-bones she had brought along,
on its last dregs. She felt it disintegrate from where it was attached
to her arm, scatter into sand and seep into the swampwater. Power
surged through her body, shaking her in small convulsions. Her
stomach roiled, her insides knotting, fighting back. But she kept her
hands on the beast, kept her focus steady as she Possessed it with
every last strain of ibor in her body.
Rise, she Commanded the Ninki Nanka. Rise and be mine.
Beneath her came a huff, a puff, a snort. The beast’s eyes
fluttered, and opened into a deep pool of red.
Then, the world stopped. Everything was suddenly too far away
from Esheme. There was shouting, or maybe singing, or maybe
both, too distant to decipher. Hands, elongated, reached for her. But
she had already fallen too far into the darkness.
 Nem

Bassa: The Great Dome

Fifth Mooncycle, 29

NEM WILLED THE TRAVELWAGON to go faster. The royal stablehands drove

as hard as they could, the kwagas’ necks straining to their last
sinews, but Nem needed to be in Bassa as soon as possible.
The Red Emperor was coming home.
She did not often think of Esheme as her daughter these days.
Save for quiet moments when it was just them two in a room—which
happened less as the seasons wore on—Nem did not so easily step
past emperor into the zone of daughter with her. Since the
coronation, the most time she had spent with Esheme was at court.
Not that Esheme didn’t want her by her side. She had made her
First Consul after all, the most senior position in the Court of the
Great Dome, second in command only to the emperor. Nem was
proud of the woman Esheme had become—Scion of Moons,
Sovereign Emperor of Great Bassa and the world! But all it would
take to come crumbling down would be one wrong move, one hasty
decision. And Esheme was full of nothing but wrong moves and
hasty decisions.
They reached the Great Dome before noon. Word of the
emperor’s approach had reached Nem on her slow trip back from the
prison via a sole rider from the Great Dome. The Consul’s
travelwagon had cut away from the caravan, and she and Satti
covered the remaining distance, leaving the rest to catch up,
including the travelwagon bringing Basuaye back to the city.
Satti pushed Nem’s chair from the royal courtyard up to a nearby
hoist. Esheme had these hoist cages constructed at various points
around the compound to make it easier for Nem to access wherever
in the Dome she pleased. Nem’s chair could be pulled up or down by
the cages, which were connected to a system of pulleys and ropes,
drawn by a team of oxen guided by a domehand. One of such cages
took her and Satti up now, swinging them in the air as the oxen
drew the ropes taut.
“You think her tour was a success?” Satti asked.
“Depends on our definition of success,” said Nem. “Or worse, her
definition.”
“I think it may be good, eventually,” said Satti. “My family are
among those who believe that hinterlanders will have a better
chance of making it to Bassa and thriving here if they have a
stronger relationship with the Great Dome.”
“True,” said Nem. But she did not tell her Second that were she
not in service of the royal court, her family would never have been
brought from the hinterlands into Bassa. Nem didn’t think Esheme
was trying to open the city up to hinterlanders. She simply needed
them to believe that was what she was doing.
“You think her journey unwise, regardless,” said Satti.
“Very much so.” Nem had been staunchly against travelling into
the farthest reaches of the mainland with such paltry resources. The
civic guard squadrons and Igan’s posse were trained, but not in the
hinterlands or coasts. They had no advantage there. And with ibor’s
effects on the body, the Soldiers of Red were more liability than
asset. Any dogged and industrious people unwavering in their
traditions—the kinds of communities the hinterlands was rife with—
would be a hard nut to crack.
“Maybe she will find a way,” said Satti, a confidence in her voice
that Nem didn’t have in Esheme. “On the night of the invader—
remember she had taken a beating too? But she stood up because
someone had to. She dusted herself and faced Dọta even when the
circumstances did not favour her. She led a whole city to revolution.
I don’t see how the hinterlands may offer a challenge bigger than
that.”
The cage came to a halt at the highest level of the Great Dome.
Satti pushed Nem along the promenade that led to the portico,
where emperors of old often stood and spoke to citizens assembled
in the streets. One could see all of First Ward from here—the
mainway, the nooks, the crannies.
As Nem expected, the streets were already lined with Bassai
citizens, most of them supporters of the Red Emperor, patiently
waiting for her caravan to come riding through mainway one. Her
first trip—west, to Whudasha, to assess the remnants of the
protectorate—had not received as fevered a reaction as this. It was
the idea of an Idu noble—an emperor—going south to the
swamplands, that captured the minds of citizens.
The people were dressed in bright colours as if on a
mooncrossing night. Some entertained with singing and dancing as
they waited. Others came with baskets and passed food and drinks
—akara balls, rice beverages, roasted corn—to those waiting in the
sun. There was the same energy in the air as that of a festival.
The members of the Court of the Great Dome were already
gathered on the portico, all present for the emperor’s welcome. They
were dressed in their courtly wrappers, starched and ready, hair
freshly plaited and oiled. Compared to them, Nem’s travel clothes
made her look like one of the emperor’s undead soldiers.
“Dehje, First Consul,” said Elder Yao, the scholar, as Satti pushed
Nem into view. “Glad you could make it in time!” He sounded
genuinely excited about her arrival, but then Yao, like most jalis,
sounded excited about everything.
The other court members, all four of them, had more balanced
dispositions. Elder Oluodah, the moon temple’s representative, was
wordless as usual, even in his greeting. Elder Mawuli, the
merchantry guild’s proxy, offered a warm smile alongside her slight
bow. Elder Ebrima was the farming and hunting guild’s voice, and
Elder Inyene was the craftworkers’ mouthpiece. Their greetings were
ungarnished but deeply respectful.
Nem responded non-committally and pointed to a spot with a
good view where she wanted Satti to place her chair. Domehands
planted shade in the form of woven raffia on a stick next to each
court member. Others brought forward cool drinks, which Nem’s
parched tongue gladly welcomed. She considered testing the waters
about Basuaye joining them, get the court on her side early on, but
decided against it. There was truly only one person she needed to
sway.
After an hour of wait, the front riders of the royal caravan came
into view. The cheers from the citizens started from those farthest
down the road, cascading down the lines. The plain travelwagons
came into view. Then, ambling slowly behind them was the
decorated royal travelwagon, surrounded by civic guards.
Nem peered closer to see if her daughter was already in her usual
place: the top half of her body out of an aperture at the roof of the
wagon, substitute crown perched on head held high, drinking in the
veneration of her supporters. But there was no Esheme there. Just
the gloomy faces of the front riders.
Nem sat up. Something was wrong.
The Bassai nearest to the royal travelwagon fell silent, as if
acceding to Nem’s thoughts. The hush travelled down the line as
quickly as the cheer had. Then, cries, erupting faster than the
silence, as the citizens farthest down the road scattered and ran,
screaming at the top of their lungs.
“What in Menai’s name—” started Elder Ebrima, and then he was
cut short, as a lengthy shadow began to appear at the rear of the
caravan.
“By moons!” exclaimed Oluodah, who never swore, being a priest.
“Is that—?”
Even this high up, Nem had to tilt her head to look at the Ninki
Nanka, so long was the beast. Its head and face dripped blood down
its neck, tall as a giant giraffe’s. The smell of death and blood and
what she believed to be swamp rot hit her with the full force of the
wind that brought it, and she choked. From this angle, she couldn’t
see the rest of its body, which was being carted in a hasty collection
of stripped-down travelwagons. But its tail, just as long as its neck if
not longer, dragged behind the caravan.
Nem, watchful, noted that the emperor was still nowhere to be
found.
By now, all the gathered citizens had done their share of fleeing,
the once-filled road now emptied, save for a basket or two still
circling in the dust after being pushed aside. But then someone—a
child—walked out from behind the street walls the people were
hiding behind, back into the road, and stood there, gazing at the
undead beast as it rolled by. The child’s parent or caregiver ran out
and yanked them back, but somewhere within the struggle, even
said parent became mesmerized by the beast, captivated by its
soulless presence.
Someone else stepped out and joined them, and another, and
another. Soon, once they had judged that the beast was doing
nothing but lying there, dead but awake, all who had run away
began to emerge, one by one.
“By Ashu’s grace!” Oluodah said. “The Sovereign Emperor has
conquered the unconquerable!”
The Bassai citizens were coming to the same conclusion. From
their hushed silence came murmurs, then cheers—small, tentative,
at first. Then louder and louder as the beast neared the gates to the
Great Dome. Soon, they transformed into raucous exaltation, a full
and exuberant glee, a true saviour’s welcome.
But Esheme was still nowhere to be found, and Nem knew
something was indeed very wrong.
“Satti.” She clapped at the woman, who was still transfixed by the
presence of the undead dragon-serpent. “The emperor’s quarters.
Now.”
When Nem rolled into the emperor’s private quarters, her daughter
lay in bed, broken.
Not her body—her body seemed fine. Nem had been broken
before, just like her daughter here: joints swollen, limbs dangling of
their own accord, hair matted to her sweating face, eyes set deep
into their sockets as ibor sucked all the nutrition and consciousness
from her body. But the body could be repaired. One look, and Nem
knew it would be her daughter’s spirit that would need the most
stitching.
The Ninki Nanka display had been a distraction. Nem had
deduced that the moment she couldn’t spot the emperor’s inner
circle—Ikobi, Igan, the Soldiers of Red. It was clear now that, hours
before, this group had peeled away from the royal caravan and
snuck the emperor’s limp body through a separate route, arriving at
the Great Dome unnoticed and unannounced. Ikobi had secretly
assembled the royal healers and brought them to the emperor’s
private quarters, which Igan and their posse guarded while the rest
of the court waited on the portico, unaware that the emperor had
already arrived.
Now, Nem stood with Ikobi and Igan and watched as the healers
and their attendants, supported by a bevy of domehands, flitted
around Esheme, trying everything to resuscitate her, to no avail.
“Days upon days of riding and… nothing,” Ikobi muttered. “We
tried everything.”
“Leave us,” Nem announced, when her patience had worn thin.
The healers bowed low to her and cleared the room. Nem nodded to
Satti to shut the door after herself, leaving Nem alone with Ikobi and
Igan.
“What happened?” Nem asked.
She already had an idea, but she let them fill in the missing parts.
The story was the same: Esheme had seen an opportunity, one too
big to ignore, and had chosen to ignore the too big part of it. Now it
had sapped all the life out of her and rendered her bedridden.
Ikobi narrated while Igan filled in the gaps with a veneer of
annoyance. Nem felt seen by their mix of anger and frustration. But
there was something they still held, buried beneath the
exasperation: a quiet pride. That, Nem recognised too. Being the
emperor’s lover wasn’t much different from being her maa, was it?
“She will be fine,” Nem said, once they were done.
“How so?” Ikobi had still not lost the stricken look she’d worn
since arriving. “Her breathing is shallow. The healers said—”
“The healers don’t know what’s wrong with her,” Nem said. “I do.”
She clicked her fingers. “The stone-bones—where are they?”
“Crumbled,” Igan said. “Nothing but dust in the armlet after.”
Igan produced said armlet, which Esheme used to hold small
pieces of ibor in contact with her skin at all times. It was indeed
empty. Dust from the disintegrated stone-bone sifted into Nem’s
palm. She tucked the armlet into her wrappers.
“Are the Soldiers of Red still standing?” Nem asked.
Both advisors shook their heads.
“And the beast?”
“Put away from sight,” said Igan.
“Then the emperor remains fine. If her power did not still hold
the beast in command, it would not have remained in stasis. Fret
not. She is simply resting.” Nem paused. “Make sure that is exactly
what you tell the rest of the court.”
Nem beckoned to Igan to help push her chair toward Esheme’s
bed. Then she asked both advisors to join the rest of the court and
wait for an address from her. She wanted a moment alone with her
daughter.
“Call in my Second, will you?” she said as they left the room. Satti
came in soon after.
“A message for the kitchen,” said Nem. “I want food, water, drink.
Every form of nourishment available in this dome and in this land—I
want it in this room, today, and for as many days as we’ll need it.
There will be no healers, no medicines. Just me and the emperor for
as long as she takes to regain her strength. There will be no visitors
unless the emperor wills it or I do. Go.”
Once Nem was alone, she stared at the ashen face of the woman
in the bed, weak and ailing and nothing like the daughter she knew.
Or maybe exactly like that, because what was Esheme if not ready
to put herself in the way of the greatest harms in order to gain more
power? Nem felt pity for her daughter, for the prices she had to pay
for this power, and a little guilty for benefiting from these sacrifices
herself.
So this is how our roles reverse, she thought. Once, ibor had
brought her down and Esheme was forced to fill her shoes. Now was
the time for Nem to repay that debt.

The grand room of the Great Dome, where the Red Emperor herself
had prised control from the corrupt and irresponsible former leaders
of Bassa, was being redecorated. Everything in the image of the last
emperor—the Manic Nogowu—had been stripped away, save for a
few: the crimson draperies, the gold and bronze melted into the
walls, the carved stools with leopard and tortoise feet for bottoms.
Even the throne, a thick, dense affair constructed with the finest
ebony and adorned with gold—known colloquially as the elephant
throne for its size—had been retained. Esheme rarely sat on it
herself, and as First Consul, Nem was the only other person
authorised to sit there in the emperor’s absence, though Nem had
no such interests.
The court was already seated when Satti pushed Nem to her
place at the grand table. All seven advisors were present.
“What has happened to the emperor is a great inconvenience,”
she began. “But the emperor will be back soon, ready to take up her
role again. Until then, the only thing that holds this empire together
is all of us in this grand room.”
The advisors solemnly nodded their heads.
 “The first thing I will ask for is your ultimate discretion. It is our
royal mandate to ensure the citizens of this great empire are kept
from speculating, because speculation eventually breeds truth, and
we do not need said truth in the wrong hands. We must have a word
ready for the people.”
“We can tell them the emperor is ill,” offered Inyene, the Elder
craftworker. “Everyone understands road sickness. And with such a
long journey…”
“Wrong,” said Nem. “The people must never believe their Most
Sovereign Emperor, the Scion of Moons, is given to illness. Illness
means weakness, and any inkling of weakness means people get
funny ideas. Funny ideas beget coalitions, rebellions, usurpers. And
what better time for such thinking to take even greater hold than
when an emperor is ill and unable to command her people?”
“On another trip, then,” Mawuli offered. “Perhaps we could say
she went north immediately after arriving?”
“Without the royal caravan and her Soldiers of Red?” Ikobi said.
“Not very believable.”
“Perhaps a story—true or false—is not what we need,” said Igan.
Everyone turned to look at them.
“Go on,” said Nem.
“Back in the coalition,” Igan started, then paused for the table to
register its discomfort. Few were allowed to speak about the
Coalition for New Bassa anymore, especially with Basuaye
imprisoned and his most ardent followers scattered to the wind. But
it was understood they hadn’t heard the last of the coalition, or
coalitions in general.
“Back in the coalition,” Igan continued, once the table had
recovered, “we learned that sometimes, where a story cannot be
used to explain, it must be used to distract. If the tale we want to
tell will not suffice, we tell a new one, one so tall and fearsome that
it strikes terror in the hearts of those who hear it. Enough terror that
they forget to question its veracity, or even question the previous
story, the one we don’t want to be questioned at all.”
Nem nodded. “You’re talking about the Ninki Nanka.”
“If we can find a way to tell the tale of how the emperor
conquered the Ninki Nanka,” Igan said, “one so tall and fearsome
that it strikes terror into the hearts of those who hear it, that terror
may soon become reverence. Said reverence may stand in stead of
the emperor’s physical presence, so much so that many will forget to
ask where the emperor herself is.”
Nem regarded the emperor’s Second. Igan barely spoke at court,
but when they did, it was to offer insights that were as useful as
gems. Nem was reminded, once again, that though she did not
choose Igan and Ikobi herself, they might just be the most useful
voices in this court.
“The forthcoming mooncrossing festival,” Ikobi pitched in. “We
can use that. Show off the emperor’s latest and biggest conquest for
all to see. Make a spectacle out of it, even. The best jalis can put
together an epic tale, the best of the performance guild can make an
engrossing presentation. It’ll be the talk of the city for a long time.”
Nem liked what she was hearing. She set forward her orders: No
one was to leave the walls of the Great Dome unless by her
command. Then she gave the advisors instructions to prepare for
this performance. After sending everyone off to their duties, Ikobi
came up to her.
“First Consul,” said the woman. “There is yet another matter from
the expedition—perhaps even more important than our planned
performance.”
Nem lifted an eyebrow. “What has she done this time?”
Ikobi explained the situation with the leaders from Tombolo and
Enuka, who had arrived with the royal caravan. Nem shook her head
the whole time.
“Where are they now?”
“Here,” said Ikobi. “Confined until we’re sure what to do with
them. Or until she wakes up and offers instructions. Her plan was to
have them in this court, but I couldn’t think of a worse time for that
to happen.”
Nem took a moment to ponder. She agreed with Ikobi that
Esheme’s plan was noble, yet ill-timed and risky. But she wasn’t
thinking about that. Rather, she was weighing the opportunity that
this situation offered to her own planned addition to court.
 “Let me think on it,” she said.
Satti wheeled her away, and Nem, forever a fixer at heart,
decided that this tragedy may not be a tragedy at all, but many
blessings in disguise.
 Nem

Bassa: The Great Dome

Sixth Mooncycle, 1–8

ESHEME FIRST AWOKE AFTER three days of intense nutrition. Her eyes
opened, but she couldn’t speak until the next day, when she
managed to utter the word water. Nem, spending all her time by her
daughter’s bed, gave her a jarful, and after gulping it down, the
emperor promptly went to sleep.
More nutrition followed. Domehands brought in platters of food
and fruit, everything from roasted cocoyam to boiled maize to
pawpaws and guavas. Nem mashed and spooned each down her
daughter’s throat. Though Esheme was unconscious, her body still
worked, which meant that the food went down only half the time,
and the other half, she threw up all over her own face. Nem would
set down the food, wipe her daughter with a wet cloth, change the
stained sheets, and resume the ritual.
Esheme did not awake again until the fifth day. Nem was sitting
in the room, resting, when Esheme came to and sat up. Their eyes
met, silence pressing between them.
“Thank you,” Esheme said hoarsely.
Nem nodded.
Esheme looked around, blinked. “I’m sorry.”
Nem wasn’t sure what Esheme was apologising for: for being a
bad daughter and refusing to visit her maa’s bedside when she had
been down, or for being a bad emperor and putting herself in peril.
“I understand,” Nem said anyway, unsure which she herself was
referring to. “I know your actions at the time did not mean you don’t
care.”
Esheme blinked in response.
“You and I, my daughter—we are of a kind,” Nem said. “We do
not fare well with charades. We understand our desires, and we
pursue them accordingly. I have understood mine and done the
same. So have you.”
Esheme nodded slowly. “Okay.” Then she lay back down to sleep.
Nem thought she looked so young all of a sudden. No longer the
Red Emperor of Bassa, but the little girl she once was over twenty
seasons ago. The one who used to enjoy sports in the courtyards,
mingling with the street rats in Fourth Ward against her maa’s
warnings. And she was good at them too, the sports, beating most
at kwaga racing in the fields and stickfighting duels in the back
corridors.
Nem remembered the day that phase ended, when Esheme had
returned home with a bloodied nose. She had lost in stickfighting for
the first time and, new to the feeling, demanded a best of three, the
majority of which she went on to win. The street children did not
take kindly to a little girl from Fourth beating them at their own
game, and during the fights, had made sure their sticks found her
nose in “error.” Yet Esheme had come home triumphant, grinning
through bloodstained teeth, narrating the ordeal as her Second
wiped her nose. Her eyes had lit up at the need for her maa to share
in her pride.
Nem was indeed proud of her daughter, for understanding how to
bend the rules in her favour and take the pains that came with
winning. For understanding that no one else needed to be proud of
her deeds before they could be deemed worthy. And though she had
left to go ensure the street children were carted off to Fifteenth, she
remembered Esheme’s eyes then, filled to the brim with need.
There was still some of that little girl in the woman lying in the
emperor’s bed, the exuberance of want having never left. There was
still some of that proud maa in Nem, too, watching her recover and
conquer this burden of power over and over again. And oh, how she
wanted to tell Esheme that she was indeed proud of her, that she
indeed cared for her, even if she disapproved of the harm it brought
to her body, her reputation, her self. Just like back then, when she
had wanted to leave the street children alone and simply embrace
her daughter, bloodstained teeth and all.
But this woman was not her little girl anymore. She was the
Twenty-Fourth Sovereign Emperor of Great Bassa, the Scion of
Moons. She belonged to the world now. And the world did not just
offer bloodstained teeth in return—it ravaged until there was nothing
left. If Nem did not remind Esheme of that, both as maa and First
Consul, then she had failed at her job.
She clapped her hands for Satti to come roll her away. The
emperor might be asleep, but her enemies were wide awake. It was
Nem’s job to put them to sleep once and for all.

Between the Great Dome physician’s brews and potions, and Nem’s
nutrition regimen, Esheme began to walk within a day of awakening.
Mostly with aid, resting the weight of her body on the back of Nem’s
chair as she rolled forward, maa guiding daughter. Often, they would
go up to the window and look out at the city. The city they had
conquered, together, even if at separate times. The city for which
they had both given up their bodies, their selves, their lives, in
exchange for the opportunity to stand here and look upon it.
 This routine was broken by some bad news from the Great
Dome’s chief physician, who had been monitoring the emperor’s
health for changes. The woman, whose name was Anuli, waited for
them to be alone in the emperor’s quarters before divulging it.
“These are not words the emperor may welcome,” she said,
shuffling on her feet.
Nem waved her forward. “Speak them all the same.”
“Fire of Menai,” Anuli began, addressing Esheme. “Your body has
possessed so many fires since the day you were blessed to lead us.
The light of the sister moons shine in you. Perhaps this is the reason
that whatever life is created in you has so far not been able to
withstand for long.” She swallowed. “But your future scions may not
be the only ones now at risk of surviving this fire. You, Emperor, now
also share this risk.”
“What do you mean?” queried Nem.
“I cannot say what illnesses have intermittently taken over the
emperor’s body these past seasons,” Anuli said. “But what I can say
is that putting even the strongest of bodies through the rigor of
conception, loss, and recovery, over and over, wears away at it.”
“You are calling me weak?” Esheme asked.
“No, Sovereign!” said Anuli. “I am saying all worldly flesh—even
that propped up by the sister moons like yours, Emperor—has a
limit. Yours has been stretched repeatedly in recent times. So
stretched that its limit has become much closer than you know.”
“How close?”
The woman swallowed again. “Very close, Emperor. So close that,
if you were to conceive again, it may be your last. And if your scion
does not survive it, neither will you.”
Nem glanced at her daughter and found her pensive. They were
probably thinking the same thing. Anuli did not know about the way
ibor worked, and therefore did not understand the gravity of what
she was saying. If the emperor could no longer use ibor, she was
nothing without the power and control that iborworking afforded her.
She would not be emperor for much longer.
“So how do we avoid that?” Nem asked. “Better diets for
improved nutrition? More water? Less travel?”
 “All of that and more, First Consul,” the chief physician replied.
“Most of all, I cannot advise that the emperor carry a new scion until
further notice. Bodily demands only escalate with such a situation,
and the life expectancy of any such scion is unknown. Also, it will be
impossible to gauge the emperor’s health from too far a distance. My
humble suggestion is that the emperor remain in the Great Dome
until we can chart a way forward.”
Esheme, who was lying down, swung her legs over the bed and
tried to stand without the help of Nem’s chair. She had been getting
more walking practice periodically, having almost forgotten how to
use her legs in all the days of being bedridden.
“You are saying this place should become my prison,” Esheme
said, still trying to stand, to no avail. “I should trade the prison of
the wards for the prison of the Great Dome.”
“I suggest only what I believe is best to keep you alive to
continue to guide us, Sovereign,” said Anuli. “That is all.”
Esheme made a few more attempts, then gave up and simply sat.
“Thank you,” she said. “Leave us.”
After the woman had gone, Nem said: “She is right. You broke a
lot bringing that beast here, and not just in your body.”
“My body is fine.”
“You cannot walk. Only two days ago, you coughed up blood. You
are not a cat, Esheme. You do not have multiple lives.”
Esheme shrugged. “So long as I occupy this Great Dome and rule
over this land, I will bleed one way or another.” She turned to Nem.
“Those are your words.”
Both women sat in silence after, until Esheme put an end to the
conversation by saying: “Let me think about this for a while.”

The day after, Esheme, back at the window of her private quarters—
without leaning on Nem’s chair this time—made a request.
 “I want another one,” she said.
Another one, in Esheme parlance, meant another conception.
Nem, seated alone at the beverage table and sipping weybo,
decided it was pointless to argue.
“Okay,” she said. “But perhaps when your body is stronger.” For
this past conception—Esheme’s third since she took over the Great
Dome—they had waited a significant amount of time before taking
her in. A new conception would require an even longer wait, possibly
several mooncycles.
“I am strong enough,” Esheme said, her gaze remaining fixed on
the city outside. “We only need a fortnight to take in again. Enough
time has passed since…” She let it hang, but Nem knew what the
missing words were.
“Your body has seen multiple misfortunes at once,” said Nem. “It
bears a physical and mental weight. You must exercise caution, or
risk death.”
“I risk death every day I sit in this room and refuse to show my
face out there,” said Esheme. “Do you know that those two Tombolo
Elders were emboldened enough to show displeasure at my
presence? They do not respect my name, even with the Soldiers of
Red at my back.” She stood arms akimbo, defiant. “I captured the
Ninki Nanka and brought it here because I want them to see what I
am capable of. I will not step back onto that portico until I am able
to Command my new conquest before them.”
They will never respect you, Nem wanted to say, because she
knew this exact feeling. She had wanted it so badly too, in those
first seasons of being a fixer. She had learned to play all the right
politics, made others do the dirty work for her, gained power without
striking a blow with her own hands. She had devoted her time and
energy to keeping power rather than chasing more to her detriment.
And it worked—really well. But she had still never gotten the
respect she craved, so she’d learned to stop expecting it. The one
time she had lost focus and tried to gain access to more power, to
eke more respect—look where that landed her.
“Trust me when I say I understand all you’re saying,” said Nem.
“But the court and I are working on solutions to occupy the minds of
the people until your return. For now, all you need to do is rest while
we—”
“I don’t need you to occupy anything, thank you very much,”
Esheme said. “Either you can help me, or I will find someone who
will.”
Esheme clapped in the quick, sharp manner that Nem often did.
The door opened, and Satti walked in.
“It’s time,” was all Esheme said, and Satti, who was often privy to
these conception procedures, understood.

Nem never asked how the seed they used was collected. Satti and a
few of her trusted hands often did the deed, selecting inconspicuous
Shashi men who would never care what their collected seed was
used for, or even had the option of caring. So, when Satti brought in
the freshly collected seed—Nem knew it was fresh from how warm it
was—she did not ask. Satti had been a midwife in a former life back
in the hinterlands. Part of her work had been to assist joined couples
who found it difficult to conceive to do so. If there was ever a
person best equipped to do this work, it was her.
Nem also did not ask about the person chosen for this particular
seed. Satti knew the routine well already. The last two times, Nem
had explained the criteria for each choice, which was always the
same three: They had to have a penis; they had to be of visibly
mixed heritage, whether socially marked as Shashi or not; and they
had to be so disenfranchised that this service could easily be bought
from them, and they could be persuaded to forget it ever happened.
Or, if they turned out to prove difficult after the fact, they could be
made to forget, or be forgotten.
The first two criteria were often easy. Most of the Shashi in
Fifteenth Ward, now that the western protectorate was nothing but a
ghost settlement, were not faring particularly well. Amid their
economic hardship, it was easy to find willing sellers of their seed if
paid handsomely. But, as Nem and Esheme had learned the hard
way the first few times, Fifteenth was far away, and the potency of
seed waned quickly. So Nem had opted for another approach: whisk
a number of able Shashi into the inner wards and place them in
conditions much better than Fifteenth’s. The catch was that they
were forever in the crown’s debt, to be collected at any time and in
any manner. Things had become much easier since then, often as
easy as Satti showing up at such a door and requesting a penis.
As for the latter part of the criteria, they were yet to run into any
problems of indiscretion. Nem didn’t anticipate any troubles. If the
Second to the First Consul of the Red Emperor showed up at one’s
doorstep and asked for one’s seed, it went without saying that the
punishment for speaking about it without express permission was
instant death.
“Thank you,” said Nem to Satti, who pushed Nem’s chair over to
the bed where Esheme lay asleep, then shut the door and locked
them in. Once alone, Nem turned to her daughter and tapped her
awake.
“It’s time,” she said.
Esheme, her strength now regained, made the remaining
arrangements as she always did, albeit slower than usual. She pulled
the special bench from the wardrobe and laid it down. It was a
special piece of woodworking Nem had had made—half a flat
surface, the other half separable and branching away. The separable
parts could be levered up and held at an incline. This way, Esheme
could lie with her back on the flat portion of the bench, then hook
her legs over the inclined parts, with her genitals in the middle: high
up, parted, and welcome for insertion.
Once the bench was set up, Esheme rolled Nem into the
appointed space, then began to undress. It was not really required,
but again, Nem let her have her way of coping. Perhaps there was
something about her being completely naked, bare and vulnerable,
that made this process bearable; this opening up of herself to
something that would first come into her and make life, then
proceed to be destroyed in order for her to gain power she could
wield in the world.
Once Esheme was in position, Nem removed the stopper atop the
small gourd and brought it between her daughter’s thighs. When she
tilted it, her hands shook. Her fingers grazed the inside of Esheme’s
thigh, and her daughter shivered too. Even though they were
performing this ritual for the third time, they were yet to become
used to it.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Nem asked, fingers paused
right at the opening.
“You know I have to,” was Esheme’s reply.
Nem tilted the little gourd between Esheme’s thighs until it was
empty. Esheme shook her legs as Nem poured, mostly because it
tickled, but also to ensure more than enough seed made its way into
her. Some of the slimy contents spilled over onto her legs, too much
to go in at once. Nem found herself chuckling as she reached for a
rag to wipe the spillover.
“Want to share the joke?” asked Esheme, who couldn’t see Nem
due to her elevated legs blocking her view.
“I was just thinking that this must be a big man to produce this
much seed,” said Nem. “But you know the joke about small men,
yes?”
“I don’t,” said Esheme, and Nem was reminded, for a moment,
that the emperor was just, in truth, a young girl.
“It’s an old women’s joke,” said Nem. “We say that the smaller
the man, the bigger his coconuts and the water held in them. Some
say it’s a joke the moons have played on us, giving the best gifts to
the ones we think least desirable.”
Esheme chuckled. “That I cannot dispute.”
Afterward came the waiting, giving a little time for the seed to
crawl deep inside her and plant itself. Or at least, so they thought.
Neither woman really knew anything of the sort—they were
operating on Satti’s advice. Nem did what she often did during these
periods to avoid sitting in silence and staring at her naked adult
daughter: She asked Esheme to tell her about her journey.
Throughout the narration, Esheme stared at the ceiling, not
meeting Nem’s eyes. Her account of the events differed markedly
from that of Igan and Ikobi, in that she seemed to spend more time
speaking about what Nem surmised were the enjoyable aspects of
the journey. When she got to the events at the swamp, she slowed,
as if still traumatized by the events. Then she stopped altogether
once she spoke about the moment when she had lost everything:
herself, her power, her unborn child.
Silence drowned the two women after. Then Esheme began to
shake, first her body racked by small sobs, then a sudden burst of
tears. She crossed her arms around herself, letting—pain? fear?
sorrow? regret?—take over her body.
Nem rolled herself over to her daughter and put out a tentative
hand, then leaned forward and lay her body over Esheme’s in an
embrace. Esheme wrapped her hands tightly about Nem, and they
held each other close, in a way they hadn’t in a long, long time, right
until late into the evening, when the seed between Esheme’s thighs
became dry and flaky.
 Lilong

Chugoko
Sixth Mooncycle, 11, heist day

ON THE THIRD DAY of the Ochela, a crowd prepared for the parade at
high noon.
Biemwensé parked the travelwagon at a distance from the prison,
with Lilong, Kakutan, and Kubra seated within, blinds drawn, doors
locked. The desert sun cooked them slowly inside. Lilong wiped her
dripping forehead with the back of her hand and counted numbers,
reminding herself to breathe.
Kubra, eyes like a hawk, opened the window every now and then
to see if he could spot the eager child he had paid as a lookout to
inform him of the procession’s arrival. Kakutan offered Lilong some
water from her waterskin.
“You must remain calm.” The older woman wiped dripping sweat
off her own face with a rag. Earlier, Lilong had asked for a rag to do
the same, but Kakutan declined, stating that she needed to look like
a true vagrant for her role, so it was in their best interest if she
sweated as much as possible.
“Calm indeed,” Lilong replied. “I did not have good sleep, I am
being baked, and the procession is late. I feel like piss.”
“The procession is always late, from what I hear,” said Kubra to
no one in particular. He had opened the window again. The vagrant
boy was back, whispering softly. Kubra nodded, pressed something—
a coin—into his palm, and the boy ran off.
“It’s time,” said Kubra, and opened the travelwagon door.
Noise and heat rushed up to meet Lilong as they descended onto
the roadside, the smells and colours of the Ochela washing over
them. Every corner was packed full, lined with children, women of all
ages, elderly men. Most of the younger men had gone off to watch
the contestants prepare, Lilong had learned, a private performance
that was its own spectacle—the dressers and makeup artists
flaunted their own skills there, often drawing accolades. Lilong
hoped Danso had prepared adequately for so many eyes on him. If
there was a time to unlock his jali skills of crowd management and
put them to use, it was now.
The three of them clung to the walls as they inched closer to the
prison, sidestepping trinket vendors with wares spread out, or those
who cooked or fried or brewed in carts. Kakutan’s warden uniform
helped chart an easier path. Lilong kept an eye out for local
vigilantes, the easiest to overlook of their many adversaries. She
spotted a few who did not seem particularly attentive, instead
anticipating the parade like the rest of the crowd.
When they arrived at the point that was equidistant between
prison gate and parked travelwagon, Kubra stopped.
“This is my spot,” he said, then looked Lilong and Kakutan in the
eye. “Be careful. Those wardens are faster than they look. Make sure
you wait for the signal. Don’t move until you—”
“Hear the drumbeats,” Lilong and Kakutan finished.
Kubra held up his hands. “Okay, then. Moons go with you.”
He disappeared into the crowd.
They found a shaded corner out of common sight and waited.
Children ran around them in long tunics, headgear, and facepaint
that Lilong understood to be a mimicry of the contestants’ regalia.
The tunics were homemade, different materials woven together,
beautified with any shiny object they could find. They sang in a bevy
of languages, not all of which made sense to Lilong, but from which
she gathered that they wished blessings on all the contestants, that
they may be spoken for and receive an offer of intendedship.
Lilong was beginning to wonder if Danso had been informed of
this part of the contest, when the drumbeats began. Big, quick, and
booming rhythms from down the mainway. The crowd responded
with cheers and ululations.
Around the bend came the first of the contestants, riding in
wagons refitted as small stages hitched to kwagas, each decorated
according to the personality of the contestant. The contestants
themselves—at least the first three or four Lilong could see coming
down the mainway—were all young desertlanders of different
physiques, complexions, predicaments. Tall, thin, short, portly,
muscled—all stood in the wagons and presented themselves in a
myriad of intricate poses, dances, and interactions with the crowd.
One contestant leaned over to get patted—blessed—by prominent
Elders on the roadsides. Another with a headgear built of sticks
twirled in his carriage, so that the assorted textiles dangling from his
headgear formed a carousel whenever he did so. The crowd cheered
encouragingly.
“Do you know what he’s wearing?” Kakutan asked.
Lilong shook her head. They wouldn’t recognise Danso easily
anyway. Not after the heavy makeup and elaborateness of the
outfits.
“Well, then, moons be with him,” muttered Kakutan. “Here we
go.”

“Move there, you fowl shit.”

 Lilong braced for the shove on her back. When it did come, it was
as hard as she’d anticipated, Kakutan really putting energy into her
role. She staggered just the right amount to sell the role of a drunk.
A few more shoves, and they found themselves at the gaping
maw of the prison. Tall, gated with steel pegs, and guarded by four
people who did not seem interested in doing any sort of guarding,
their eyes fixed on the parade. Other than a short glance at
Kakutan’s uniform and Lilong’s rags, they paid little notice, which
made sense. No one worried about those going into a prison. It was
those who wished to leave that raised eyebrows.
Kakutan gave Lilong one last shove into the darkness, and they
were in.
A registering station welcomed them. Wardens milled about the
entryway, half their eyes and ears on the parade outside. Only one
warden, standing behind a demarcated platform, beckoned them
over. Kakutan shoved Lilong in that direction.
“Temporary or permanent?” the warden asked in Savanna
Common, without looking up.
“Temporary,” Kakutan said. “Need to teach this one a lesson that
fighting in the street is—”
“Clothes,” the warden interrupted.
“Excuse?” asked Kakutan.
“Take off your clothes,” the warden said in Lilong’s direction, then
to Kakutan: “Next time, make sure they take off their clothes before
they come in here.”
Lilong tried for a glance at Kakutan. This wasn’t part of the plan!
But Kakutan refused to meet her eyes, staying in character. Lilong
had little to lose other than her dignity—her blade was stuffed in
Kakutan’s own warden uniform. Perhaps this was even good for the
last stage of the heist—no one would recognise her if they obtained
new robes and walked out.
Lilong took off her wrappers and placed them on the counter. The
warden picked up a stick, and with it, shifted them into a heap of
other clothes.
“Find a free spot in general holdings,” the warden said, and
waved them away. No question about a name or any sort of identity.
It didn’t matter, apparently. Each new prisoner was simply one more
of the faceless mass.
The two women followed the directions and found themselves in
a poorly lit corridor, lacking any openings, and therefore filled with
smoke from the oil lamps. They hustled down its length, thankful to
run into no one. A number of doorways appeared, and Kakutan
produced her cloth map and peered at it before selecting one of
them. They went in, bumping into a warden patrol of three.
Kakutan pulled her uniform’s hood over the front of her face,
nodded a greeting the way of the group, and shoved Lilong for
effect. The wardens paid little heed.
The two women ascended the stairs, running into patrolling duos
every two or so entryways. Each also paid little heed. The
combination of Lilong’s lack of clothing and Kakutan’s demeanour
seemed to do most of the trick.
Soon, they were on the middle floor, and after a few manoeuvres,
losing their way once, they ended up in the main corridor where the
prisoners were held.
The smell hit them first. Filth of unimaginable proportions,
hanging so heavily in the air. Both women covered their noses.
“Down the corridor, to the left,” Kakutan directed, muffled by her
sleeve over her mouth.
When the prisoners spotted the women, they rose and began to
holler. Lilong did not look—the smell had already told her all she
needed to know. It was no ordinary stink, but that of decay, of
rotting meat left in water too long, of something once alive that was
no longer quite so. The hoarse voices followed as they ran past,
each please and help in whatever language they could muster a
sting to Lilong’s chest.
Lilong willed her gaze to remain straight, to remember the
mission, what she was doing this for. Her family, her people, her
league. She could not afford to break.
They turned the corner, toward the solitary holding cell—
—and stumbled into two wardens.
The wardens weren’t particularly alert, busy squatting in the dust,
playing a board game with squares and round discs. They looked up
and spotted Kakutan. But unlike the wardens on patrol from earlier,
it took them only a short moment to put things together and draw
their batons.
 Danso

Chugoko
Sixth Mooncycle, heist day

UNDER THE RISING TIDE of drumbeats, Danso’s wagon tumbled over

pebbled ground and rolled into the parade route. He counted the
number of oxen-driven wagons ahead of his—twelve, so far.
Subtracting the first two contestants who had been presented—he
could tell because the drums stopped each time a contestant was
presented—that was fifteen, him included. Behind him, three,
totalling eighteen. They were still a way off from the prison.
“I’m going to pass out before we get there,” he said to Ugo, who
drove the wagon. He swatted at a fly that had opted to settle on his
matted eyelash.
“Don’t,” Ugo said sharply, and with practiced ease, turned and
swiped the fly from Danso’s eye, flicking it away. “What is our first
rule?”
“Don’t spoil my makeup?”
 “Not even to wipe sweat or tears—I’m not playing! We may be
covering for a prison break, but believe me when I say we must
make an impression anyway.” He eyed Danso up and down. “Try to
stay on your feet. Remember your performance is not only during
the presentation. It is for the duration of the parade.”
“So I can start dancing?” Danso twirled on a toe, and every part
of his ensemble jangled: the beaded headdress accessorized with
feather and cowrie; the flared velvet tunic criss-crossed with beads
and goldstones at the neck and sleeves; the earrings, necklaces,
armlets, wristlets, and anklets of copper and coral and wildcat bone.
“Conserve your energy for the real thing,” said Ugo. “The others
depend on us making the right moves.”
The drums started up and stopped multiple times—Danso
counted six contestants. He could see the crowd ahead, eager,
lapping up the performances. He bit the inside of his cheek.
“Can we… go over it again?” he asked. “One last time?”
“Now?” Ugo was distracted by familiar faces who recognised and
greeted him. He returned their greetings with a practiced smile and
grace, then returned to Danso. “We don’t need any more practice.
Just dance from your heart, okay?”
“You know music and dance are the exact parts of my jali
education I failed at, right?”
“Yes, but you don’t have to be good at it to do it well. It’s all an
act, yes? Dancing is the easiest thing to fake because it’s really fake,
isn’t it? Dancing is acting! You hear the music, you let your body do
the talking, and then you put some energy behind that bodytalk.
Forget about doing it correctly—there is no correctly with dancing.
Only energy.” He turned to move the cart one more contestant step
forward. “Besides, it’s the best for our spectacle. Who doesn’t want
to watch a young, energetic man dance his cares away?”
Soon, they had crawled up by four more contestants, rolling into
the thick of the parade. The crowd swarmed Danso’s wagon as they
came in. Child, adult, old, young—it didn’t matter. They all reached
out to touch him, their fingers caressing his skin, their lips chattering
in his ear, crooning about how good his makeup looked, how
wondrous his tunic, how sublime his headdress. One man offered to
give Danso a house if he agreed to be joined to his child. Another
wanted to know if Danso was looking for a Second.
Danso neither loved nor hated it, being the object of such desire.
It was a strange and new experience, being adored in this way. He
had spent so much of his life trying to prove that he was worthy of
admiration such as this, but he had always done so by wielding
intellect because it was the only part of him that seemed worthy of
notice. To be admired just for existing—as is—was unnerving, but
gladly received.
Now they were two contestants away from being presented.
Danso reviewed the judges, who sat in a row where the crowd was
thickest. They were a motley group, all eight of them, bested in
dress and intensity of expression only by the contestants
themselves. He’d heard they were usually selected from the heads of
all working groups in the city, since they didn’t quite have guilds in
the same way Bassa did. Among them, Danso guessed, would be
warrant chiefs or their representatives, heads of vigilante groups and
unions like trading, craftworking, and the likes. At least one of them
was the Chief Warden of the prison, though Danso couldn’t tell
which.
When he was only one contestant away from being presented,
Danso regarded the eyes on him, searched within them for hostility,
confusion, dismissal. But all he saw was expectation. They wanted
him to not just stand there, but do something.
That was all he’d wanted, all this time—to do something. Now he
could.
The drums began, the wagon rolled forward, and over the sound
of the welcome song, the herald spoke Danso’s name and
announced his arrival.
Moons go with you, Lilong, Danso thought. Then he began to
dance.
When Danso was a child, long before he joined the jali guild, Habba
had taken him to his first mooncrossing festival.
Not really his first festival, but his earliest memory of the event.
Danso most remembered it being so loud, and there being so many
bodies. The mainway had been packed as they went up to the
arena. They’d had to push through the crowds because they did not
have a kwaga or a Second yet. Habba had to carry him high on his
shoulders to prevent them from getting separated.
They had sat among the lowliest tiers of society, although Danso
didn’t know it back then. Habba had been freshly stripped of his
scholar status and was yet to make any headway with his private
healing practice. But to Danso, they might as well have sat in the
highest of all tiers. The loud cheers, booming drums, and piercing
flutes; the crowds singing the Bassai Pledge in one voice; the smells
—roasted corn, roasted meat, armpit sweat, the burning wood of the
bonfire, the dust raised by acrobats and wrestlers.
But it was the dancers and their disguises that most enthralled
him. Many wore fearsome masks made of wood or bone or thatch,
and attires of woven grass and cloth, from which dangled all manner
of trinkets and accessories. Much like the Ochela parade, in fact.
And they danced. Oh, they danced.
Danso remembered watching them, gyrating with purpose and
agility, twisting and turning and swaying and flailing, telling stories
with their bodies. This was the bodytalk Ugo spoke of.
Only once he’d used that expression did Danso get a flash of this
memory, an image that truly represented what he was being asked
to do.
So when the drums began, and the herald spoke Danso’s name
and announced his arrival, Danso threw himself into the memory,
and began to bodytalk.
The bodytalk was a spectacular failure.
The spectacular happened first. Danso began with the opening
act as Ugo had suggested: jumping out of the wagon. The
expectation was that all contestants remained in their wagons, so
jumping out was operating outside the lines, enough reason for a
spectacle all by itself.
The crowd gasped as a collective when Danso landed in the dust.
He began the first pattern, an arm and leg dance based on Ugo’s
lessons about joints, how understanding them as the real tools for
dancing was the secret to looking assured. Neck, shoulders, elbows,
wrists, hip, knees, ankles—knowing what joint to twist and in what
specific pattern was the important thing. Head, buttocks, and torso
movements were only to add flair.
Danso moved to the second pattern, a predominantly waist
dance, to the third, a foot and hip dance, and then promptly forgot
what the fourth sequence was supposed to be, so circled back to the
first.
The crowd’s appreciation rose, then waned when they recognised
the repetition. The light in their eyes tapered, and he could see the
judges’ eyes lower, the slant of the sun over their faces as they
angled their heads and whispered to one another.
I can’t fail, he thought. Not again.
He was thinking of Lilong and the heist, but drowning in the
memory of being at the bonfire with his daa. The Ochela drums and
cheers blended with the snap and crackle of the mooncrossing
bonfire, smells and sounds and people becoming one.
Habba turned to Danso from where he was seated atop the
wagon, smiled, big and warm. Danso stared back at his daa, but also
at Zaq, also his friends Abu and Uria and Nowssu, also his triplet
uncles and Elder Jali Oduvie at the university, also the face of his
maa, how he had always imagined she would look.
All the faces, together, said: Then do something.
Danso’s knees gave way, and his body began to tremble, his
chest heaving, his breath coming only in short gasps. He dropped to
the dust. His limbs were too heavy, his joints too stiff. His shoulders
shook as his body ejected a stifled, ravenous sadness, a too-full
wineskin finally burst open.
He did not notice the tears at first, confusing them for sweat. But
when he tried to rise, a weight came over him, so heavy that he
relented and stayed down, tears dribbling down his cheek. In his
periphery, he caught a glimpse of various faces: perplexed,
concerned, displeased. He touched his cheek with a dusty hand,
facepaint staining his fingers, before realising he had broken Ugo’s
first rule.
“Danso!” Ugo’s voice, up in the wagon’s seat behind him. He
looked. Habba and the other faces were gone.
“Get in!” Ugo was motioning him back into the wagon.
Danso crawled back in, to tepid applause from the disappointed
crowd as the drums rose again to welcome the next contestant. He
glanced at the judges and saw them watch his wagon ride away,
irritated. He turned and hid his face.
“You did well, my friend,” said Ugo. “You did what was needed.”
They had barely ridden a few feet when a shout broke their
stride.
“Stop! Stop that wagon!”
A small man came barreling through the crowd, gasping but
focused, and only pausing when he had brought Ugo’s ox to a halt.
He stood in the way of the wagon and pointed at Danso.
“You,” he said. “The Chief Warden would like to have a word.”
 Danso

Chugoko
Sixth Mooncycle, heist day

DANSO AND UGO STOOD in the sun with the Second, waiting to be
summoned by the Chief Warden, who was still engrossed in
watching the last few contestants of the parade.
“Can you at least tell us why he wants to meet us?” Ugo asked
the Second. There was a little tremor in his voice.
“The Chief Warden wants to meet with only the contestant,” the
Second said, referencing Danso. “And no—I do not know why.”
Danso leaned toward Ugo. “You think he knows?”
“That we may be connected to a prison break that we don’t even
know has happened yet?” Ugo whispered back. “I doubt it.”
“Then why are you afraid?”
“That he might recognise you?” Ugo tilted his head. “From the
notice?”
Danso grew cold. He had completely forgotten about that. Before
he could gather his wits about him, the Chief Warden turned toward
them and beckoned. The Second led them forward to the hastily
constructed platform under whose shade he sat.
The man himself was not quite impressionable. Danso had
thought he’d look like a hunthand, being the most senior of prison
wardens, but no—he was languid, genial, affable, wearing his
wrappers with stature, like a councilhand. Even his makeup was
similar to that which Danso used to wear as a jali novitiate.
“Ah, welcome,” he said, looking to Danso. “Wonderful dancer,
you. I never quite caught your name when the leader of ceremonies
mentioned it—you are?”
“Dehje, Elder,” said Danso, slipping into a Sahelian inflection. “You
may call me Jhobon.”
“Jhobon of…?”
“Gwagwamsi.” They had not planned this part, he and Ugo, so he
picked a random settlement from the northern trade route, building
on the lie that Ugo had begun with the peace officers and their
mouthpiece.
“Gwagwamsi?” The Chief Warden’s expression was quizzical.
“Interesting. So you made it all the way down just to participate in
the Ochela?”
“Yes, Elder.”
“Hmm, yes, I did wonder about your origins.” The man waved
noncommittally, in what Danso assumed to be a reference to his
complexion. “But I think I see it now—makes sense. You have that
Sahelian agility. And those tears—oh, that was really good! To weep
on demand like that—what a performance!” He paused. “Though, I
must say, you look familiar? I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere.”
Danso’s heartbeat sped up.
“I sincerely doubt it, Elder,” he replied. “I only recently arrive
Chugoko for the contest.”
“I fail to remember where exactly,” said the Chief Warden,
ignoring Danso, a finger on his lip. “But I feel sure of it.” He studied
Danso’s face some more. “You only recently arrived, you say?”
“Yes, Elder,” Danso said, pointing to Ugo. “My brother live here,
and he is housing me. Perhaps it is his face you remember? Though
he is not one for trouble, so perhaps not. But he is known inside
beautification circles.”
The man looked to Ugo, uninterested. Ugo made the requisite
bow and hand-nose gesture, but the Chief Warden’s eyes were back
to Danso, giving him another once-over.
“Eh,” he said finally. “I guess it doesn’t matter anyway.” He
wrinkled his nose, considering it for another moment, then acceded.
“I guess you’ll do. More northerner than I’d have wanted, but
whatever makes her happy, I guess.”
Danso cocked his head. “I will do for… what, if I may ask, Elder?”
“Consider yourself spoken for.” He snapped a finger at his Second,
who hustled away. “My daughter finds you desirable and would like a
walk of intendedship with you.”

“We need to find a way out,” Ugo was whispering. “You cannot
follow this man’s daughter.”
But Danso wasn’t hearing him. He was far, far away again,
swallowed in memories.
He and Esheme, walking down mainway one, saluted by fellow
Bassai. The firm grip of her hand in his, insistent on the right
performance. The kindless gaze she cast at him when he slipped up.
The disquiet he would carry in his heart for days after. The
apprehension that rose to his throat, that threatened to choke him
whenever a forthcoming walk neared.
He shut his eyes, trying to breathe away the weight sitting in his
chest. What he would give to never feel that way again! But here he
was, helpless, on the verge of being roped into another long-term
commitment, living in someone else’s shadow, unable to do or be
anything other than be a tail.
These were the days he missed the Skopi the most. Now that he
had nothing to call on to get him out of trouble, he’d become acutely
aware of his vulnerability. Without Lilong or the Diwi nearby, he was
exposed. Anyone with the slightest veneer of power, this man
included, could simply smother him if they wished.
Lilong was right: Stories were powerful, but they were worthless
in the wrong circumstances. Only true might could prevail here. And
oh, what he would give to feel such power again!
A pull on his arm yanked him back to the present.
“Danso! Are you hearing me?”
Danso blinked.
“Do not perform that walk,” Ugo pressed, hiding his lips behind a
hand so they couldn’t be read. “You will never leave this place.”
Danso blinked again. The Second had returned with the young
woman.
“Ah, yes, my treasure,” the Chief Warden said, rising to present
his daughter. “Meet Jhobon of Gwagwamsi—exciting contestant,
interesting young man. Jhobon, meet my daughter, Abunni DaaAwa.”
He patted his chest. “And forgive my rudeness—I may not have
introduced myself. I am Elder Awa, Chief Warden of Chugoko Central
Prison.” He waved his hand above his head and behind him, at the
prison, like it was a beautiful thing to behold.
The young woman, standing next to him, lifted her head and
smiled. She was of pleasant demeanour, hair done in a mix of
dangling desertlander styles in the front and upheld in Bassai rings
to the back. Her makeup was a derivative of her daa’s, but with
smidgens of gold dust to make her cheeks stand out. She smiled
shyly and cast furtive glances at Danso.
Her kind disposition softened the moment for Danso, but he could
not find it in him to smile back. Which was just as well, because
behind her, a bustle had broken out near the prison entrance.
Danso angled his body to get a better view, alerting both Chief
Warden and daughter to the ruckus. The whole group turned,
watching the scene unfold with interest.
Then came a loud clang that caused the ground to shudder, the
dust to rise.
Two wardens spilled out of the prison’s entrance and into the
street, one supporting the other, preventing them from keeling over.
After looking both ways, both wardens limped off in the direction
opposite to where Danso’s group stood.
“What—” the Chief Warden started, but a third warden came
running out of the same entrance, also looking in both directions.
The warden’s eyes found Danso’s.
Lilong.
She held his eyes only long enough to register recognition, but
also confusion. Then she turned and sped off in the same direction
as the last two wardens.
A large, heavy gong began to sound, and commotion took over
the mainway.
Danso felt an arm grab him—Ugo again—and then together they
were cutting through the crowd, slipping between people. Danso,
still in regalia, struggled to keep pace.
“The wagon!” he was saying to Ugo. “We need to go back.”
“Forget the wagon!” Ugo said, and yanked at a dangling piece of
Danso’s clothing. Danso followed his cue, ripping extraneous
elements from his clothing. He tossed his headdress aside, wiped his
facepaint.
Vigilantes began to appear from every corner, clearing people off
the mainway, swinging whips at those who stopped to ask questions.
Chugoko is now under curfew, they announced. Go home. Vendors
rolled their carts into dark corridors. Shopkeepers swung their
shutters. Families cleared their children from the street.
Ugo shoved Danso into an empty stall in the nearby market, and
they ducked beneath the storefront, watching the vigilantes come
together and form hasty search parties. Kwaga hooves clattered
nearby. Dust billowed, and two travelwagons rolled past, packed to
the brim with peace officers.
Please be safe, Danso prayed. But he wasn’t sure who he was
praying for—himself or the others.
In the distance, the gong continued to ring.
 Lilong

Chugoko
Sixth Mooncycle, heist day

MOMENTS AFTER RUNNING INTO the two guards, Lilong realised she didn’t
need to expend any ibor after all.
The men were at least one-half bigger than Kakutan was, but
that didn’t deter her. She moved swiftly and noiselessly, swinging the
baton with lightning quickness, jaw locked, eyes bright, excited. Her
blows were short thwacks and muffled thuds, taking out a muscle
here, distending a joint there. Lilong had not seen the woman fight
before, and she was both awed and jealous at the efficiency and
neatness of it all.
The two men soon fell, bruised and battered, but not dead.
Kakutan gave each a thwack to the head to ensure they stayed
unspeaking for a long time.
“There goes your solution for uniforms,” Kakutan said, wiping her
brow. “Now you’re spoiled for choice.” She began to strip the nearest
man.
Lilong faced the gate and turned her ibor toward it.
Possessing the keylock, as usual, was an exercise in patience,
bursts of fatigue nudging at her consciousness. She took her time,
trying to make the least noise possible while searching with her
consciousness for the iron pins that formed the locking mechanism.
Her heart beat faster, anticipating the pressure of a new Possession.
Blood rushed to her head as she found the lock and gained access to
the iron. She pushed and pushed until she had a firm grip on it.
Then she Commanded it to open.
A click. The gate swung open, and Lilong leaned on it, tired.
“Here, here,” Kakutan was saying, reaching to support her, before
someone barreled out of the holding cell, pushing the gate so that it
knocked both women into the wall. Then the prisoner was running
down the corridor.
“Moons’ balls,” Kakutan swore, but didn’t wait to ask the question
that was on both their lips. She freed herself before the prisoner
could round the corner, squinted in one eye, and flung her baton.
The baton struck the running prisoner in the back of the head,
who in turn slammed into the nearest wall and fell to the ground,
motionless.
“What in Menai’s name—?” Kakutan leaned and peeped through
the gateway, covertly inspecting the holding cell, ready for another
attack. But none came, and she straightened, regarding the fallen
prisoner.
“Seems like we found our Speaker’s daughter.”
The prisoner’s face was covered by unkempt hair, but one look at
her complexion, and Lilong knew it was Oke. She had rags for
underclothes, as filthy as the underclothes Lilong had on. Fingernails
bitten and chipped, some bleeding. Sores beneath her feet. One
could be forgiven if they’d mistaken her for a beggar in the street.
Lilong rose slowly to her feet, then faltered, swaying. She
steadied herself with a hand on the wall.
“Okay, she can’t walk,” said Kakutan, trying to wake Oke, to no
avail. “That is the roof plan cancelled.” She lifted Oke and threw a
hand under her arm. The taller woman slumped over Kakutan,
groaning and drooling.
“Ah, she’s too heavy for the window!” Kakutan was circling
through their options too quickly for Lilong to think. “Out through
the front, then?”
Pull yourself together! Lilong squinted her mind back into focus,
eyed the two men on the floor, and a plan came together in her
head.

The first warden patrol they came across saw nothing but three
wardens in uniform—two helping a drunk colleague between them.
Kakutan nodded to the patrol without a word, and after a moment’s
hesitation, they nodded back. The silent understanding was all they
needed. Lilong’s gamble—that plenty a warden got drunk themselves
during the Ochela, and it would be up to their colleagues to ensure
they were tucked away to avoid punishment from their superiors—
was paying off.
They went past the second patrol in the same way, though at
least one of them looked back to watch the three go, unsure of what
they were seeing. Kakutan pulled more of the uniform’s wrappers
over Oke’s drooping head, hoping that no one recognised the
woman’s face—not in this uniform anyway. Even though most of
these wardens didn’t know each other well—turnover was high due
to poor working conditions, according to Alaba’s insider information
—they would recognise an odd voice within their ranks. It was best
they moved as quickly and spoke as little as possible.
They went down the stairs. One last patrol to go.
At the last patrol before the corridor that led back outside, one of
the wardens greeted them in a border pidgin.
Lilong froze, as did Kakutan. Lilong could tell it was a greeting
from the tone alone, but she did not know the appropriate response
for it. She looked to Kakutan, head bowed to prevent recognition.
The woman shook her head, short and sharp. She didn’t know
either. They had all learned Savanna Common in Chabo because it
was the most connected to High Bassai, but the belt’s wide array of
indigenous pidgins had proven too much of an undertaking.
They increased their pace, hoping the warden would shut up. He
did not. He greeted them again, but this time, Lilong felt the
greeting shift into something with more menace, like how one would
say Welcome to an enemy.
She squeezed a fist by her side, ready to call for her blade to fly,
when Oke lifted her head and groggily answered the greeting. She
said something else, shook her head, and spat in the dust. The
wardens laughed and let them pass. One even gave Kakutan a
friendly thump on the back.
Lilong exhaled, then realised Oke was awake.
“Alaba sent us,” she whispered in Savanna Common.
Oke nodded weakly, hair matted to her face. “My head…”
“My fault, sorry,” said Kakutan. “What did you tell them?”
“Had… too much… to drink,” she said. “Hit my head.”
“Useful,” said Kakutan. “But say no more until we’re safe.”
They burst back into the main entryway. As Lilong had predicted,
almost all the wardens still had their eyes glued to the parade
outside. Perhaps Danso had done his duty after all. The main gate
was right there, gaping. They rushed for it.
“You!” A voice came after them.
“Don’t stop moving,” Kakutan whispered. “We only need to cross
that gate…”
“You!” Lilong recognised the voice now. It was the warden from
the station, the one who had taken her clothes in the beginning. He
seemed to be the only person with no interest in the parade,
contest, or festival at all, so diligent in his duties.
“Wait there!” he was saying.
“Run,” Kakutan whispered, and they pitched forward.
“Stop!” the warden shouted as they ran past the gate and into
the entryway. “Stop them!”
For some reason, the guards in the entryway had doubled in
number. Now, they were eight instead of the four previously
encountered. No way they could make it past these eight as well as
escape those now converging on them from inside.
So much for no ibor, said Lilong, then stepped back and let Oke’s
arm slip, leaving her with Kakutan.
“Go,” she said.
Kakutan’s eyes widened. “Don’t—”
“Go.” She turned toward the gate and Drew.
Her blade came flying and struck the pulley mechanism that held
the prison gates up. The gates rolled down, iron screaming as it
scratched stone, and with a deafening clang, slammed into the
earth, trapping the pursuing wardens inside.
Then she turned to the eight in the entryway. But rather than
attack her, all eight stood shaken, hesitant, staring. Not at her blade
suspended in the air, but at her body. Lilong followed their gazes
down and saw what they saw.
Yellow.
Her true complexion was visible where the warden robes allowed
—face, arms, neck, feet. Somewhere during the Command of her
blade, she had managed to let her concentration slip. Only for a
moment, but it was enough.
Now back to a desertlander low-brown, the guards still trying to
process what they were witnessing, she had to decide: fight or run.
She made quick calculations: time to dispatch all eight; the amount
of ibor required; alerting vigilantes and peace officers in the street;
being left behind by the getaway travelwagon. Fighting did not seem
favourable.
Lilong recalled her blade, clasped it, and bolted away, crashing
into the street from the enclosed entryway. She looked left, right,
trying to remember what direction Kubra was in.
It was then she spotted Danso, dressed in contestant attire, his
hair and makeup like she’d never seen. Ugo stood behind him, along
with three other desertlanders she was unfamiliar with. Danso’s eyes
locked onto hers with some perplexity.
Lilong? he seemed to ask.
Run, her gaze said, then she turned in the other direction and
bolted.
A gong began to clang.
 Lilong

Chugoko
Sixth Mooncycle, heist day

THE DEAFENING GONG FOLLOWED Lilong all the way back to their hideout.
Kubra had appeared from nowhere, out of the scattering crowd, and
grabbed her, then suddenly the travelwagon was there and he was
shoving her into it. Kakutan and Oke were already inside, warden
robes shed, covered in old wrappers, tucked into the floor, blinds
drawn. Lilong joined them, and together they rolled in the darkness
as Biemwensé drove the travelwagon down the undulating road. She
clenched her teeth as every muscle and joint, sore from iborworking,
was prodded even more, the gong’s continued clanging stirring up a
headache, following them home like an omen.
Finally, it was quiet and they came to a stop. Kubra opened the
blinds. They were back at the hut, Alaba emerging with the baby
Thema in his arms to welcome them.
Once they were all standing outside, it became clear that the
party was incomplete.
“Where is Ugo?” asked Alaba, at the same time Lilong asked:
“Where’s Danso?”
In the distance, the gong pealed.
“What happened?” Alaba started, then he saw Oke lying in the
travelwagon, dazed, semi-conscious. His lips ran out of words, eyes
shining with what Lilong decided were genuine tears. He knelt at the
foot of the travelwagon door and placed Thema next to her maa.
Then he let his body fall over Oke, embracing maa and child,
shaking with joy and relief.
Lilong was going to press the question, but Biemwensé rested a
hand on her shoulder.
“Give them a moment.”
After Oke had been carried into the hut, maa and daughter now
under Biemwensé’s care, Lilong stood outside with Alaba, Kubra, and
Kakutan.
“I saw him,” she was saying. “Standing in the street with some
people.”
“Was Ugo with him?” Alaba asked. She nodded. Alaba bit his lip.
“Think they’ve been caught?” asked Kakutan.
“I think not,” said Kubra, pensive. “Peace officers waste no time.
If they knew the yellowskin”—he turned to Lilong—“my apologies—
was here, and that they had caught two people connected to you,
they would’ve already flayed them for answers. Danso and Ugo are
no warriors—they would offer this location up in a blink. So long as
we are still standing, then it means they are still out there, trying to
find their way here.” He shook his head. “City is crawling with search
parties. They must be stuck somewhere.” He snapped a finger at
Alaba. “Where is the easiest place to hide and the most difficult to
find something?”
The two looked at one another and said, together: “Marketplace.”
They started toward the travelwagon. Lilong made to follow, but
Kubra put out a hand.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Where do you think? With you, to get Danso.”
Kubra shook his head. “You let us handle this one, Snakeblade.
You’ve done your part. You can go prepare for your trip.”
“There’s no trip without Danso,” she said. “Besides, you will need
a hand. You cannot fight off all those vigilantes and peace officers
alone.” She gestured toward Alaba. “And you will be alone, because
that one cannot skin a goat to save his life.”
Kubra chuckled. “Maybe. But he’s going because his loved one is
in danger, and that is reason enough. I know you care for Danso and
want him to be safe, but you have been recognised once today, and
we cannot risk another sighting.” He pointed to himself and to Alaba,
who had taken up the driving seat of the travelwagon. “We two are
the only ones that haven’t so far been associated with the prison in
any way.”
Lilong’s argument got stuck in her throat. She hated that he was
right.
Kubra turned to leave, then stopped for a moment to say: “If you
must know, we do not intend to fight. Sometimes, invisibility and
stealth, the ability to be nothing, to be forgotten, to blend into the
landscape, will get you what fighting cannot. Remember that,
Snakeblade.”

Oke regained full consciousness within an hour of Alaba and Kubra

leaving. She spent another hour holding Thema close to her chest
and weeping, then yet another wolfing down copious amounts of
food and beverages. Soon, she was aglow, completely replenished. A
cold rag bath later, prison stenches banished, she emerged a new
woman.
Lilong did not recognise her at first, when Oke came up from the
tent to join her at the edge of the thicket, under the dim glow of
twilight. She watched Oke approach, noted how she suddenly looked
every bit the Speaker’s daughter she was. She carried herself with
the same measured grace as Alaba did.
 She stopped a distance from Lilong. The two women regarded
each other.
“You really are his daughter,” said Oke. “You look just like him.”
Her inflection was remarkably flat, the mainland-ness of her
tongue polished away. Lilong considered this dubious. So much of
Oke’s demeanour was of something wiped clean, an evident
nothingness where there should have been, well, a thingness.
People who wiped themselves this clean always had something to
hide.
“I want to thank you.” Oke sat on the ground, maintaining the
distance between them. “They say you are the reason I’m here.” She
put a hand to her chest. “Consider this a debt owed.”
“What were you doing with my daa?”
Lilong had been wanting to ask this question for so long that it
had built up steam in her chest. Seeing Oke sitting there, all languid-
like, while chaos raged through her own life—it simply burst out of
its own accord.
Oke chuckled. “Ah, I see. Jaoudou wasn’t wrong about your
patience.”
“Don’t you say his name,” Lilong said, closing the distance
between them. “Don’t you ever.”
Oke held her hands above her head. “Okay, okay. I won’t say it.”
“You are lucky you have that baby,” said Lilong.
“Pardon?”
“You are lucky you have that baby,” Lilong repeated. “That you
have loved ones, and that the Gaddos want you alive. Otherwise,
Great Winds help me, the moment you stepped out of that tent, I
would have put a blade through you.”
“Ah.” The other woman nodded. Silence fell between them.
Oke chuckled.
“You think this is funny?” Lilong snapped. “Our people—my
people—are out there, people who put their lives in peril for you to
be here. And all you do is laugh? Is this how indifferent and spiritless
you were with my daa? Is this how you got him attacked?”
Oke remained smiling.
“You know,” she said. “He said you do that often.”
 “Do what?”
“Threaten. Called you a raging tempest. But he said despite all
your rages, you still harbour more love than hate in your heart, and
that one needs to be patient when it comes to you.”
Lilong fought the urge to Command her blade into this woman’s
chest. Who did she think she was, quoting her daa’s words? How
dare she act like some sage after everything she’d caused? The
audacity!
Oke, watching every emotion play out on Lilong’s face, shifted so
they faced each other.
“I understand you have some… feelings toward me,” said Oke.
“And I understand the risks everyone—you, your daa, everyone—has
taken to bring us to this point. But if you think I have not made
sacrifices myself, that I do not understand the gravity of what we
are fighting, who we are fighting, you are mistaken.”
Lilong shifted her weight. Fair enough. The woman had seen her
share of suffering and sacrifice. But she had still not answered the
question.
“What were you two doing?” she pressed.
“He didn’t tell you?”
“How could he? He came back home unconscious.”
Oke looked pensive, sad. “Is he… alive?”
There was tenderness in her voice, like she genuinely cared. No
one had spoken to Lilong about her daa this way in a long time.
“He hadn’t awoken when I left,” said Lilong. “That was two
seasons ago.” She rolled her shoulders, uneasy. “So… I don’t know.
Not until I get home.”
Oke sighed. “I’m… I’m so sorry.” She rose and began pacing. “I
really thought we were going to change everything, you know? We
had a plan, a good plan. But now, all this work, only for us to end up
defeated.”
“What work were you doing?” asked Lilong. “Where were you
even going when you got captured?”
Oke stopped pacing. “You know where I was going, Lilong.”
Impossible. Her daa would never.
“Yes, he knew the risks associated with revealing your people’s
secrets,” Oke said, leap-frogging Lilong’s thoughts. “But he told me
anyway, because he trusted me, because he believed in what we
were trying to achieve.”
This woman is a crook, Lilong decided. There was no way her daa
had told her how to find and cross the Forest of the Mist. Perhaps
this was simply a ruse to get her to reveal the secrets herself.
Oke watched her with a sad expression.
“He said if I ever sensed something amiss, or felt we were being
hunted, then I needed to follow the Lonely Roads East, find the
Forest of the Mist, go through it, and head for the isthmus.” She
lowered her voice. “He gave me all the directions, taught me how to
find the tree patterns in the mist. How to find your secret entrance.”
Lilong grew cold. No, no. No one knew about the tree patterns.
No one knew there was a secret entrance.
This was not the kind of information that could be faked.
She watched Oke pace some more. A simple, regal woman.
Broken, but not quite beaten. What was it about her that had
entranced her daa so much as to give this information?
Then it came to her: This woman was just like Danso. And just
like Lilong had been entranced, swayed, irrevocably altered by one
Bassai rebel, one stubborn idealist, so had her daa.
Oke was still speaking. “He said once I had crossed, I must give
myself over to the sentries.”
The sentries. Another thing that no outsider knew about. No
outsider who lived to tell the tale, that is.
“But he said not to talk to the Abenai Elders, not to talk to
anyone. He said I must only pass everything I know on to…” She
trailed off.
“Who?”
“You, Lilong. He wanted me to pass it on only to you.”
Inside Lilong’s head, it felt like bubbling soup—scrambled,
melting. What is this? What is happening?
“Tell me,” was all she could say.
Oke inclined her head. Then, without warning, her eyes turned
grey.
It happened fast, but Lilong had witnessed her daa’s grey
iborworking for so long that her heart did not miss a beat. When the
fires in the hideout began to dance, even in the absence of wind,
Lilong knew exactly what it was. The flames dimmed, so low that all
visibility was snuffed out in an instant. All they were left with was
the light of the blue moon, Ashu. It slanted over the faces of the two
women, cloaking them like beasts lurking in the forest’s shadows.
“He taught me how to do that, your daa,” said Oke. “Gave me a
few pieces even though I didn’t ask, even though I never wanted to
touch them after I realised how important they were to your people.”
Lilong leaned forward, trying to see where Oke’s stones were.
The woman, understanding what was happening, pulled up her
wrappers. In the side of her body was an ugly, ungainly stitch.
“Inside me,” she said, answering the unasked question.
“Preserved it there in case I was captured. But I was pregnant when
they took me, see? So I didn’t use it because I wasn’t sure how it
would affect the baby. Then they took her, and I didn’t have that
fight in me anymore, didn’t want to die without seeing her again. So
I’ve been waiting for the right time, the right reason, to use it
again.”
The flames in the hideout returned to full burn as quickly as they
had dimmed. Oke’s eyes were back to normal.
“Your daa believed that this power in the hands of everyday
people, people who wanted good for the world, was better than in
the hands of a few. That was why he taught me and gave me the
stone-bone. That was why he was going to give me your Diwi
heirloom.” She paused. “That was why he told me about Risisi.”
Something about that name tickled a memory in Lilong’s brain.
“Risisi, like the children’s folktale?”
Oke shook her head. “Oh, Lilong. Risisi is no folktale.” She leaned
in. “I will tell you a story, and soon, you will learn that your leaders
and my leaders are no different after all.”
Lilong did not look at Oke when she spoke. She did not want to hear
the tale the woman was telling.
Not the tale of a buried city with a surviving ibor deposit, located
somewhere on the seventh, uninhabited island of Ofen. Not the tale
of a secret society of select Elders in the Abenai League who knew
this location. Not the tale of her daa, a member of the league, and
also of this secret society.
She did not want to hear why her daa, watching the Great
Waters, Great Winds, and Great Lands bite at the seven islands,
tried to convince the Elders to lead the Ihinyon off the islands before
they sank into the Neverending Sea. When that didn’t work, he
turned to his secret society within the Abenai: What if they
excavated Risisi and benefited of its treasures? What if they had so
much ibor that they could place a few pieces in honest and capable
hands on the continent, aid them in their quest to combat the
empire’s power? If they succeeded, the Ihinyon could always find
goodwill there if their islands were swallowed.
She did not want to hear why, when the secret society refused,
Jaoudou opted to head out on his own, adamant to prove that ibor,
if placed in the hands of the right people, could be useful in building
a future for the Ihinyon and the rest of Oon. She did not want to
hear how he met Oke in the desertlands while seeking those who
had escaped the mainland’s clutches, who had no designs on power,
who were only interested in making things better for all of Oon.
She did not want to hear of his plans to visit this buried city of
Risisi and furnish Oke with enough ibor from there to redistribute to
allied desertlanders and mainlanders. She did not want to hear how
he decided to hand her the Diwi as a show of faith, and how that
failed because, unknown to them both, Oke was being tracked. How
he was inadvertently attacked at the Weary Sojourner, or the rest of
the story that she was already familiar with: being discovered by an
Ihinyon scout and whisked back to Namge before he gave in to his
injuries.
All she kept thinking, while Oke spoke, was: Why?
Why could he not have confided in her, asked for her help? Why
did he think I couldn’t help him? Why did he believe she would have
objected? (She would have, but he should have at least tried.)
And most importantly: Why did he want to be a hero, a saviour?
Why would you try to save the world, at the expense of yourself?
These weren’t questions Lilong wanted answers to. Not anymore.
If he was still alive when she returned, she would get her answers.
The problem, now, was that everything she knew and believed was
a lie.
She had been told fabled legends, growing up. The seven islands
were filled with tales of warriors and their larger-than-life feats: the
one who dove into the sea in search of jewels and fought monsters
of the deep along the way; the blind warrior who was blessed by the
Great Waters to command the Neverending Seas and still its monster
waves; the one-armed sage who ventured outside the archipelago
and became the first scout to interact with the desertlands.
The tale of Risisi was only one of such, so how could it be true?
How could the source of ibor be a city buried in a cave in Ofen? If
that existed, then why had her family invested itself in protecting an
inert stone-bone for so long? Was it all a ruse to sell the story of
dwindling ibor supply, to uphold the lie that it was the Great Waters
who supplied the stone-bone?
Had she abandoned all she knew to chase a family heirloom that
was a decoy, an honour that was a falsity, a duty that was not real?
Had she given her whole life for a lie?

Night had fallen proper when Oke was done talking. The little sister
moon stood above them, as dim as their comportment.
“Why are you telling me this now?” Lilong asked.
“You asked,” said Oke, quietly. “And he wanted me to.”
Lilong shook her head. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know,” said Oke. “What he would have wanted you to do,
perhaps.”
 “Which is?”
Oke shrugged. “I was trying to save my people, and he was
trying to save yours.” She paused. “Perhaps, with your help, we can
finish what he started.”
Lilong cast the woman a sidelong glance. “Excuse me?”
“I can come east with you—”
Lilong scoffed. “Over my dead body.”
Silence sat between them.
“I was going east when I was captured,” said Oke. “I simply want
to finish that journey.”
“You may go wherever you like,” said Lilong. “But you will not be
going east. Not if I am walking those same roads. My daa may have
been lenient with our secrets, but I can assure you I am not.”
Oke let it lie for a moment before she said: “Okay. I hear you.
But, I want you to know—I intend to go east anyway.”
“I see,” said Lilong. “So, what, you will leave your baby behind to
go on a treacherous journey to a mysterious forest you may or may
not find?” Lilong chuckled dryly. “The sentries will slice you up
before you even reach the isthmus.”
“I will take Thema with me. And I have the right words to say to
the sentries.”
“Good luck, then,” said Lilong. “If your partners agree.”
Lilong turned around to face the bush, the conversation ended.
But Oke had one more thing to say.
“If we travel together,” she said, “I was hoping to take the time to
help you understand the choices your daa made, why he thought it
was safer to keep you and the rest of his family away from it all.”
She leaned in closer. “I know it can be disorienting, learning that the
world is not what you thought it was. I felt that, too, when I first
read the Manic Emperor’s codex, when I first learned ibor was real. I
couldn’t trust what my eyes saw, what my ears heard. Then I met
your daa, and he taught me how to trust again, how to believe in
others, in the possibility of good. It’s why I know that regardless of
all you’ve said today, you believe in good too. That’s why you
worked with Alaba and the Gaddos to get me out. A warrior like you
—it was not just about the payment. It was duty. Because you
believe in people too, just like him.”
Lilong hated this woman. She was Danso all over again, her daa
all over again. Telling her things she did not want to hear.
“Give it some thought,” said Oke, turning back to the hut.
There was a sound in the bushes. Before they could make sense
of it, the travelwagon came barreling through the thicket and into
the hideout, Alaba in the driving seat. He brought the kwagas to an
abrupt halt, so that the travelwagon jerked forward, and through the
destroyed, open door, a body fell out.
It was Danso, covered in blood.
 Danso

Chugoko
Sixth Mooncycle, heist day

NIGHTFALL WAS A BLANKET of desert purple over Chugoko. In the streets,

vigilante numbers increased, as did the intensity of the alert gong,
which was still going. Peace officers had joined in the search for the
prison escapees, extending into crannies, nooks, and corridors,
swarming every corner of the city with torches and leopards.
In the marketplace, Danso and Ugo moved from empty stall to
empty stall, seeking shadows, ducking behind any awning or facade
that offered sufficient cover. The lights and sounds of their pursuers
followed. They were now lost in the market’s maze with no way to
tell their exact location, but at least they were a safe distance away.
For now.
Beneath a storefront counter, Danso tucked his legs into himself.
Ugo, next to him, counted the numbers until they were to leave this
place and locate another empty stall. He leaned an ear toward the
lights, eyes darting, alert. He was a far cry from the drunk, clumsy
man Danso had met on that first day.
“I want to thank you,” said Danso. “For saving me—twice, now?”
Ugo only offered a quick glance. “Mmm-hm.” He peered at the
lights in the distance, his mind far away.
“You’re not scared,” said Danso.
Ugo turned. “Hmm?”
“Throughout everything—from the peace officers to the parade to
the Chief Warden to right now. You’ve been so… bold. Tell me: Who
are you, really?”
Ugo regarded Danso quizzically. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, how is a Bassai man out here in the desertlands, living
freely among desertlanders? A Bassai man who is clearly not a
merchant or Idu noble with border crossing rights?” A Bassai man
who only seems graceless and uncoordinated, Danso wanted to say,
but is in truth equipped and prepared.
Ugo sniffed and exhaled. “You ever heard of journeyman?”
“The children’s rhyme? Journeyman, journeyman, bring me bread
—that one?”
“Mmm-hm.”
“Definitely. When I was growing up, the children in the outer
wards…” Danso drifted off, surprise taking over his tone. “No…”
“Mmm-hm.”
“You’re journeyman?”
Ugo shrugged.
“How? You’re not even—”
“Old?” Ugo shrugged again. “I was about thirty seasons when I
crossed. So, more like journeyboy. Maybe those who made the song
thought man sounded better. Or maybe they just wanted to convince
themselves that their false tale was really true.”
Danso remembered the insistence of the jalis, when he’d asked,
that no Emuru had ever crossed the Soke moats. Back then, he
hadn’t yet grown into arguing with scholars, being fairly new to the
university. But he’d always known that the street songs he’d grown
up hearing in the marketplaces could not all be myth.
“So you’re really the first person to beat the Bassai system.”
Danso chuckled. “I’m hiding in the market with a legend.”
“Don’t worry,” Ugo replied. “You and Oke can keep your crowns.
The fewer people know the truth about me, the better.”
He was probably right. Before meeting the Gaddos, Danso had
believed he was the first Bassai to cross the moats and live to tell
the tale. After learning about Oke, and now Ugo, he was sure there
had been many more before them, just unnamed. The jalis’ saying
was right: No act of resistance is new under the moons.
He wished those who had gone before could’ve done more with
their newfound freedoms. Brought back truth and liberty and
promise and hope to those caught in Bassa’s web. Instead, they had
all just disappeared, much like Lilong was asking him to disappear
with her now.
No matter. Now that he’d joined their ranks, moons willing, he
would change that.
The sounds of pursuit drew nearer. Ugo counted down, and they
hustled to another stall and settled in again, listening. Danso took
the time to recite the rhyme to himself:

Journeyman, journeyman, bring me bread.

Baker first, thief at last, away with his head.
In the Dome he pinched the pearls that hung from the emperor’s
neck.
He took the jewels, scaled the mounts, and lived in the sand
forever.

“Did you really do it?” asked Danso. “Steal the emperor’s

necklace?”
Ugo did not answer, but Danso did not need to press. If he truly
was the journeyman the rhyme spoke of, then whether he truly stole
the necklace was pointless. This was Bassa, after all. He’d have only
needed to step on the wrong Idu noble’s foot to get his name
engraved in the minds of generations for the wrong reasons.
Either way, Ugo’s escape was a win. Danso had always assumed
lived in the sand forever meant he’d been caught, killed, and buried
beneath the sand, a dishonourable end for any Bassai. But this was
just one more way for Bassa to obfuscate the truth in plain sight.
Thank moons for children’s rhymes. Simple as they were, there
was some truth to them after all.
“Let me guess,” said Danso. “You didn’t really scale the
mountains.”
Ugo chuckled. “Went under, just like you. It wasn’t the Gaddos
running those channels back then, though.”
“Did you have to work it off? Like us?”
Ugo nodded. “Price was even steeper back then. That’s how I got
to travel the Savanna Belt—east, west, up and down the trading
route. Picked up the accents, the fashions, the cultures. I’m not a
walking trove of desertland secrets by choice.”
You and me both, thought Danso. Nothing about this situation
was by choice. It hadn’t been his choice to attend the university or
become a scholar. It hadn’t been his choice to leave Bassa the way
he did, to cross the moats the way he had. It hadn’t been his choice
to dance for desertlanders, to raid a prison, to journey eastward.
All of this was circumstance being foisted upon him. And he was
tired of circumstance.
Ugo was still talking. “After paying my debt in full, I’ve tried not
to leave Chugoko. Everyone in my quarter knows me, treats me like
their own. It’s safer here than out in the wilds.”
If by like their own, he meant they did not afford him the respect
they did to other Bassai—like at the public house, when they had
him sit outside with the desertland commoners—Danso wasn’t sure
that was a good thing.
“But your safety is still tenuous,” Danso said. “That’s why you’re
always alert, prepared, wary.” He understood it now. “That’s why
you’re with Alaba. For the Gaddos’ protection.”
Ugo did not answer, did not even look at Danso, which was all he
needed to know that though unspoken, this was clearly not a secret.
“I get it,” said Danso with a sigh. “Seek safety wherever you can
find it, right? That’s what I’m trying to do now too. Travel east to
hide in the islands’ mists.” He made a click in the back of his throat.
“But that’s not really freedom either, is it? Someone else’s power
covers you anyway; here or there, it’s the same. Always someone
else’s power, never yours.”
He shook his head, looked long into the night, wistful. “Maybe,
just maybe, people like you and I—what we need is not safety.
Maybe what we need is power. It’s the only surety for safety and the
only thing that guarantees true freedom.”
Ugo had not spoken a word since, but now he turned to Danso
and stared at him like he was looking at someone different.
“You know it’s true,” Danso said, unsure if he was trying to
convince the man before him, or himself. “Look at how Alaba and
Oke move through the world. Look at the Gaddos. Look at this heist.
Look where we are right now, hiding! If we had some power of our
own, whatever that looked like…”
The sounds of their pursuers neared again. Ugo gave Danso one
last perplexed glance, then darted across the stalls. Danso followed.
Soon, they had found another safe stall.
But the sounds of searching did not relent. They intensified,
closing in around them, so that all the previous joviality and
introspection disappeared from the two men’s dispositions. Their
nerves stretched taut, bodies brimming with agitation.
“We can’t do this all night,” said Danso. “We need to find a way
back to the hideout.”
“Only the mainways lead to the outskirts,” said Ugo. “We can take
our chances with the peace officers, or we can take our chances
with the night predators in the bushroads.”
Danso peered at the advancing lights. “You think the others know
we’re still out here?”
“Of course. Lilong saw us.”
“Yes, but do you think they care?”
Ugo glared at him, offended. “You think they’ll leave me—us—
here?” He looked back at the lights. He seemed so small in that
moment.
“Oke and Alaba and Thema are probably together right now,” Ugo
said, quieter. “Happy. Free.”
Danso knew what he meant. Lilong wouldn’t leave him out here
either, would she? But again, perhaps he was a burden, slowing her
down. Perhaps she might feel more relief than sadness. Perhaps she
might be quick to move on, take the payment from the Gaddos and
go east without him.
The lights advanced farther.
“We can’t keep going deeper inside. We’ll become trapped in this
market.” Ugo squatted on his haunches, deep in thought.
“We’re going to have to brave the mainway, aren’t we?” said
Danso.
Moments later, they were crawling along the edges of the market,
parallel to the mainway, following it eastward as much as they could
tell from the moons’ positions overhead. It helped that they moved
in the dark, without lights, and among stalls. It did not help that the
streets were still being heavily patrolled and leopards had a great
sense of smell.
Soon, the marketplace came to an end. It was time to join the
mainway.
“Just pretend the usual,” said Ugo.
“Sahelians,” said Danso in understanding, and they joined the
wide street.
They were halted and harassed by multiple vigilante parties with
faces warped by snarls, but were soon let go after being presumed
to be visitors and to not be familiar with the city’s language or
customs. They managed to move east of the city proper in this way,
raising eyebrows but opening no eyes.
Then they came upon a peace officer search party. Even before
halting them both, the peace officers had already begun to move in
their direction.
“Stay calm,” Ugo whispered.
But there was no point. Because as soon as the light of a nearby
torch fell on the face of the mouthpiece, Danso knew it was over.
The mouthpiece, a youthful man, was squinting in a way that told
Danso that he was the smart kind. A beard and some extra hair did
not fool this one. He promptly saw beyond the disguise and
recognised the jali behind it.
“Dehje,” the mouthpiece said.
“Run,” said Danso, and pushed Ugo into a side corridor.
 Shouts rang from the party. A shrill whistle went off. Hooves
followed, then faded away, followed by heavy footfalls. A spear—the
short, fast ikiwa—whizzed behind them, thunked into something
wooden. Another ikiwa grazed a wall. A third missed Danso’s ear,
disappeared into the darkness. They kept running blind, crashing
into obstacles, righting themselves, going left, right, left, stumbling
into backyards, ducking under clotheslines, scaling fences, hedges,
animal pens.
Ashu, Danso prayed, panting. Help! I don’t want to die!
The gong clanged in the distance. Shrill whistles pierced the night
air, alerting more search parties of the chase. The footfalls of those
in pursuit were louder now, doubled in number.
Then, as if the hen god had been listening, there was light at the
end of their corridor, no forces in sight. An exit! Danso headed for it.
“Wait—” Ugo started, but didn’t finish, as they burst into a wide
street—
—into the path of a barreling travelwagon.
The driver pulled the reins, and the kwagas dug in their heels.
The travelwagon came to a halt in a cloud of dust, barely a foot
away from Danso, who had frozen in the middle of the street.
The driver leaned over the side. It was Alaba.
“Get in!” he screamed.
Danso needed no second invitation. He pitched forward, as did
Ugo. The door to the travelwagon opened, and Kubra, hoisting a
torch, jumped down, urging them forward.
A spear whizzed out of the corridor and shattered the backrest
beside Alaba.
“In, in, in!” Kubra waved frantically.
Danso plunged headfirst into the travelwagon. Ugo fell atop him.
Another spear shattered the side of the vehicle, the tip stopping only
a hair’s breadth from Ugo’s eye. Kubra jumped in after them and
attempted to shut the door, but the spear held the door open.
Out of the corridor burst a motley group of vigilantes and peace
officers.
“Go, go, go!” yelled Kubra.
Alaba goaded the kwagas. They shrieked, barking into the night,
then dropped their heads and charged off. Kubra looked out the
open door, back at the peace officers in the dust. He turned to
Danso, laughing manically.
“Almost!” He wiped his brow and sheathed his curved sword.
“Look at us thinking we won’t find—”
There was a sound like a whip, the snapping of bone, the squelch
of flesh. Blood spattered Danso’s face and chest.
Kubra glanced at his chest. The blade of an ikiwa sat in his chest
bone, blood dripping from its tip onto the floor.
“Oh,” said Kubra, and fell out of the travelwagon.
Danso sat dazed, blood dripping into his eyes and lips, unable to
process the empty space before him where Kubra had just been. He
did not gather himself enough to move, not even when another
ikiwa, and then another, whizzed past the open door. It was Ugo, yet
again, who leaned over and pulled him away.
“We have to—” Danso was saying. “Tell Alaba. To stop. We must
go back.”
“He’s gone.” Ugo bowed his head. “He’s gone.”
“We must go back,” Danso repeated. “We must go back.”
He shrugged off Ugo’s pull on his wrappers and leaned out to see
Kubra. If he was dead, then Danso wanted to pay witness to his last
moments. Kubra deserved that, to not die such an ordinary death,
like a fowl. His death meant something, and Danso wanted to hold
his eyes and let him know it. He wanted to memorise the face of the
peace officer who had thrown the spear, to hold it in anger and
spite, to use it as fuel.
But when Danso looked, all he saw was dust.
 Lilong

Chugoko
Sixth Mooncycle, heist day

“MOONS,” SAID OKE.

“It’s not my blood,” said Danso.
Alaba jumped down from the driving seat, dejected. Ugo
emerged from the travelwagon, just as shaken. Oke, spotting them,
rushed into both their arms, and they held each other tight and wept
silently—for what was lost, for what was found. It felt private, so
Lilong turned away.
“Kubra,” she said, noting the gaping absence.
Danso was shuddering, face set with pain.
“We were recognised,” he said. “Peace officers. Threw a spear.”
He looked as shaken as he’d been when he’d lost his own daa.
Lilong found it surprising, seeing as he didn’t even know the man
that well. She who had worked with Kubra felt a small pang of
sadness. He hadn’t been the most amiable, but he was a solid
general and a generally decent person. The Gaddo Company would
miss him, as would she.
For Danso, though, this was about something else.
Lilong wanted to ask, but Kakutan came out then, holding the
baby Thema, Biemwensé in tow. Oke retrieved the child, and the
three lovers gathered around, sniffing together, laugh-crying with
their baby. Biemwensé motioned for the others to give them space,
before glancing at the blood in Danso’s hair, beard, clothes.
“Kubra?” she asked, and Danso nodded. She and Kakutan shook
their heads.
“Better him than you,” said Biemwensé.
It sounded cruel, but it was true. They had all thought it. But
Danso retained a deeply twisted expression. Determined. Vengeful.
He turned his back on them and went into the hut. After the
reunifications were over, Alaba ushered everyone else to follow suit.
“I’m afraid every moment longer we stay here is a danger,” Alaba
announced, once they were gathered. “Kubra will already have been
recognised as a Gaddo employee as we speak. Danso has been
recognised, Lilong has been spotted. It’s only a matter of time
before one of those tracks leads here.”
“So what now?” asked Kakutan.
“We clear this location, go our separate ways.”
“Excuse me?” Lilong interjected. “What about my payment?”
“I was coming to that,” said Alaba. “Listen, I will not lie to you.
After what has happened here, my parents will go into hiding. They
will not be seen for a long time, not even by me, not to talk about
you. So—” He held up a hand as Lilong made to protest. “So, I will
do my best to get you all the resources you need to make your trip.
But we must all leave this location, right now.”
“And go where?” asked Biemwensé. “We have nowhere to go.”
“Then tell me where you want to go,” said Alaba, “and I will get
you there.”
The two Whudan women looked at one another, the answer
already decided.
“What about us?” asked Danso.
“I know you were promised food, water, transport,” said Alaba. “I
can offer you the rest of the supplies this hideout has to offer—it
remains a sizeable amount. There is good camping material here
too, strong. Out there are two travelwagons, mine included, even
though it’s battered. You may take your pick for transport.”
“I want what I was promised,” said Lilong, infuriated.
“And I understand,” said Alaba. He pointed westward. “The
alternative is we somehow make our way back to Chabo without
being captured, hope peace officers don’t trace us there, and wait
for my parents to return from hiding so you can get your due.” He
pointed east. “Or, you can begin your journey tonight, right here and
now.”
Lilong was shaking her head. This cannot be happening.
“And what about her?” she asked, pointing to Oke.
Alaba frowned. “What about her?”
Oke was waving Lilong down, but she paid no attention.
“She wants to come east with us,” said Lilong. “I don’t assume
those supplies will be sufficient for us all?”
Alaba turned to Oke. “You what?”
After that, the rest of them left the trio of lovers and their baby in
the hut, as anger and consternation swelled inside. Danso changed
clothes, and Lilong, with Kakutan’s help, gathered all the remaining
supplies and loaded the getaway travelwagon with it, pretending not
to hear the forced whispers and occasional bursts of frustration.
Either way, it was evident to all what was happening: Oke was
doubling down on going east with Lilong’s party and taking Thema
with her. Ugo, after trying unsuccessfully to play mediator between
her and Alaba, had given in and decided to join Oke on this quest.
Alaba, furious, walked out on them both, to the edge of the thicket
to clear his head.
Once the supplies were loaded, the Whudan women waited for
instructions on how they would proceed with heading back to Bassa.
Lilong joined them as they packed.
“Thank you,” Lilong said to the women. “For everything. You both
are the reason we are still alive, in many ways. I wish you luck
finding what you are looking for.”
“Same here,” said Biemwensé. “Go safe.”
 “Take care of that one for us, will you?” Kakutan angled her head
in Danso’s direction. “He will be crawling his way through this world
for a while.”
“Those ones,” said Biemwensé, indicating Oke and Ugo, who
stood with the baby Thema, arguing softly while waiting for Alaba’s
return. “May I ask that you let them come along if they decide to?”
Lilong shook her head. “I wish I could. But it is not my decision.”
It was her daa’s, the sentries’, the league’s. If they wanted to go
east, fine, but it would not be under her banner.

Later, Lilong sat near the dying fire, rolling in her hand the pouch of
artifacts she’d collected for her brother Kyauta—hopefully, he’d still
be there when she returned. She thought about Biemwensé’s plea,
likely born of the little time she’d spent with the baby. She thought
of the story Oke had told her, of her daa’s own words—which Oke
could have made up, but she knew her daa well enough to know
that Oke didn’t have to.
I will go to Risisi and bring you ibor, before it’s too late. These
were his last words to Oke before their fateful meeting at the Weary
Sojourner.
Lilong had begun to wonder if he’d gone to Ofen and found the
buried city before arranging the failed meeting with Oke, or if he’d
planned to go after handing her the Diwi. If he was alive and had
now recovered, would he still insist on going? She envisioned him
escaping the league’s watchful eye, leaving his family behind yet
again, chartering a dhow to the uninhabited seventh island. Working
grey ibor on the Neverending Sea, beaching at Ofen unsighted.
None of this was impossible, though success depended on a
series of slim chances. Knowing her daa, though, that wouldn’t deter
him. Lilong thought Oke was a bit like him in that way: adamant,
hopeful, foolhardy. After all, she’d recklessly plunged into the
savanna wilds, alone and pregnant, trying to locate the Forest of the
Mist.
Still, the big question was yet to be answered: Is Risisi real?
Or, the bigger one: If we go to Ofen, what will we find there?
An underground city of ancient stone people and forgotten tales?
Buried mountains of whole, pure, untouched ibor? This was once an
unbelievable folk tale, still just as unbelievable now. But other
questions raised by Oke’s tale were not so easy to dismiss. What
about the secret society within the Abenai League? What about
Jaoudou travelling the desertlands to hand the Diwi over to a
stranger? Between Oke, Jaoudou, and the Abenai League, who was
the liar here? It couldn’t be all of them, could it?
Something had to be true.
The part of Jaoudou’s statement that clung to Lilong was: Before
it’s too late. What was going to happen to ibor? Or to Risisi? The
stone-bone supply was already dwindling in the islands, and the
Neverending Sea drew closer every day. Lilong agreed that ibor and
the islands had a role to play in the future of the continent. This
would eventually be her burden too. How could the tale of Risisi
help?
Lilong poked at the fire with a stick, deep in contemplation.
Her daa had been so invested in this buried city, to the point of
recruiting a foreigner into his plans. Maybe he was onto something
after all. Maybe the children’s folktale contained more truth than she
believed.
Maybe she hadn’t quite dedicated her whole life to a lie just yet.
She met Oke outside the hut.
“If you wish to come east,” Lilong said, “if you wish to finish what
he started, you will do as I say, and you will tell me everything you
know.” She paused. “The child and her care will be your problem,
not mine. And whatever happens with you and the sentries, you are
on your own. You are not with me.”
Oke smiled a wry smile. It was not yes, but it was not no either,
which was fine. Because Lilong knew that if something happened to
the islands or their ibor and she had done nothing to stop it, she
would never forgive herself, league warrior or not.
 Alaba finally returned and went straight to the Whudan women.
He had a package for them, with a message and a code of words.
He gave them directions for a meeting with a contact in the outskirts
of Chugoko, someone who would help connect them with a team
that would get them back behind the Soke Pass. The contents of the
package would let the team know they were sent by Alaba.
“You are not coming along,” said Kakutan, not a question.
“No,” he said, sad. “I’m going east.”
Everyone turned toward him. He lifted his head, shuffled over to
Oke and Ugo.
“I have lost you once,” he said. “I will not lose you again.”
The family formed a huddle. Lilong ground her teeth, worrying
about supplies. One more body on such a long journey was a
weight. But the more she thought about it, the more she decided it
was perhaps best to have strength in numbers, as her expedition to
Bassa had taught her. All three new companions, minus the child,
were useful in some way. Plus, the thought of travelling alone with
Danso suddenly wasn’t so appealing.
Both travelwagons were soon packed, kwagas checked. Alaba
drove, while Ugo, Oke, and the baby joined Lilong and Danso inside.
The Whudan women took the battered travelwagon.
Before they rolled away in opposite directions, Kakutan set flames
to the thatch of the hut.
Ash and smoke, vestiges of this destruction, were all Lilong could
see for a distance. She caught Oke staring too, and realised that this
must be similar to the last thing she saw before heading east last
time. Lilong wondered whether Jaoudou had looked up into the sky
too, seen ash and smoke. She wondered if he was still alive.
Chugoko and its gong and smoke faded, became one with the
rear horizon, and then the party was into the desert wilds.
 The Written Codex of Danso DaaHabba, First Jali of
Bassa to Journey over the Soke Borders: Hereafter lie
his personal accounts of travels and travails through
the desertlands, from the western vagabond colony of
Chabo, to the fabled eastern Forest of the Mist.

The Eighth Account: The Cautionary Tale of the Stone City of

Risisi, as recounted by Oke, daughter of Abuso, Speaker of the
Upper Council of Bassa; as told to her by Elder Warrior
Jaoudou of Namge and the Abenai League.

LISTEN, THEN, CHILDREN OF the seven islands, for I am going to tell you
of a city once prosperous in this archipelago.
Long, long ago, after the sister moons took to the sky, there was
an ancient city, called Risisi. It was named for the stones upon which
the city was built, and was ruled by leaders long forgotten,
swallowed up by the Great Forces as with all trace of this city itself.
But it is said that once, Risisi was self-preserving. Its markets were
filled with life and noise, its fields green and abundant. This ancient
city was known for its cloth, its iron, its brass. But it also had
something no one else—not even the other islands—had: ibor.
Risisi traded with the peoples of its sister-islands and welcomed
emissaries of their governments. It offered all its products and
secrets for sale and barter. Everything except for ibor. It was
rumoured that the city contained within it a large deposit of ibor
buried beneath one of its stone mountains, from which they mined
the mineral, discovered its powers, and used of it to build the city
and its riches.
But one day, its voices became still. No hands tilled its fields,
worked its iron, wove its cloth. No lips spoke its name, and no feet
graced its halls. The city died, as the old people say, and became
lost forever. All that is left of it today is this warning tale of a once-
prosperous city fallen, and how it came to be so.
In a dry, dry land far beyond the archipelago, there lived people who
sought to bring all the great knowledge of the world together, so
that anyone who wished to learn about everything touched by land
and sky and water could have one place to do so. They decided to
traverse the continent and collect such knowledge. Their expeditions
led them to the archipelago, and for a lack of means to travel on the
Neverending Sea, they waited.
Soon, word came to the people of the archipelago of a group
waiting to gain passage into their islands. They sent word to Risisi,
who provided them with dhows, commandeered by a number of
White and Grey Iborworkers—those who had learned to speak to the
Great Winds and Great Waters, tame the violent waves of the
Neverending Sea, thereby making island-to-island transport possible.
The Iborworkers took a party out to meet these strangers in the
place we now know as the Forest of the Mists. There, they found the
visitors not to be an army as initially thought, but expeditionists.
So they welcomed the party and took them into the islands on
their dhows, with one condition: They could go anywhere and learn
anything they wished, but they could not go to Risisi.
The leaders of the archipelago islands showed the visitors their
cities, their architecture, their technology, and the visitors marvelled
and recorded what they saw, swearing to take the good news of the
islands back to their people.
But in time, the visitors yearned to learn about Risisi, about the
deposit of ibor that resided there. Once again, they begged to visit.
Risisi’s leaders were against it, but were swayed by the arguments of
the leaders from the other islands, who believed that sharing their
knowledge would lead to a better understanding of them by others,
and therefore a better world.
There is much to do to educate the people out there of our ways,
they said. They may learn about us as we do of them, and we may
become a better people for it.
The leaders of Risisi finally agreed, but on one condition: The
visitors could learn everything they needed about Risisi, but were to
learn nothing of ibor itself, or its use.
“The three Great Forces that sustain this world—wind, dirt, sea—
have handed this power down to us,” said the leaders of Risisi. “A
power so great must never be shared, in knowledge or stone,
without their granting it. It must be protected from hands that
cannot be trusted. It will be better for such a power to be buried for
all time than for it to fall into the wrong hands.”

When the foreigners visited Risisi, they marvelled. They itched to

know how Risisi achieved its grandiose feats of development. How
did they build walls so high? Carts that moved on their own?
Seavessels that succumbed to neither quiet nor monster tide, but
sailed even without wind? The answer to all of this, of course, was
ibor, but the foreigners were not permitted to learn about its ways.
But as itches are wont to do, the desire to scratch became
overwhelming, and despite their promises, the visitors eventually
succumbed to their bodily whims.
One night, when no one was watching, they slipped away and
went seeking for themselves. After searching for a long time, they
stumbled upon the large cave, and within the cave, discovered the
source of the secret mineral. Every kind and colour and size present
—grey, white, amber, red. They found stories written into the walls
of the cave, of the ancestors who had discovered this mineral. They
could not interpret what was written, but they assumed them to be
stories, warnings, directions, educating the people on how to employ
this mineral for their needs.
The visitors drew images, took notes, excited to return to their
people with information about this enthralling mineral.
 But come morning, there was wailing. The leaders of Risisi, upon
discovering what the visitors had done, cried out: “You have killed
us! You have angered the forces of this world, and for this, we will
all pay.”
And pay they did. Before the day was ended, all three Great
Forces colluded to punish them in multiple plagues.
First came the Plague of Beasts. The grounds rumbled, uprooting
everything from their foundations. Beasts from the annals of myth
and history, small and large and long asleep, arose from their
depths, ibor tugging at their consciousnesses, a clarion call to Risisi.
They trudged toward the city, rampaging and ravaging all they found
in their way.
But even these beasts were not spared by the Plague of Fires and
Dirt. Out of the mountains burst a rain of fire and clouds of ash. All
came down on the city of Risisi with vengeance, until everything
they touched turned to ash, and then to stone.
In their wake came the Plague of Wind and Water, a storm
weaving through the land. Whatever was left that had not already
turned into ash and stone was washed or swept away, and whatever
remained was buried beneath mountains of debris. The great city of
Risisi, which was once the centre of all, became the centre of
nothing.

To this day, no trace of the buried Risisi has been found: not its
people, not the visitors, not its knowledge. Many have searched, but
have discovered neither form nor sound nor movement that leads
them to the leftovers of the city. Whatever was left that the plagues
didn’t touch crumbled, every bush grew into forest, and every stone
person melded with the mountains. This is why we call the stone-
faces—those carved by our ancestors into rocks all over the seven
islands—this is why we call them risisi. They carved those faces to
remind us of what happens when we interfere with the gifts the
Great Forces have given us.
This is why in Island Common, when we say risisi, we mean
“stone” or “mountain” or “ground,” but also “ancestor.”
But this is only a legend, so take with it a grain of dirt. As with all
legends, rumours persist until this day. In some corners of the seven
islands, it is rumoured that the Stone City of Risisi still lies, that if
you scour the islands diligently enough, you may find a hidden cave.
This cave, it is believed, is where this shining city once stood. There,
you will find hundreds of stone figures, of people working, dancing,
playing music. You will find parents chasing children, guards with
weapons, rulers making decrees, maybe even the visitors. And you
will find ibor. Lots and lots of it, pristine, untouched.
Perhaps it is the will of the Great Forces that this cave not be
found. Now we only get whatever ibor is offered up to us by the
Great Waters, sufficient for our needs. This is why, to this day, we
never go seeking ibor. The destruction of Risisi must never happen
again. We will take what is offered and make the best of it.
And never, ever again, will we open our gates to visitors from
beyond the Forest of the Mist.
Second Season of the Red Emperor
 Esheme

Bassa: The Great Dome

Sixth Mooncycle, 13

IT WAS THE AFTERNOON before Esheme was to present herself to the

people. The stories, the performances, the reintroduction of the
Ninki Nanka—it had all been meticulously planned. The only thing
left to be finalised was the royal regalia, which was undergoing daily
refitting. Between the toll of ibor from the last trip and the bodily
implications of her most recent conception, the emperor’s form had
shifted considerably since the last time she was in full regalia.
She stood on the dais, surrounded by textile craftworkers, flitting
around her with pins, ties, measuring ropes, and rods. Present also
was Ikobi, dispersing instructions to the other royal beauticians in
attendance: hairdressers, jewellers, makeup artists, whose own
attendants made copious records.
This blissful cacophony was soon interrupted by Igan bursting
into the fitting room, trailed by the keeper of the royal coop.
 “Emperor,” said Igan, “you’ll want to hear this.”
Esheme had never set eyes on the keeper of the coop before.
Messages usually came to her through Nem or her advisors. Also,
the coop man didn’t seem to be carrying a message.
“Leave us,” she ordered everyone. Once the room was cleared,
she turned to the keeper of the coop. “Speak.”
“I beg your pardon, Sovereign,” he said. “I was only doing as
commanded.”
“Doing what? Commanded by whom?”
“The First Consul,” he said. “She asked me to keep silent about
messages from Chugoko.”
Esheme lifted an eyebrow. “What messages?”
“I do not know, Sovereign. I never got to look at them. I only
know they were from the warrant chiefs, marked as urgent. I passed
them on to the First Consul as I usually do, and that was the last I
had to do with them.”
“How many?”
“Multiple,” said the man. “A flurry of pigeons.”
Esheme looked to Igan. “Why is this of sudden importance?”
“Because I just got word from my own people at the border,” said
Igan. “Something has happened in Chugoko, and unrest is beginning
to brew there. Everyone is on hot coals, waiting for the Emperor’s
response. But for some reason, we never received any message that
you should be responding to.”
Esheme sighed, shook her head. “I’ll deal with this.”
She found her maa on the portico, Satti and a few hands in
attendance. Below them, the courtyard, and First Ward beyond it,
buzzed as usual, unperturbed by the royals and nobles looking over
them. Esheme went up to Nem, waved everyone else away, and sat
by her side.
“Was it them?” Esheme asked. “Was that why you hid it from
me?”
Nem, sipping on a small calabash of weybo, swallowed her gulp
of spirit and said: “Yes.”
Esheme put out a hand. Nem hesitated. It was common
knowledge that the Red Emperor did not engage in spirits. But times
had changed, and Esheme was no longer that person. She shook her
hand, urging. Nem shrugged and poured her a small helping.
Esheme sipped at it, and it traced a dry heat down her throat.
“I knew that any mention of their names would set new fire to
your feet,” Nem said. “It was sensible for me to refrain, at least until
I could clarify the claims—which, if I may say, are not even
substantiated. A prison break, reported sightings by untrained
wardens and vigilantes—these are not matters big enough for the
emperor’s attention. You have an empire to run.”
Esheme took another sip. “You should not have kept it from me.”
“You almost died.” Nem’s face was tight, jaw set. “As First Consul,
maybe I shouldn’t have. But as your maa, I am not sorry I did.”
Esheme nodded. The two women drank.
“What is the message?” asked Esheme.
Nem shut her eyes. “Esheme…”
“The message, First Consul.”
Nem swallowed. Esheme felt a pang of guilt for employing this
particular weapon, for reminding her maa that being a subject of the
emperor would always be in contest with any other relationship they
had between them. But this was the only way to get the information
out of her.
“Two sightings,” Nem said. “Him and the yellow woman, separate
occasions. Helped by what they think is one of the more organised
companies in the Savanna Belt. Likely one with roots in Chabo.”
“Where are they now?”
“Unclear. Some say they escaped into the outskirts. The remains
of an incinerated hut were discovered, but tracks led in several
directions. They could be anywhere.”
“But you’ve thought of possibilities.”
Nem shrugged. “Eastward, maybe? If the Forest of the Mist truly
contains an isthmus, they’ll be taking the red stone-bone back to the
Nameless Islands—assuming that’s where the yellow woman truly
comes from, and that the islands are truly there. They’ll be escaping
the long arm of the emperor too. Many good reasons to go east.”
Esheme nodded. “And the prison break?”
“You won’t believe it, but the prisoner was the late Speaker
Abuso’s daughter, Oke. Stuck there, anonymously, for some reason.”
Nem chuckled. “See the irony of it? The very person whose search
started the journey that brought us here, to this portico at the top of
this empire, might just be the same reason its road downhill begins.”
“Road downhill,” Esheme repeated. “You think I will ruin the
empire by going after them.”
Nem turned to her daughter. “You are going after them, are you
not?”
It was not really a question, and Nem was right to ask it this way.
Esheme’s mind was made up the moment that coop keeper walked
into the fitting room. But her maa still was yet to understand why.
She was not going because she hated Danso, even though every
mention of his name still caused her a pang of anger and pain. She
wasn’t going after the islander woman for revenge, as Nem was
probably thinking. Revenge and embarrassment were insufficient
reasons to abandon her post and head for the Savanna Belt.
No, she was going because she had one arrow right now—the
Ninki Nanka—and with it, could strike multiple targets.
She was yet to tour the desertlands, and where better to start
than with Chugoko, the largest city in the belt? If she was to gain
desertlander trust—or regain, since her peace officers had done such
a poor job of capturing the fugitives—then she had to show up in
person. And what better time to show up than with a Ninki Nanka in
tow, a statement of her might and conquest?
“You wanted me to reveal myself to the people,” said Esheme, “to
demonstrate my aptitude for this role with stories of
accomplishment, with this beast at my back as proof. I do that here
or in Chugoko—what difference does it make? It has the same
effect.”
“You are not well,” said Nem, with a sideways glance at Esheme’s
not-quite-bulging belly. “Or in the best shape for travel.”
“Don’t act like Chugoko’s gates are not only a strong ride’s day
and a half away,” said Esheme. “Or like you won’t enjoy your time on
the elephant throne in the meantime.”
Esheme watched her maa’s face tighten further. Again, she felt a
pang of guilt. But sometimes, Nem needed to be poked to come to
her senses.
“I am only going there to offer inspiration, bolster the search
parties,” said Esheme. “While also showing might, gaining trust, the
whole thing we planned. Remember: one arrow, many targets.”
“Mmm-hmm,” said Nem.
“And yet you still think otherwise.”
Nem eyed her daughter. “How many ibor pieces do you have
left?”
They had both been avoiding this question. After expending her
very last travel pieces in bringing down the Ninki Nanka, there was
only one left—the final piece, now installed in her armlet. It was the
smallest too, mostly sufficient to keep the Ninki Nanka tethered to
her, but not quite for performing any significant feats of iborworking.
If she was to remain emperor for long, she had to get her hands on
more ibor. It was why she had set the peace officers on the Savanna
Belt in the first place. Finding the fugitives was finding the Diwi.
Her silent hope was that this arrow, this trip north, could result in
the fugitives being captured, and gaining access to their stone-bone.
But she couldn’t tell Nem that because it was a hope too far, a
foolhardy thing to believe in.
“You can’t use it, that last piece,” Nem was saying. “It will break
you—and moons know if you’ll survive another such strain. And once
it crumbles, it will be the last ibor you ever have.” She glanced at
Esheme’s belly again. “Likely the last time you’ll ever work the stone-
bone.”
“Even more reason to go, then.” Esheme swept her hand over
First Ward below them. “How else will we keep hold of all this? If
there’s a chance we can get our hands on more ibor, we should take
that chance. Whether I can use it or not is not the point. Having it
is.”
Nem shook her head, downed the rest of her spirit, poured
another.
“You don’t keep power by acquiring more,” said Nem. “You do it
by brokering the one you already have. Did you learn nothing I
taught you?”
Esheme put down her calabash and rose. It was time to change
into other clothes, preferably ones more suited to a journey.
“As long as Danso and his friends have life and ibor,” Esheme
said, “they have the same power we do, and the opportunity to
broker it too. That is more danger to this empire than any trip I
make.”
Nem nodded. “Okay.” She held up a finger. “But if you go,
remember this: Every step beyond this dome increases the chance
that you may not return to it.”
“Then so be it,” said Esheme. “At least you will then have what
you’ve always dreamed of.”
She did not look at Nem this time, or feel any pang of guilt, even
though she was sure Nem’s face would twist as much as her heart
did. Rather, she fumed as she returned to the fitting room.
She wasn’t as reckless as Nem thought. She would never expend
her last ibor piece for anything beyond a life-threatening situation.
Having the Ninki Nanka present would be enough. Now that she had
no more Soldiers of Red and no ibor to make new ones, she would
travel with civic guard squadrons instead, and supplement them with
peace officers in the desertlands. Iborworking was not in the plan.
When she’d said she wanted to be free, she did not mean being
chained to this Great Dome like her maa. To be truly free was to be
able to leave whenever she wanted, to never have to look over her
shoulder. That was freedom. And she could get there only by gaining
the respect and adulation of the continent. It was worth a few tough
choices.
Last possible conception. The finality of the physician’s words had
unlocked something in her, something that since that day had grown
into hesitancy and discomfort. For the first time, Esheme did not
consider this conception a means to an end, but a possibility all in
itself. Perhaps an heir. Or someone she could teach to work ibor for
themselves. Her own Little Esheme, who would love her for who she
was, who would understand all her sacrifices, who would not
question every little decision she made. A Little Esheme in whom she
could place her trust, and who could prolong her reign.
So Esheme returned to the fitting room with an impossible task:
one arrow, so many targets to hit, and yet no bow to shoot it with.
But, by moons, she had done impossible things before. She was the
emperor of the world. She would always find a way.
 Kangala

Tkithnuum
Sixth Mooncycle, 12–14

AFTER TRAVELLING SOUTHWARD ON the trade route for two and a half
fortnights, Moy Kangala arrived in Tkithnuum, the sixth port city of
the northern trade route, his eighteen champion children and their
parties of a dozen warriors each behind him. Together, it was a
company of over two hundred persons, excluding camels and
dromedaries.
Just like the other villages, hamlets, and towns they’d
encountered along the trade route, word of their serpentine caravan
had reached the city ahead of them. Whispers had moved from
scouts to sentries to clan leaders and tradespersons up to Bassa-
favoured warrant chiefs. Even the bandits who usually plied the
barren roads that connected settlements took a holiday the moment
they learned that the Man Beyond the Lake was coming south.
Though Tkithnuum was the second-largest settlement along the
route, possessing the strongest ties to the mainland (bested only by
Chugoko), the oasis city prepared just like those before it. Traders,
who had never before set eyes upon a caravan of such a size,
stocked as many wares as they could, sure to make bountiful sales.
The vigilante groups and their leaders prepared fighters—not to
protect the Kangala caravan, but in the hope of joining it
themselves. Private travellers who hoped to journey south to the
border prepared gold and bronze pieces, hoping it could change
hands and earn them Kangala’s protection.
The warrant chiefs prepared only by holding their breaths,
wishing that whatever Kangala had planned would simply pass them
by.
Kangala himself had no particular plan. The journey so far had
been uneventful. Save for one overzealous hamlet—with which they
had quickly dealt and left behind in smoke—their journey had been
relatively calm. Kangala simply considered this city an opportunity to
gather information. He needed to know what to expect ahead of
arriving in Chugoko, and what it would take to cross into the
mainland. He needed to know things like how to gain quick and
efficient access to the Red Emperor.
Kangala and his company set up camp just outside the city and
were immediately besieged by all who had heard of their arrival.
Kangala left the business of managing trade to his third- and fourth-
born children, and as usual, gathered Ngipa and Oroe and a handful
from their respective parties and made way through the city.
Tkithnuum was deficient, a city hung out to dry, ravaged by
vultures masquerading as people. The once-sprawling and -sparkling
oasis the city had been built around, that which had made it a
trading port in the first instance, was now close to completely dried
up. Clearly, season-long droughts weren’t hitting just the Sahel—
they were all over the desertlands.
Kangala surveyed the new wells dug to replace the dry spots in
the once-oasis. They were the reason the oasis itself was now under
constant guard, vigilantes patrolling to prevent water thieves. The
wells looked shallow from a distance—he assumed less than ten feet
deep, judging by the lever-and-pail mechanisms they used to draw
water. He chuckled at the simplicity of it all. So close to Bassa, the
famed centre of all knowledge, and yet they still had not figured out
a better way to lift water from a deep well.
This made him more confident that his water-lifting pump would
be welcomed by the emperor. In all the region, he was yet to spot a
well that employed anything similar to the internal-displacement-
with-external-wheel system he’d innovated. His design and method
drew more water with less effort, doing so efficiently every single
time. It was this very system that had helped propel him from lowly
Sahelian youth to the most powerful man in the Sahel—he made it
possible for Sahelians to dig wells as deep as twenty feet, therefore
lasting scores of seasons before drying up.
The group headed into the heart of the city, weaving through
corridors of stalls-cum-abodes to reach the offices of the warrant
chiefs. Kangala noted that the city was also missing most of its
youngest and most thriving population. He asked their guide—a little
girl Ngipa had hired, no older in age than his twenty-fourth child—
for the reason. The girl explained that most of the youthful citizens
had chosen to undertake the journey southward, hoping to get into
some form of employ within the new emperor’s programs. The
growing cost of water had made it impossible for them to remain
here.
By the time Kangala arrived at the local government offices of
Tkithnuum, there were only two warrant chiefs left. There used to
be five, he was told, but two had left much earlier on their own
journey southward, and the last one left recently upon hearing of
Kangala’s impending arrival. The two warrant chiefs left were the
most senior: an elderly man with greying hair and a bald woman.
They welcomed Kangala and his champions into their small office
and sat. They offered their guests wine and spirits—water for such a
large group would be too costly, they explained. Kangala surprised
the chiefs by offering them water instead. He had one of Ngipa’s
hands pour them a healthy amount. They gulped it down with
gratitude.
“Why you no run too?” Kangala asked in one of the trans-regional
vernaculars, the closest pidgin to his Sahelian tongue. Ngipa, who
had done more travel outside of the Sahel than anyone else, stood
by to translate in case he needed it.
“This is home,” the grey chief said, matching Kangala’s choice of
tongue. “We no forsake it.”
Kangala nodded. “I understand. Home… hard to leave.”
“Then why you leave?” the bald chief asked. “You wan’ tell us
where you dey go?”
“Bassa,” he said, matter-of-factly, then switching to his preferred
Sahelian tongue, and enlisting Ngipa’s translation skills, explained
the information he sought.
“Oooh.” Both chiefs glanced at one another when Ngipa was
done.
“Chugoko no good right now,” the bald chief said. “Bad things
happen there.”
Kangala leaned forward with interest. “Bad like what?”
“Prison escape,” the woman said. “News say one of the emperor
enemies.” She pulled forward various notices sketched onto cloth,
featuring faces and inscriptions Kangala couldn’t read. He passed
them to Ngipa, who ran her eyes over them.
“It’s the warrior Butue spoke of,” she told him in Sahelian. “And
the escaped intended.”
Kangala nodded, then asked more questions. Ngipa relayed their
responses to him:
“They say the emperor has been made aware of the break-out,”
she translated. “And she has decided to act upon it immediately.”
“By doing what?”
“By coming to Chugoko herself.”
Kangala leaned back in his chair and began to laugh. He did so
until tears came forth from his eyes, until the sound of his
satisfaction filled every nook and cranny of the local government
offices of Tkithnuum.
Ahh, yes. A new plan had begun to take shape in his mind, one
that no longer required him to give up the secrets of his special
pumps in exchange for the emperor’s favour. There was something
else the emperor wanted even more badly, and he was going to give
it to her.
 Two days later, Kangala set up camp at the edge of the city of
Chugoko. Then he sat in his tent and waited for the emperor to
arrive.
 Esheme

Chugoko
Sixth Mooncycle, 14–15

THE CITY GATES AT Chugoko were reminiscent of the Great Dome’s at

Bassa. They weren’t made of iron, and there was no courtyard
beyond them, but that did not stop the architecture from mimicking
the seat of the empire. The pedestrian openings were the same in
number—five. The entrance for drawn traffic sported pillars on both
sides that carried Bassai proverbs. Behind them, welcoming every
new entrant, stood statues of emperors past, much in the same way
of the courtyard of the Great Dome.
Little Bassa to the last.
Something here was different, though—new, set apart. Even
though Esheme had never visited before, she recognised what it was
long before the welcome assembly stepped forward and presented
themselves.
She let them finish their elaborate greeting and introduction.
None of the royal company were complete strangers to her—she
recognised the warrant chiefs before her, the Elders of the trading
union, heads of guilds and vigilante groups. Barring the peace
officers and their mouthpieces, whom Igan had appointed themself,
everyone else present had attended her coronation and introduced
themselves to her. It was good, though, to let them believe that the
emperor did not remember because she did not much care to.
In lieu of a response to their greeting, she pointed to the tall
figure concealed by cloth at the end of the row of statues. “What is
that?”
The welcoming assembly glanced at one another.
“We were hoping to present it to you at a later point, Sovereign,”
said a warrant chief. “We hoped you would visit under more
favourable circumstances, and we would have completed it by then.”
“Present it now,” said Esheme.
The assembly looked at one another, then gave the signal. The
cloth dropped. Suddenly, Esheme could smell the freshness of the
clay from which the statue was still being built, the stone and metal
that supported it, the oil that caused it to shine. She saw how much
taller by design it was than the others. And most importantly, she
saw that every part of the head was detailed in bronze and outlined
with gold.
She leaned over and whispered to Ikobi: “Is that what I look
like?”
Ikobi shrugged. “Close.”
It was fine work, in truth, but could have been better if the best
Bassai craftworkers had been employed to tackle it. Besides, Esheme
couldn’t help looking past the beauty and seeing the gift for what it
was: a pre-emptive attempt to placate her anger. This, and the many
gifts they brought before her that she didn’t need.
“You should paint it red,” whispered Igan on her other side.
True, thought Esheme, and nodded to Ikobi, who whispered it to
the jali, who announced it to the welcome assembly. Immediately
they nodded furiously, as if it were something obvious.
“That is… all?” asked the warrant chief. “The Scion of Moons is…
happy with our gift?”
 “Oh, no,” said Esheme. “The Scion of Moons is not happy. The
Scion of Moons will never be happy until all threats to the elephant
throne are gone.” She pointed at the group. “And you—all of you—
let those threats go. Tell me: Should the Scion of Moons be happy?”
Heads bowed, and the assembly shuffled their feet. Esheme
shook her head, then nodded to Igan. Igan screamed an order down
to the back of the royal party. The riders of the last wagon, a long,
specially built monstrosity, heard their command and acceded,
jumping down and throwing off the clothing used to conceal what
the wagon carried.
“Fire of Menai!”
Gasps rippled along the crowd as the people of Chugoko, for the
first time, set eyes on the emperor’s conquest. The Ninki Nanka
wasn’t even moving, tucked into the wagon as if asleep, but there
was much to be feared from the look of the swamp-snake alone.
Iridescent scales that caught the sun in otherworldly ways. The
sheer size of its hefty body. The large gashes all over, greying with
death.
Chatter spread through the assembly. Before long, it would move
like a bushfire, touching every corner of this city, and then hopefully,
after she was gone, every part of the desertlands.
Esheme didn’t need to Draw or Command to get the Ninki Nanka
to wake up. The moment she peered into herself, tickled that layer
of consciousness where ibor always sat in wait, the great beast’s lids
snapped open, revealing red eyes. Awakened, it rose and stood tall,
head grazing tree branches, so that those who had not yet fainted or
run away had to shade their eyes just to see.
“I have travelled far and conquered many,” said Esheme, once the
cries had mellowed. “Now, I am here to do the same for Chugoko.
But first, I must rest.” She pointed to every faction of the welcome
assembly before her. “And by the time I wake, you better have a
good plan ready.”
She waved her hand, and the assembly parted for her to pass.
It was midday the next day before Esheme could put herself
together to address the Chugoko ruling council. She had spent the
night restless, unable to sleep. Most of the morning was spent
battling nausea and attempting to keep down thick corn pap, the
only thing she could eat when pregnant. The journey had not been
rough by relative comparison, but the early periods of her
pregnancies were often the toughest, she’d learned through
experience. Her whole body rocked with the vibrations of travel, still
trembling from the effects after a day.
Once she was strong enough, she went out to meet the rest of
the royal party. As the city did not have a central dome, they had put
her up in their largest structure: the city hall. It was a meeting-place
with a handful of private rooms in which speakers often prepared.
The largest of these had been prepared for her, and the others for
the most senior members of the royal party. Everyone else had
found a warm corner of the main hall—which had been rid of all its
seating—and made camp there.
They were all waiting once she emerged. All heads turned to her
as she entered the main hall, and she soon realised she had made a
grave error. None of these people had ever seen the emperor in this
state before: stressed, tired, fresh from sleep. They weren’t familiar
with the puffy eyes and slower gait, the nightdress and hair without
arches that reminded them that she was only an ordinary woman
who had lucked her way into greatness.
Igan, sensing this just as quickly, rushed their posse quickly to
cover her, but Esheme knew the damage was already done. There
were already worried gazes that spoke multitudes, stares that
queried her well-being. She wondered how long it would take for
such thoughts to extend into the typical worry about her fitness to
run the empire. How long would it take for someone to voice that
thought and give it credence? She needed to demonstrate her
capacity quickly and rid their minds of such dangerous imagery.
Her first stop was with the beauticians, who soon restored her to
the glorious, breathtaking emperor they were more accustomed to
seeing. Next was the woman priest whom she had opted to bring
along this time, who cracked an egg on her forehead and blessed
her with the protections of the mother hen Ashu, then circled her
head with incense made of bark shavings and animal blood, covering
her with the fiery blessings of the mother leopard, Menai. Then she
rode out to meet the ruling council.
With the city hall taken over, the council had set up in the next
best place: the open grounds of the city centre, right where the
Ochela festival parade had gone through, and only a few steps from
the prison centre. A perfect choice, by Igan’s estimation. Not only
would they get the detailed anecdotes of what had happened and
who had been spotted, but they’d be able to visualize it too.
Once announced and seated, Esheme called the first witness: the
Chief Warden of the prison. The man appeared with the most senior
prison staff and bowed before the emperor, sobbing like a child,
begging for mercy. His account of events, his suspicions of those
involved—this was all information Esheme already had. She had only
one inquiry: of Danso and his companion’s role in all of this.
The Chief Warden relayed his interaction with the Ochela
contestant, a finding that left her equal parts confused and alerted.
Apparently, Danso had no direct role in the prison escape plot,
though Esheme believed he’d still been somehow involved. She was
perhaps a little proud that her once-meek scholar from Bassa was no
longer the naive young man she remembered him to be.
But she tempered that pride with vigilance. Danso and his motley
band were clearly strengthening for some reason, and breaking out
the former Speaker’s daughter was important to it. For them to risk
everything and come out of hiding—whatever they were concocting
was sure to be a challenge to her reign.
“I told you it was no simple break-in,” said Esheme, whispering to
her advisors while the Chief Warden awaited her response. “They’re
planning something.”
“Maybe,” said Ikobi. “Or just gathering allies.”
 “Not just any allies,” said Esheme. “Iborworkers. The real
question should be: to do what with?”
Igan and Ikobi looked at one another, and they knew the answer
would not please the emperor.
“We have to go after them,” said Esheme.
“We?” asked Igan, brows raised. “You could barely get up this
morning.”
Esheme shot them a look. “What do you suggest I do? Let them
hurry east and find more Iborworkers and return to challenge my
throne?”
“We have no squadron, no hunthands,” said Igan. “You have no
Soldiers of Red.”
“I have the Ninki Nanka,” said Esheme. “We can recall all peace
officers, have them join us.”
“Those will be barely enough, even with my posse added. For
something like that, we’ll need something close to an army,
especially when you’re this… vulnerable. And as I explained before,
now is the worst time to pluck civic guard squadrons from Bassa and
take them on a long trip. Splinter factions of the coalition are
running wild in the outer wards—the city will be susceptible with so
few members of the guard. Yet, if we travel without those numbers,
we will be similarly underprotected—just like we were in the
swamps. I can’t have you underprotected. Not again.”
Esheme was silent because Igan was right. But her thoughts kept
coming around to the prison break. How could she prove her
competence as emperor if, with all this power amassed, she could
not catch a simple scholar and his gang?
She had to find them, find out whatever they were planning. She
just had to.
“We can recruit vigilantes from here,” Ikobi, listening in, offered.
“Get the warrant chiefs invested.”
Igan shot Ikobi a look that said: Whose side are you on?
“No, no Chugoki,” said Esheme. She did not trust the way these
Savanna Belt folks regarded her. “Even if the recalled peace officers
turn out insufficient, I’d rather have fewer people whose loyalty I
can count upon. Moons, I’d take a Sahelian over these Chugoki.”
 Igan remained adamant, shaking their head. “A trip such as what
you’re suggesting takes planning, time, resources. We can’t just
wake up and travel the Lonely Roads East.” They leaned closer, using
their inside voice. “I’m begging you to rethink this, Esheme. You
can’t win these people over this way. It’s not worth it.”
Esheme sighed, then matching Igan’s quiet tone, said: “Make it
happen.”
She returned to the Chief Warden. His punishment was swift and
simple: to be stripped of his post and imprisoned in this same prison
until further notice. His second-in-command was to take over
immediately.
The warrant chiefs were the next to be brought before her. They
offered little else but supplication, requesting forgiveness for not
overseeing their charges rightfully. The rehearsed nature of their
performance irritated Esheme, especially because it offered little of
note by way of solution. Since they were not primarily involved in
the prison, she opted for public flogging, which was carried out
immediately while she watched.
Next were the peace officers present in Chugoko, and their
mouthpieces, who said they were willing to carry out whatever
orders she requested, including honourable deaths for failing to
meet their obligations. Esheme surprised them by having Igan and
Ikobi shunt them to a separate location to be briefed in secret about
the impending journey. They were to be tasked with sending news
of the recall and its terms to their comrades beyond the city.
Last came the heads of the vigilante groups, who swore there
was little they could have done to prevent the breakout, especially in
the middle of the festival. These she simply sent away. Did the
elephant have any time for ants beneath its feet?
Once done, she was ready to take her leave, when she was
approached by Ikobi.
“There is a man here who has been waiting patiently, seeking
permission to stand before you,” her advisor said. “He will only say
his name to you, but not to me.”
Esheme frowned. “Why?”
“Apparently, he doesn’t often need to. He is renowned farther up
the trade route. People recognise him by his title.”
“And what title is that?”
“They call him the Man Beyond the Lake.”
 Kangala

Chugoko
Sixth Mooncycle, 15–16

WHEN MOY KANGALA WAS brought before the Red Emperor, his first
impression was that she was taller than he’d been led to believe.
Throughout his trip, when everyone had spoken of a youngling on
the elephant throne, wielding a power greater than anything Oon
had seen in hundreds of seasons, Kangala had imagined her as a
small child playing the popular game of broad leaf. The one where
they stuck a thin stem through the middle of said leaf, then ran full
speed into the wind, causing the leaf to spin, faster faster faster.
Conjury, the children called it. But any discerning adult eye could tell
it was simply the work of nature: It was the very wind that blew
against them that caused the leaf to spin. In Kangala’s mind so far,
everyone had only been watching the emperor’s leaf spin. Someone
was simply yet to point out the wind.
As he stood before the Red Emperor now, he threw out that
whole image.
The part of her that screamed big was not her physique, but her
presence. She radiated an intensity that swallowed everything within
proximity. Her gaze was unreadable yet measured, in a way that told
him she was more discerning than she appeared. In fact, he
decided, anyone who took this emperor’s youth to heart was
misguided. This was a young woman who did not end up here by
mistake.
“I greet you, Sovereign Emperor and Scion of Moons,” Kangala
said, bowing low, his hand on the bridge of his nose in the practiced
Bassai greeting. Next to him, Ngipa also bowed, rattling off his
words from their Sahelian tongue into High Bassai. “I come to you
humble, with prayer that you accept my homage and offer me ear.”
The emperor nodded. “Welcome, Sahelian. I am told you are
some sort of custodian by the Lake Vezha?” Ngipa translated the
words.
“Indeed, Sovereign,” said Kangala. “My family and I do crossings
on the lake, both the Sahel and Idjama side. We have done so for
seasons longer than I can remember.”
“Ah, so you come from nobility,” she said, her gaze trained on
him.
Kangala recognised the sarcasm beneath. She was trying to slide
the mat out from under his feet, see what kind of man he really was.
It would be a tricky endeavour to deny his affluence—he was in
good clothing, had a private translator, and boasted a widespread
reputation.
So he waved Ngipa to step farther behind him, then embraced
the challenge of speaking directly to the emperor—in Savanna
Common, however broken—with the hope that more of who he truly
was would shine through.
“I may speak in Savanna Common, Emperor?” he asked. “Is the
only tongue I can manage to say directly.”
The emperor nodded.
“I am no nobility, Sovereign, no,” he said. “I come from family of
fishing hands. My parents, my grandparents—they fish the lake like
everybody. Only after the weather start to change, then we say:
How other way to eat? Me, I was still a youth when I start to charge
traders to cross the lake, only me with my canoe. A few barter here,
a few cowrie there—things grow fast. I am blessed.”
“Ah, so a self-made man.”
“A man not afraid to work, Sovereign,” he replied. “No more.”
That seemed to satisfy her. “Fair enough,” she said. “Make your
ask.”
“That is the thing, Emperor,” said Kangala. “I no simply come to
ask. I come to offer.”
That brought her leaning forward. Even her advisor beside her,
the one who had helped him gain access to the emperor—she, too,
leaned forward. It was the other advisor, the bald one who
continued to regard him with what Kangala concluded was deep
suspicion, who remained unmoved, eyes never leaving his face.
“An offer of what?” the emperor asked.
“My service,” he said. “If you will have it.”
“And what service is that?”
“Eighteen champions with each their party,” he said. “Total
company of two hundred and more, leading by my first child, Oroe.
Best commander and most talented tracker the continent ever seen.
We camp on the outskirts of the city, but ready to move at your say.
We will ride east, pursue your fugitives, if you let us.”
The emperor frowned. Not the response Kangala expected.
“This thing you describe,” she said, slowly, “sounds like an army.”
“No, no, Sovereign,” he said, backtracking. “We no soldiers. This
is simply my own children, and hands they employ. We no wear
colours, and we no swear allegiance to anybody.” He looked up to
her. “But if you wish, we can swear to you.”
“And why would I wish it?” Her frown was deepening and did not
look like leaving anytime soon. “I have a swamp serpent ready to do
my bidding at a finger snap. I have peace officers, civic guards, the
vigilantes of this city—all at the behest of the empire.”
“Yes, Sovereign,” said Kangala. “I no doubt that your subjects are
capable. But my thinking is a company like my own will make pursuit
easier on empire. No need to scatter whole city just for this. We go,
no change to empire trade, no adjustment to city. Just easy, and all
goal achieved.”
The emperor regarded him warily, but her frown had receded.
She leaned back in her chair. Immediately, the bald advisor began to
whisper in her ear. The emperor listened, giving Kangala a long,
hard stare throughout.
Kangala imagined what was being whispered. He is a nobody
from nowhere, a foreigner bearing gifts, a person who cannot be
trusted. But Kangala held faith. Everything he’d learned from Butue
down to Tkithnuum proved that the emperor desired something from
these fugitives. He could wager that she’d be open to any
opportunity to find them that came with minimal cost. His gamble
was based on this belief: She did not sound like someone who often
passed up a good opportunity.
The emperor finally leaned away from her advisor, a palm up to
silence them.
“I want to hear what you want your reward to be for this,” she
said to Kangala, her gaze intense. “And do not lie to me or tell me
anything about doing it in service of the empire. I will have you
thrown out.”
Kangala adjusted himself on his feet. “Independence, Sovereign.”
The emperor did not seem to comprehend, turning to her
advisors to ask if something had been lost in translation.
“If I can explain, Sovereign,” he added, quickly. “We will like your
blessing to keep everything our family have since generations, like
the lands around the Lake Vezha. Also, we will like your word that
everybody who is affiliate to us, whether here or north or south, will
have your blessing too.”
The emperor lifted an eyebrow. “That is a significant ask. Do you
plan to leave the lake anytime soon?”
Kangala thought about lying, but decided against it. “Yes,
Sovereign.”
This got the emperor’s attention. “Why?”
“Look everywhere, Sovereign,” he said, gesturing around.
“Weather change every day. Rains dry up in the Idjama. Sahel is
small and getting drier. Soon, no lake at all, and everyone move
south. No lake, no people. No people, no trade. No trade, no
business.”
“So you are simply thinking ahead,” the emperor said, leaning
back. “Tell me: Do you intend to move your people southward too?”
Kangala decided against lying again. “Yes, Sovereign. Later.”
“And you would like to keep your independence, even when
closer to Bassa.”
“If we can give our service, now and later also, yes. With your
blessing.”
For the first time since they began talking, Kangala sensed he
was catching the emperor’s attention. She turned her head to
consult with her advisor again. The interactions were mirrors of the
first: the stately, scholarly advisor seemingly in agreement with the
emperor’s disposition; the warrior-like advisor in intense
disagreement.
“I will think about it,” said the emperor at last. “Do not consider
this an acceptance in any form. But just in case, prepare your
company to move out at dawn.”
Kangala and Ngipa bowed deeply and left. Afterward, they
regrouped with Oroe, out of sight.
“That looked like it went well,” said Oroe. “Though I will not lie—I
hate to see you bow.”
“Respect doesn’t equate to inferiority,” said Kangala, relieved to
return to his native Sahelian tongue. Wading through tongues he
was not fluent in often took a toll. But it was a small sacrifice to
make.
“Did she agree?” Oroe asked Ngipa. “Are we in allegiance?” Ngipa
shrugged and looked to her daa.
Kangala considered the emperor’s words. Just in case. No one
said just in case unless they were convinced about the viability of
something.
“Come,” he said to his children. “Let us prepare for a pursuit.”
At the break of dawn, Kangala stood at the eastern junction of the
Emperor’s Road as instructed, his children and their full company
with him. It was a long time since he had been dressed like this, for
a fight. He wasn’t a fighter in any way, but he dressed like one
regardless, complete with a sheathed blade and dense fabric armour
underneath his kaftan, a headdress over his metal helmet to prevent
the sun from cooking his head in it. Everyone else was dressed the
same.
“Sure they’re coming?” asked Oroe, antsy.
“Patient bird, fattest worm,” Kangala replied. “So stand steady,
look grand.”
The royal caravan soon came into view. Kangala counted the
travelwagons. Barely a day since the emperor’s announcement of a
recall of her peace officers, a significant number had descended on
the city from the outskirts. They filled the first two travelwagons,
about twenty of them, all without their mouthpieces. Behind these
came the royal travelwagon carrying the emperor and her advisors,
followed by one with a handful of royal attendants.
Behind all of these came a lengthy cart, bearing the giant swamp
serpent of lore: the Ninki Nanka. Kangala had never set eyes on it,
and could not take his eyes off as it rolled past him. Now, he
understood how such a beautiful monstrosity struck fear into the
hearts of all. If he also had the power to awaken this beast and
wield it to his liking, oh what things he could do!
The caravan pulled to a stop. A stool appeared before the
emperor’s door, and she descended from the travelwagon, trailed by
her two advisors. He’d taken the time to learn their names now. The
one who’d granted him audience the day before: Ikobi. The one who
continued to stare daggers at him: Igan.
The emperor said something to Kangala in High Bassai, but he
could not understand. She frowned and turned to Ikobi, who asked,
in Savanna Common: “Where is your translator?”
“Alas, Ngipa is ill and cannot come,” Kangala said with a smile. A
lie, as Ngipa was not ill, but somewhere deep in the city, seeking any
information that could aid Kangala’s venture.
The emperor whispered some more to Ikobi, while Igan watched
Kangala and his company carefully, eyes resting on Oroe. They bent
and joined the royal whispering, eyes darting to the company and
back.
“You must select only a dozen,” the emperor announced at last,
opting for Savanna Common, eliminating the need for a translator.
Directly to Kangala, she said:
“We will go on this pursuit. Once this is done, we may discuss
other ways your whole company may be of use to me. As for your
independence, I have decided perhaps some agency will be granted
to you. But only some. Bassa will retain prerogative in whatever new
establishment you install.”
It wasn’t quite what Kangala wanted, but it was sufficient for his
purposes. He had his foot in the door now, and that was all that
mattered.
He bowed in acceptance. “Sovereign.”
While Oroe picked out the dozen champions and argued over the
number of hunting dogs they could bring along, Kangala inquired of
Ikobi what the plan was. She produced two cloth notices like the
ones he’d seen in Tkithnuum and filled him in on everything else.
The islander was to be captured alive under all circumstances.
The current belief was that she was travelling eastward alone, back
to the Nameless Islands—though how she would cross into islands
no one had seen in hundreds of seasons remained a mystery. As for
the Bassai escapee, it was believed he had scattered into the
desertlands alongside the rest of their helpers. But if he happened to
be travelling with her, then even better. Two for the price of one.
Kangala passed on the message to Oroe to pass to his dozen. As
they spoke, the emperor returned to the royal travelwagon, but the
travelwagon did not turn back like the others. Kangala approached
Ikobi.
“The emperor is coming also?”
“Of course,” said Ikobi. “The Sovereign would never let her
subjects go without her leadership.”
Kangala returned to Oroe. “Change of plans. I will be joining
you.”
His son raised an eyebrow. “You are coming?”
 “So is the emperor,” said Kangala. “We must follow her example.”
“Hmm. Perhaps it is best you come.” He motioned toward Igan
with his chin. “The way that one has been looking at me, I suspect
we will tear out each other’s throats before we find those fugitives.”
“Cool heads will have to prevail,” said Kangala. “Now, send the
others back to camp. Let them wait until we return.”
“And Ngipa?”
“She will stay behind and help prepare for our return.” Kangala
mounted his kwaga. “Us, we have a duty now, one that will
reverberate in our lineage for seasons to come. We stay focused,
find these fugitives, gain the emperor’s trust, and claim our reward.”
He patted the kwaga absentmindedly, half an eye on the royal
travelwagon. “We stay focused, child, and the Four Winds help us,
we will preserve our legacy.”
 Lilong

The Lonely Roads East

Sixth Mooncycle, 15–16

“CONSIDER OUR TRIP DIVIDED into two portions,” said Lilong, pointing to
the map of the savanna they had received from the Gaddos. “There
is the open grassland before the Weary Sojourner. Then there is the
open grassland after. They’re different—you can’t cross both the
same way. But if we make it, we’ll end up at the Forest of the Mist.”
The travel group were on their first evening stop in a while,
making camp in an elevated spot chosen by Ugo, who was most
familiar with the Savanna Belt’s terrain. It had been days since they
left the hideout, and this was the first time they felt far enough away
from Chugoko to have a long rest. Lilong could no longer remember
how many sunrises and sunsets they’d seen, all blending into each
other in tense, sleepless nights of huddling next to one another in
the travelwagon, eyes wide and bloodshot as Oke and Ugo and
Alaba took turns trying to quiet the distressed Thema.
 It didn’t help that Lilong’s body, after all that ibor use, had chosen
this period to declare its discontent. The rickety travelwagon,
tumbling through the savanna, caused aches to linger in her joints
for most of the trip, and her throat remained dry no matter how
much water she drank. All had taken turns driving the wagon, except
her. Her eyes were extra sensitive to light, and she had a small fever.
It was taking her much longer than usual to recuperate, as food was
being rationed and she wasn’t getting the required nutrition to
bounce back swiftly.
“I really wish we had a better plan before coming out here,” said
Alaba, who stood bouncing the baby Thema on his hip while the
others crouched in a circle over the map.
“I already know what we can expect on this side of the trip,” Oke
said, ignoring Alaba’s lament. “Few more days of slow travel, we’ll
reach the Weary Sojourner. We can rest there, gather more
information about the second side—the wilds farther east. Then we
move again.”
“Didn’t the Weary Sojourner burn down?” asked Danso.
“The information my parents received says it’s been rebuilt,” said
Alaba. “New owner goes by the name of Madam Pikoyo.”
“Won’t she recognise us?”
They all went silent. Danso was referring to the public notices, a
few of which they had spotted on their way (and immediately
removed and burned). They were far enough away from Chugoko to
not be easily recognised by the average desertlander, but that did
not mean they were safe from the long arms of the peace officers
just yet. The notices they spotted had inspired them to get off the
well-trodden roads and take a bushroad, which, this far out in the
wilds, was not good for the travelwagon’s wheels. It also opened
them up to bandits and wild animal attacks. So far, they were lucky
enough to have encountered neither, but if they kept on this road, it
was only a matter of when, not if.
“I’m afraid it’s a chance we must take,” said Oke, stabbing a
finger at the map. “Grassland after the Weary Sojourner is teeming
with feral animals. Trust me, I learned that the hard way.” She pulled
aside her wrapper to reveal a deep gash, poorly healed. “Leopards
can be vicious when yet untamed.”
Danso nodded. “I’d argue a lot has changed too since you and
Lilong travelled.”
A lot had indeed changed. The sun was more brutal than Lilong
remembered it, and the heat was unbearable, forcing incessant cries
from Thema. Oke and her partners were able to rock the child to
fitful sleep for only short moments at a time, before she would
awake and begin all over again. A damp cloth remained on her
forehead permanently, and even that was yet to solve the problem.
“And that’s why we need more information,” said Oke, glancing at
Lilong. “Don’t you agree?”
Lilong looked up at the moons settling in for the evening. “I don’t
know.”
She left them to go take out the camping materials, sturdy tents
from the Gaddos, made from woven hemp and tough enough to
withstand sandstorms. As she offloaded them, she paused just long
enough to look around. She did not recognise any part of the
sprawling flat grassland before her. All this dryness, the rolling
browns and intermittent greens, short grasses mixed with low-lying
shrubbery—none of this looked familiar from back when she had
made the journey from her island to the border. Her eyes had been
too focused on the ground before her, piecing together her daa’s
tracks, mostly in the dark. She had not taken time to breathe in the
wonders of the wilds. Only when she’d arrived at the Weary
Sojourner did she finally look up, and by then, it had been too late.
Oke came over to help with the tents, having divided the rest of
their camping labour—Ugo and Danso to gather wood, Alaba to tend
to Thema. The two women worked in near silence, driving the pins,
Oke only pausing now and then to listen to Thema’s coos and cries.
Lilong found the ground rocky and hard to work, but Oke seemed
dexterous with it all, which was useful now that the winds had
begun to pick up and they still had no fire yet. It got cold quickly in
the savanna, especially this close to harmattan.
Lilong struck hard at the pin she was working with, frustration
giving swing to her arms.
“Easy with that,” said Oke. “You want to be able to pull it out
tomorrow.”
She shot Oke a sidelong glance. Only one word came to her each
time she saw this woman: Risisi, Risisi, Risisi. The name rang in her
head like a warning bell, reminding her of everything it signified:
that she no longer knew what was true and what wasn’t; that
everything she believed about honour and duty was shattered; that
she could no longer trust her own league—not with Danso, the Diwi,
or any other secret she’d learned.
That home, the one place in the world where she felt safe, was
not safe anymore.
She shut her eyes and let the thoughts float away.
“Is everything okay?”
Lilong slammed a pin. “Everything is fine.”
Silence, again. Lilong considered Oke’s temperate comportment
to be irritating. It was a mask, Lilong decided, a shade over the
other signs that, being a warrior, she recognised. The little frown on
Oke’s face as she focused on a knot. Her constant alertness—in this
case, to Thema’s every hiccup. The way she reacted whenever she
sensed something amiss. The brooding air she returned to once she
was satisfied all was fine. It was warrior-like, a natural Iborworker’s
instinct, the kind the Abenai League spent many seasons honing.
This woman resembled Lilong in too many ways, and Lilong found
it unsettling, because she wondered if this was why her daa had
chosen to trust her with all his secrets.
“Thank you,” said Oke, out of nowhere.
“Hmm?”
“For letting us come with you,” she said. “I know we are a
burden.”
Understatement, thought Lilong, but nodded and forced a smile.
“Ask it,” said Oke.
“Ask what?”
“The question you’ve wanted to ask all this time,” she said. “Ask
it.”
Lilong opened her mouth, ready to say, Why did he choose you?
It was his own daughter who had sacrificed her life—her childhood,
her body, her whole self—to become a protector of their islands, of
their family. Why would he not come to her with this?
But the words would not leave Lilong’s throat.
“I will save you the unease and answer it,” said Oke. “Your daa
did not choose to offer up his secrets to me, nor did I choose him for
my own purpose. I am a believer in fate, and I believe it is what
brought us together—the same fate that has now brought you to
me, to finish—”
“—what he started, yes,” said Lilong. She struck the pin. “I don’t
care why you’re going east. I just want to go home, and as long as
you’re not in my way, we are fine.”
The sounds of pins being struck surrounded them. Oke paused
and squinted into the dark, trying to make out Danso in the
distance.
“You know, reading that cursed codex does something to you,”
she said. “It’s impossible not to come out here after. You just know
that it’s up to you to do something with that knowledge, to make
change in this world.” She turned to Lilong. “But it’s not just the
codex that does that—it’s all knowledge. That’s why he did it, your
daa. The Abenai League might see protection in hiding things, but
your daa saw the value in revelation, and so do I. In time, you will
come to see it too.”
Lilong looked up. The white moon had begun to emerge, the red
moon nowhere in sight. A good omen, according to the Bassai. Too
bad Lilong did not believe in good or bad omens, or fate for that
matter.
Her daa was not a foolish man, she knew. Every decision he’d
made, even the seemingly bad ones, must’ve been done with a goal
in mind. If he—and Oke, in tandem—had abandoned all family in
pursuit of something grander, driven by nothing but dreams of
uniting the continent against a collective enemy, then there was
something truthful about that choice, even if only the devotion itself.
But she was not on this journey to continue his path. She was
here because there were truths, and there were lies, and she
wanted to know which was which so she could decide how to live
her life going forward: as an Abenai warrior, or as someone else. But
it would start, first, by finding Risisi, and learning what was myth
and what was real.
“We will stop at the Weary Sojourner as you suggest,” she said to
Oke. “But only for a night.” Then she went back to building the tent,
the matter closed.

The next morning saw disaster before they could set out. One of the
travelwagon’s wheels had finally succumbed and become displaced,
the hub nearly falling off. None of them were versed in anything that
had to do with travelwagons, which meant they needed help.
“We should abandon it,” said Alaba as they stood around
pondering. “Find another way.”
“Like what, walking?” asked Lilong. “Five people and a child—yes,
the odds of us making it through the wilderness are wonderful.”
“We could try one of the nearby settlements,” Oke offered. “Back
then, I stopped by a few to top up on food and water. I vaguely
remember them having blacksmiths. I suspect these will too.”
“Aren’t we supposed to be avoiding settlements?” asked Danso.
“I’m not sure we have that luxury now,” said Ugo, examining the
wheel. “None of us can ride in this thing—it’ll fall off right away, and
then we’ll be in hot soup.” He rose, dusted his knees. “Better to fix it
now before it’s too late.”
They all looked to Lilong, waiting for the final decision. Lilong
squirmed under their gazes. Once, this was what she craved—
leadership, insisting on the right things, avoiding the wrong. But for
the first time, she wished for someone else to take the reins, give
her time away from this totem of warriorship she had carried her
whole life. She was in unfamiliar territory and did not have her
powers. She had no clear plan, no solutions to problems that arose,
and no idea who she was anymore.
“Nearest settlement,” she offered, unsure.
The nearest place was a hamlet with no obvious name, nestled in
the thick of tough acacia scrubs. Dwarf fences separated compounds
from one another, and mud-plastered, thatched-roof abodes littered
each. In the yards, a bevy of livestock—goats, fowls, dogs—ran
about alongside unsupervised children at play. It was the best
possible kind of settlement they needed at this time—too small and
isolated for peace officers to bother with. Officers preferred to stick
closer to the cities and towns where their mouthpieces lived. Still,
they took caution when they entered, leading the wobbly
travelwagon slowly, eyes darting for any signs of trouble.
When the children stopped their play to observe the strangers
walking into their hamlet, the adults began to emerge from their
huts. All were elderly—Lilong guessed most younger folk would have
migrated toward Chugoko or the northern trade route in search of
work. They seemed more perplexed than troublesome or afraid,
which made sense. Five young people with a baby and a broken
wagon did not immediately scream threat.
Ugo walked up to a nearby compound and respectfully greeted an
elderly woman. Lilong couldn’t make out what he was saying in his
rapid Savanna Common, but the woman pointed in a direction, then
went back into the house.
The blacksmith was at the opposite end of the hamlet, which
meant they had to walk through most of it to get to him. The
curious gazes did not abate, and neither did Lilong’s discomfort,
even though she was wearing a desertlander complexion. Danso,
who perhaps felt just as out of place, wondered aloud if they could
replenish their water supply from the wells they saw in the
courtyards. Oke and her partners seriously discouraged it.
The blacksmith, when they found him, was a small, wiry man
with reddened eyes, soot-stained hands, and a complexion darkened
by time spent next to fires. He looked them up and down.
“Lost?” he asked.
Ugo shook his head, then pointed to the hub of the defunct
wheel. “We need help.”
“Ah,” said the man, then glanced at the group. “Bad time to be
travelling the savanna.” His gaze flicked to Thema, then to Oke, who
was carrying her. “Hot as a dozen suns.”
 “That’s why we need help,” Alaba interjected. “So we can quickly
be on our way.”
The man crouched to peer at the wheel. “It is bent out of place.
You travel the bushroads?”
The group looked at one another. Lilong gave them the eyes.
Nobody answer that.
“How long will it take?” Oke asked. “And what will it cost us?”
“I will take it out, knock, refix,” he said. “Hour, maybe. You have
copper?”
The man set to work, while Ugo and Alaba tended to the kwagas,
and Danso opted to meander in search of water. Oke went with him
to prevent any trouble, which left Lilong alone with the blacksmith.
At some point, a helper—a child, really—appeared and joined him.
Perhaps a grandchild of his? It reminded Lilong of her own daa, of
her being his apprentice of sorts from a young age. She wondered if
this child would feel like they needed to become a blacksmith too
when they grew up. Anything to continue the work their daa had
begun, right?
Danso and Oke returned victorious with a jar of water, though
Thema was becoming fussy again. Oke tried to calm her with a quick
cloth bath, but it was only a temporary reprieve. Luckily, the
blacksmith was almost done.
“Told you is a bad time to travel with baby,” he said, grunting as
he replaced the wheel. “Dangerous out there. If not bandits, then
wild beasts. You hear about the new ones?” When no one asked, he
pressed on anyway. “They all over the savanna now, driving native
animals out. Nobody knows where they come from, but they travel
in packs. You go far enough, you find them near the little hills. Tall
as antelope, teeth like a half dozen leopards. They call them genge
—it’s how the children say monster.”
Danso chuckled. The man shot him a glance. “Something funny?”
“No…?” He glanced at Lilong, who was frowning at him. What are
you doing?
“Well, you laugh now, but I tell you—you see those isolated hills
out there, you run.” He paused. “I did not ask—east or west?”
“Sorry?”
 “Where are you going—west to Chugoko, or east to wilderness?”
“West,” Oke interjected, too quickly, so that any discerning ear
would know it was a lie. But the blacksmith was focused on finishing
up the wheel.
“Then the genge are not your problem,” he said. “Worry about
the Red Emperor’s peace officers.”
Now that raised concern. Lilong rose, and everyone else perked
up.
“Are there… peace officers out here?” Oke prodded, cradling the
child to her body and bobbing up and down.
“Oh yes,” said the man, rising and dusting his palms, done with
the task. “Not here, but they ply these roads today, all of them
headed west. The travelling youngsters say there is an edict, say the
Red Emperor has sent pigeons and recalled every peace officer to
Chugoko.”
Lilong blinked. “The Red Emperor is in Chugoko?”
“Holding court after some disturbance,” said the man. “They say
she arrive with a monstrous beast—fearsome, just like the genge,
but ten men tall and serpent-like.” The man shook his head. “First
we hear of undead soldiers, now we hear of fearsome beast.
Whatever she gathers these brutal elements for, it can never be
good.” He shaded his eyes, glanced at the sun overhead. “You leave
now, maybe you are fifty, a hundred paces behind the last officers
that passed.”
If we were headed west, thought Lilong. Heading east—they
would be running right into the next cohort.
Lilong was already moving, as was Oke, who pulled out copper
pieces to pay the man. “Thank you for your service,” she said,
gesturing toward Thema, who continued to protest, “but we have to
get her somewhere cooler.”
The travelwagon was sturdier than Lilong remembered it, when
they crammed in and Alaba took the reins. But she wasn’t thinking
about its sturdiness. She was thinking about if she was strong
enough to wield ibor. She flexed her consciousness to test, see if she
was replenished. The ibor in her arm responded, eager, but her
teeth chattered in disagreement, her body closed to such power.
 Too late, thought Lilong, as they charged out of the hamlet.
Ahead, the Lonely Roads East were no longer lonely. A pillar of
dust, tall enough to be seen from afar, clouded the horizon. And in
front of that cloud, through the high noon haze, Lilong counted
three figures on kwagaback.
 Lilong

The Lonely Roads East

Sixth Mooncycle, 16, same day

THEMA BEGAN TO CRY.

“Ready your power,” said Lilong to Oke.
The other woman’s eyes narrowed in disagreement as she tried
to calm the wailing child. Alaba, in the driver’s seat outside, leaned
over to speak into the wagon.
“What’s the plan? Should we turn around?”
“They’ve already seen us,” said Lilong. “We’ll just have to
prepare.” She returned to Oke. “Your power—we’re going to need it.”
“Mine?” Oke asked. “What happened to yours?”
“I’m not replenished.”
“Can’t you use the blade without ibor?”
The cloud of dust had thinned, but only because the peace
officers had spotted them now and had slowed. Their kwagas
remained spread across the width of the road, blocking off all paths.
They clearly intended to get the travelwagon to stop one way or
another.
“No mouthpiece,” Ugo said suddenly. “If they stop us, they will
not be asking the usual questions.”
True, when they looked, Lilong saw that it was just the three
peace officers travelling alone. Whatever thoughts their group had of
explaining their way out of this were gone. They had one choice,
and that choice was to face the peace officers head-on. If they were
to survive, there was no room for hesitation.
Thema’s cries filled the wagon.
“Ready. Your. Power,” Lilong hissed at Oke. “Now.”
“I’m not…” The Bassai woman suddenly looked timid, a look that
did not fit her at all.
“What?”
“I’m not ready.”
“What? What does that mean?”
The peace officers were close enough for their features to be in
view—tall, even on kwagaback. Well armoured. Well armed.
“I never learned how to combat,” said Oke. “Jaoudou, he never
got around to teaching me that.”
Lilong couldn’t believe her ears. “So you’re only a Grey
Iborworker for tricks?”
“They’re almost here,” Ugo was saying.
Lilong glanced at her single blade. Five people and a baby. She’d
never make it. She could choose to protect just herself and Danso,
but it would weigh on her if something happened to the others.
Especially the baby. But she had to do something.
She gritted her teeth and gripped the hilt of her blade. I guess I’ll
just have to take my chances.
The peace officers were already upon them, their sewn lips,
bloody and swollen, visible from this distance. They had still not
given way for the travelwagon to pass.
Lilong gripped the hilt of her blade, knuckles shiny.
“Pull aside and stop,” Oke said suddenly.
“What?” all in the wagon chorused.
But Oke was already slamming the roof, yelling the instruction to
Alaba. Then she turned the jar of water she and Danso had just
fetched and emptied its contents onto the floor.
“What are you doing?” Lilong whispered, aghast.
“Trust me,” said Oke, then paused. “You do trust me, yes?”
Absolutely not, thought Lilong, but it was too late, because the
wagon was slowing down and pulling aside.
The peace officers responded accordingly, slowing to a stop just
as their travelwagon rolled to the roadside. Then they stalled, seated
atop their kwagas as if waiting for them to make the first move.
Alaba, outside, did not move either. Lilong imagined he was trying
his possible best not to look at them, not to invite a question or,
worse yet, an action.
“Crouch low, cover your head,” Oke said to Lilong and Danso.
“Sheath your blade, stash it. No one speak a word.”
With that, she pushed open the window and poked her head
outside, then began yelling, greeting the peace officers.
But at the same time, she lifted Thema ahead of her, into the sun
that was now angling into the travelwagon, so that it shone in the
baby’s face. Thema burst out in fresh tears, straining her lungs and
coughing.
“Water!” Oke was shouting over Thema’s cries. “Water! My baby
—she needs water, but we have none. We are looking for the
nearest settlement, but maybe… maybe you could share some of
yours? Maybe you could… help us?”
This woman will get us killed! Lilong, who had begrudgingly
stashed her weapon, now searched for it in the dark on the floor.
This was her plan—asking for help from peace officers? From peace
officers!
There was a thud, the crunch of boots on the ground. Lilong
could not look up, her head covered. But she felt Oke flinch.
Everyone in the wagon felt it too—Ugo retreated farther into the
corner in which he sat, and Danso wrapped his wrapper tighter,
covering his complexion.
The smell of dust and sweat flooded the travelwagon’s interior.
Then came darkness, as a shadow blocked the ray of light streaming
into the wagon. Lilong’s hand, which had just found the hilt to her
blade, stilled.
The man standing there was not looking at Oke or the crying
baby, even as they blocked his view. His eyes were fixated on the
inside of the wagon, flitting from Lilong to Danso to Ugo. He leaned
back and looked up, presumably to Alaba in the driver’s seat, then
his eyes returned to inside the wagon.
Lilong’s fingers wrapped around her blade. She dipped into her
consciousness, trying once again to touch ibor. It responded, but her
body recoiled, anxious at the promise of injury.
Thema screamed bloody murder into the peace officer’s face.
“Water, sir,” Oke was saying, the empty jar now in her other hand.
“Water.”
The man looked at Lilong, cocked his head so he could see her
face properly. She half turned away, offering a choreographed
nervous smile, mimicking a shy bride, hoping it paid off. It seemed
to, as he turned his face toward Danso, who, luckily, sat farther
inside the wagon and behind Ugo, so the complexion of his hands
was not as visible.
“Water, sir,” said Oke, shoving the jar into the man’s face. “Water.”
The man stepped back and swung an arm. Lilong almost moved,
before the sound of the jar tumbling on the ground outside told her
what had happened. She looked up, and the jar was gone from
Oke’s hand.
“Hmm,” the man said, then turned and walked away. A moment
later, the sound of hooves filled the wagon, and dust filtered in.
Then all was still, and everyone could breathe again.
Except for Thema, of course, who was still crying.
“Oh shhh, dear one, shhh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Oke held the child
close to her body. Ugo quickly snapped out of it, reached for a
previous damp cloth, which was already drying, and handed it to
Oke.
“Maa promises never to use you like that again, okay?” Oke was
saying to her baby, who was beginning to quiet down. “I promise, I
promise.”
The travelwagon rocked as Alaba came down and opened the
door. His hands shook, but he worked hard to contain it.
 “Everybody fine?” he asked.
“Hearts in our mouths,” said Oke, “but good.”
“That could’ve gotten us all killed,” Lilong said.
“We survived, didn’t we?” Oke said. “That’s all that matters.”
Alaba, after retrieving the discarded jar and handing it to Oke,
climbed back into the driving seat. The Bassai woman’s eyes flared
grey, and the water on the floor of the travelwagon rose in stringy
drops and made its way back into the jar.
Lilong scoffed. “So that you can do.”
Oke wrinkled her nose, then began to sing quietly, rocking
Thema. The travelwagon got moving again, slowly this time. After a
moment, Oke leaned toward Lilong and whispered:
“You never answered.”
Lilong frowned. “Answered what?”
“Whether you trust me or not.”
I don’t trust anyone, thought Lilong. Not anymore. But to Oke,
she said: “Try anything like that again, and you’re on your own.”
 Nem

Bassa: The Breathing Forest

Sixth Mooncycle, 23

THE GHOST APE WAS twice the size of the heftiest among the
hunthands that encircled the cage, sticking spears in to keep it calm.
The spears had the opposite effect, causing it to lunge into the iron
bars instead, rattling the cage, quaking the ground, jarring Nem’s
teeth. But that was not what caused her agitation. Each time the
ape touched something, its colours—the salt-white of its fur, the grey
of its eyes, the pink of its underbelly, the yellow of its teeth—all
rippled. First they became a rainbow, a crashing wave of every
colour imaginable, a sight that turned the eyes and the brain. Then,
they changed, became one with the iron, so that the Ghost Ape and
the iron bars and black floors melded into one and became
indistinguishable. Blink, and one wouldn’t even know the Ghost Ape
was still in there, camouflaged, invisible. Not until a hunthand poked
in its general direction, and the beast roared back into being, all
white rage and snarling yellow teeth.
An ape that was also a chameleon. Nem had heard the legends,
but never in a thousand seasons would she have thought she’d ever
see one in the flesh.
“I cannot believe I’m saying this,” said Elder Yao the scholar,
placed in temporary charge of security assignments in Igan’s
absence. “But it seems the emperor’s giant serpent may be the least
of our problems.”
“Perhaps,” said Nem. “But tell me this isn’t why you brought me
out to the edge of the Breathing Forest? Because you already know
the answer to this question.” She pointed to the furious ape. “That
thing can’t make it into the city. Not while all is so… unbalanced right
now.”
“Yes, I know,” said Yao. “But—there’s more.”
He led her away from the clangor and towering bamboos, toward
another part of the forest threshold, accompanied only by both their
Seconds. As they went, he filled her in on how a hunthand posse
had happened upon the beast. Apparently, while chasing an
unrelated bounty, each hunthand they had sent in this direction,
they had lost. When the rest finally arrived here, they were sure
none of the previous men had made it into the forest, because all
their weapons were found at the edge. So they had sat in wait for a
night, and only then did they finally spot the Ghost Ape appearing
from within, bathed in Menai’s fiery light and no longer invisible to
the naked eye. It had been attempting to go somewhere, cross the
city, but had hesitated, perhaps fearful of running into people.
It was hard work, capturing it. Several people had been wounded
in that affair. But the men soon learned that the beast, although
strange, was not responsible for the disappearance of their
comrades. There was something even more menacing at play.
Yao finally arrived at an area of the threshold away from the
bamboos, this one populated by plantain trees. Or at least it looked
like there used to be bamboos, but the plantains had somehow
taken over.
“Show her.” He gestured to his Second.
The young woman—recently promoted to Potokin—hesitated
before placing a hand into her wrappers and producing a small
agama lizard. She placed the lizard in the grass and let it wander
toward the trees, which had begun to sway gently.
“What’s this?” asked Nem.
“Just… watch,” he said.
The agama, glad to be free, headed for the forest cover. As if
sensing its approach, the trees around it began to sway even more,
broad leaves excited.
It took Nem a moment to realise there was no breeze against her
cheek.
The trees were moving.
Not with limbs, or roots, but with a shamble, a slow sideways
shift as if on hurt buttocks. Nem saw the farthest of them drag earth
in their wake, slinking forward like earthworms, not quick in any
sense of the word, but not particularly slow, especially for the
unsuspecting.
“What—”
Then she saw the bones scattered in the grass. Disparate but
unmistakably human—thighs, arms, fingers, toes, a skull. All clean of
flesh or tissue, white and unstained by blood, as if buried for a long
time and then exhumed. Except they were still fresh, as evidenced
by the flies gathered about them. Beside them lay the weapons Yao
had spoken about: two blades, a spear, one shield.
The lizard, unperturbed, climbed over the shield, over the bones,
and continued to make its way forward. Then, just when it was a
few feet away from the nearest tree, it stopped.
Perhaps the lizard felt the same way Nem did: eyes peeled, hair
raised, awaiting any sign of movement.
In a flash, the plantain trees opened up, and they were no longer
plantain trees, but an endless mass of thorns and tentacles and
teeth, green and red and black, hissing, lunging. The lizard dodged
the first stem that came at it, slipped past the second, but was not
fast enough, not far away enough. The third tree caught it in a vise
grip with a stem extending from its broad leaf—spindly as rope,
strong as an arm—and plucked it from the grass. The lizard,
wriggling, disappeared down a black teeth-lined throat, and the tree
closed up slowly, trembling, digesting. Every other tree near it did
the same, and soon all was back to stillness, and the threshold
before them was filled with ordinary plantain trees again.
“Fire of Menai,” Satti whispered.
“Remarkable, isn’t it?” said Yao, who seemed to be enjoying this.
“Apparently, they started out somewhere within the forest—there’s a
trail of bones behind them that, if we follow, can tell us their initial
location. But somehow, they’ve migrated this far, as if, like the Ghost
Ape, they’re going somewhere.”
In reply, the tree that had just swallowed the lizard shuddered,
then opened up the throat in the middle of its stem and spat forward
small, uncrushed bones: a head, a tail, ribs, a spine.
Nem remained fixed, her mind spinning like a textile mill. Her
hands shook. She clasped them together. What is happening to this
land? Gigantic beasts, trees that ate people, the natural order of
things turned on their head. What else was next?
“Speak no word of this,” Nem said, but Yao was already shaking
his head.
“Too late. The hunthands have told the families of those who died
by it, and they in turn have spoken to neighbours, friends. The
Ghost Ape we can hide away, but this one—”
“The ape dies today,” said Nem with finality. “Moons, you people
cannot be the death of me.” She beckoned to Satti to push her back
to the travelwagon. She did not want to stay here for one moment
longer.
“Any panic?” she asked as they went past the ape’s cage. “From
those who have learned of this?”
“Not so far,” said Yao. “It still sounds like myth and legend to
them, I think. But I heard the hunthands talking, and they say many
believe it is the emperor’s actions that have angered the moon
sisters. Now our land is being punished, becoming hard to live in.”
Nem sighed. If only they were right—but also, if only they were
wrong.
“Destroy it, all of it,” said Nem. “Let us return to what is
important.”
“And for those who have learned of it?”
 “They will forget. It is myth, after all.”
Yao put a finger in his ear, squeezed. “Perhaps it is best to get in
front of this—”
“And show them what, an empty throne?” Nem shook her head.
“Just do your job. Get the best civic guards from every ward down
here and let them all stand there until you cut down every single one
of those barbaric monstrosities. Then you burn it all, you hear? I
don’t care how long or how much it takes, but you make sure
they’re all dead. We cannot lose control of our land to just about
anything that tries to take it.”
Yao lifted a finger. “A problem with that, First Consul.”
“What?”
“The emperor, before leaving, allocated most civic guard
resources to the porous portions of the border. To stem the
migration tide, Igan told me, but also to aid the fixing of areas in
disrepair. If I pull the best available here now, civic guard numbers
in the city proper will be… thin.”
“Then just recruit more,” said Nem. “Do I have to explain your job
to you?”
“A small matter there, too, First Consul. It seems not as many are
as interested in working for the guard as they once were. Whispers
have proliferated about the emperor’s trip, how detrimental it has
been for the civic guard squadrons hand-picked to follow. Many now
consider the role of civic guard quite dangerous, and are not as keen
to join. We simply don’t have the numbers—and we sure don’t have
the time to train them.”
Nem shook her head. This was just unending, wasn’t it?
“Fine,” she said. “Reallocate some from border to here. For now.”
“Are you sure?” asked Yao. “Several locations are in mid-repair.
They will become vulnerable if we do.”
“Does the border sound like a priority to you right now?” Nem
asked, exasperated. “Elder Yao, if you can’t do this job, just tell me
so, and I’ll find someone else to do it.”
“Yes, First Consul. I’m just concerned that—”
“There will be no border to be concerned about if we all get
eaten before then,” she said. “Get to work.” She started to roll away,
then added: “And once you’re done with these monsters, you keep
those civic guards here. I want them standing watch, day and night.
Nothing leaves that forest and makes it into this city, you
understand? Nothing.”
She returned to the travelwagon, riding all the way back to the
Great Dome in silence, engrossed in her thoughts. She recalled
Esheme’s stories from her journey south, the capture of the Ninki
Nanka. And now, this. Whatever this was, it wasn’t happening just
here—it was happening all over the continent, and it was moving
fast.
Worst possible time for an emperor to be away from her empire.
Back in the Great Dome, she immediately headed for her private
workchamber and sent for Basuaye. Soon, there was a soft knock on
the door, and the gaunt man bowed in.
“Rough outing?” he asked.
“Understatement.” Nem waved him to a seat. “Where are we on
dialogue with the factions?”
The old man sighed, shook his head. “Trying my best. Networks
are not what they used to be. I find more people these days are
sceptical of anything that looks like a friendly hand.” He leaned
forward. “But I have heard… things.”
He told Nem of eavesdropping on Mawuli, Ebrima, and Inyene’s
conversations about their respective merchantry, farming, and
craftworking guilds. Apparently, whispers had made way to their ears
that, for some reason, a flurry of hinterlanders had begun travelling
northward and entering Bassa through Fifteenth Ward. After what
Nem had just seen in the Breathing Forest, she had an inkling about
what the reason might be.
“They say the new splinter factions are welcoming them with
open arms, convincing them to join their cause,” said Basuaye. “Your
advisors fear that with numbers bolstered, and with discontent rising
so, they could rebel, try to feed the emperor her own hand and do
what she did: march on the Great Dome.”
They wouldn’t dare, Nem wanted to say, but thought: Why
wouldn’t they? The emperor wasn’t even here.
“We are running out of time,” Nem said, leaning back in her chair.
“We cannot wait on the goodwill of those factions anymore. Either
they meet with us now, or we make a proactive move.”
Basuaye angled his head. “I would say it’d be unwise to push too
hard.”
“This is not about pushing hard. New forces arise every day that
may destabilize this empire, by action or inaction. We continue like
this, and this Great Dome will not last until the emperor’s return.”
She leaned forward. “We must find a way to corral whatever’s
kindling in the outer wards and douse water over it, or it will sooner
burn us all down.”
Basuaye nodded. “Okay.”
“Take whatever you must, find whoever you must,” Nem ordered.
“And don’t come back until you’ve succeeded.”
 Basuaye

Bassa: Fifteenth Ward

Sixth Mooncycle, 24

BASUAYE EMERGED FROM THE travelwagon, shut his eyes, and inhaled
deeply.
With this came the smells and sounds of Fifteenth, all of which he
could still recognise, despite being away for so many mooncycles.
After-work sweat and roadside urine. Beans and rice fried in palm
oil. Call-and-response music accompanied by foot stomps and hand
claps.
“Wait here,” he said to his Second, a wiry page assigned to him
from the Great Dome. The boy—a Yelekuté—frowned.
“I beg your pardon, Elder, but I was advised that in the absence
of civic guards, I am to ensure you are—”
“I am advising you,” Basuaye said, “to do as I say. If you don’t
understand why I have not brought civic guards along, then you’re
not worthy of this conversation.”
 He turned to the four people behind him: the two Tombolo Elders
and two hinterland Elders that Nem had recently sworn into the
Great Dome’s court alongside him. After learning about the incoming
hinterlanders and coastlanders warming up to the factions, Basuaye
had decided to bring them along. He suspected their presence might
make a difference, persuade the faction leaders that not everyone
was on the side of their cause. Weaken their resolve before putting
forth the First Consul’s propositions.
“No speaking,” he said to the four in Mainland Common. “Not
even when asked.”
“So we are wrappers?” one asked. “Put on to make you look
good?”
“No speaking,” Basuaye repeated. “Starting now.”
As they headed for the meeting point, Basuaye went over his
preparations to meet this leader of the largest splinter faction. After
the murder of his generals, then his capture and imprisonment, the
coalition lost all its appeal. Each leader who tried to revive it failed,
causing it to splinter further. There was no enemy to fight anymore,
because its very purpose—returning to the days of emperors—had
been achieved.
But this new leader had somehow created a new purpose, and
many flocked to it.
Basuaye knew nothing about him. All he had was a name given
by his informants—Ifiot. None of his old connections could offer
more information, other than that Ifiot and his followers were not as
confrontational as the original coalition, and had so far organised
nothing public. But each informant had been very clear about one
thing: This new resistance group was irate and unpredictable, and
seemed ready to take on anything they deemed detrimental to their
progress. Even the emperor herself.
As they went on, he noticed that Fifteenth had indeed changed
much. More people and languages than he remembered, and the
ward now seemed to have sprawled into what was once the outskirts
of Bassa. Even the housing styles were different, with more
ramshackle abodes and fewer built with an eye on permanence, no
doubt influence from the incoming population.
 A member or two of his group attempted to extend greetings to a
fellow hinterlander or coastlander they ran into, but Basuaye
stopped them short.
“Focus!” he said. “The people we are meeting are discreet and
dangerous. We do not want to announce our presence before we
arrive.”
He navigated densely packed streets with the group, wrapper
cloaks draped over their heads to avoid recognition. Recognition
would be bad—it would mean his return being perceived as some
sort of homecoming, flying in the face of his mission here. It did feel
odd, he would admit, to be on the other side of the fence, fighting
for the once-enemy. But at least he wasn’t concerned with
destruction. Of most interest here was diplomacy, which thankfully
left everyone alive. In a way, in fact, he was doing the same thing he
had been trying to do as coalition leader: making sure everyone got
what they sought.
Soon, he arrived at the establishment in which he had been
instructed to wait. It was a public house, but was not yet open for
business at this time of evening. A peek inside showed him it was
mostly empty, and no music played.
He went in with his group, and they sat down. A couple of people
sat around and chatted, waiting for the place to open up. None paid
them any attention.
After a short moment, the housekeep came over to Basuaye, laid
down a piece of cloth, and walked away. Basuaye read the message,
rose, and followed the directions: past the counter, through the back
door, into the corridor.
A man stood in the shadows. Upon sighting Basuaye and his
party, he began moving away. Basuaye followed, familiar with this
pattern, one he had in fact designed himself. He couldn’t help
smiling, proud of his achievements.
After a few turns, the man disappeared under some thatch.
Basuaye and his people followed, and soon found themselves
squeezing through a narrow yard and a doorway.
A door slammed behind them and pitched the room into
darkness. A spark struck, a char cloth set aflame, and a lantern was
lit.
There were six people in the room. Basuaye took in the faces:
three men, three women. All youthful, all bearing accusatory gazes,
all wearing the pomp of their passion like blades. The man who’d led
him here disappeared into an inner room.
One of the women—an Emuru, from her complexion—stepped
forward. She was the only one who hadn’t been seated, perhaps
being the only armed person in the room, a long spear strapped to
her back. She wore her hair short, much like many in Fifteenth, but
kept the decorations of cowrie and beads regardless, sewn into
individual dangling plaits. She also wore a healthy amount of
facepaint. Looking at her, Basuaye decided she was not a fighter at
all. She was a regular citizen who did not forget to look well-dressed
and presentable, and who possibly had a gift of speech much similar
to his.
“I am Ifiot,” she said.
Basuaye frowned. “I was told—”
“You were told wrong, Cockroach,” said the woman.
“Ah, my sincere apologies,” he said. “I would introduce myself,
but it seems you already know who I am.”
“Not only do I know who you are, Cockroach,” Ifiot said, “but we
all knew you would come.”
Basuaye nodded. Perhaps he had been hasty to attribute her
charged aura to that of passion mixed with inexperience. What she
really was was zealous, which was its own thing, and even more
dangerous.
“May I sit?” he asked, pointing to a nearby array of chairs. Before
she could answer, he sat and waved his group to do the same. He
crossed his arms, his way of reminding himself—and them—who was
in control of the meeting.
“You look well-fed and rested,” said Ifiot, “for someone who was
only recently let out of prison.”
“Our people say: A bird that perches on an anthill is still very
much on the ground. I have only perched, my dear Ifiot. The ground
that supported me before my capture is still there, only now it is an
anthill.”
 “That should be the last time you call me dear,” said Ifiot. “If you
do it again, you will not have a tongue with which to speak.”
Basuaye cocked his head. “Again, forgive me, I mean no
disrespect. I came here with the understanding that we would
engage in friendly camaraderie.”
“That word, friend, does not exist between us,” said Ifiot. “You
are a coward who abandoned your people in their time of need. And
now you come back here, dressed in the colours of the enemy.”
“There are no enemies in Bassa. Only parties with competing
priorities.”
“You use their language too, don’t you?” Ifiot chuckled, and
everyone else in the room chuckled with her. They stopped when
she did.
“At least the new emperor does not mince words like you do,”
Ifiot continued. “She is clear with her aims in the same way we plan
to be clear with ours.”
“And what are those, your aims?”
“Your ears are not worthy,” said Ifiot. “We will only speak them to
worthy ears.”
“Like?”
“Like the emperor herself.”
Basuaye chuckled. “I hate to disappoint you, but the emperor will
be out of earshot for quite a while. I am the closest thing to an
audience you get.”
Ifiot smiled a wry smile, unstrapped the spear from behind her,
leaned it on the wall nearby, and finally sat down. Now Basuaye felt
like he was making progress.
“Perhaps you judge us by the same indicators you have judged
yourself,” she said. “This is the first place you are wrong, Cockroach.
You failed, during your time as leader of your coalition, to gain the
attention of the Idu and their cohort. Yet that is all you were—an
attention-seeker. We have bigger ambitions.”
“How so?” asked Basuaye. “No one knows who you are or what
you’re doing. No one knows you.”
“Again, you only perceive through the lens of attention, of
performance. We do not aim to perform. We aim to do.”
 “Do what?”
She shrugged. “What else do a downtrodden people fight for? We
no longer want to be the grass upon which the elephants trample.
We want to be the elephant.”
“How are you downtrodden?” asked Basuaye. “Any sensible lips
would proclaim that, in fact, the Red Emperor has liberated us all.
She fought for this empire under the banner of the very same
coalition you claim to represent.”
“There you sit, wearing the finest wrappers, telling us, who sit
over here in wrappers that cannot keep the cold away at night, who
is downtrodden and who isn’t.” Ifiot scoffed. “You call us liberated,
but look around this ward. Have our abodes changed? Have our
occupations? Have our circumstances? You look at us and still see
Emuru, look at people like your Second and think: Potokin,
Yelekuté.” She pointed to the Elders he had arrived with. “You stand
with them at this meeting, but do you stand with them outside this
room? Is there a soul in this city, you included, who will welcome
hinterlanders and coastlanders and swamplanders, who will let them
mingle in the city with us?”
Basuaye wondered how she knew what his Second looked like.
They must have had him followed for much longer than he’d
thought.
“Not a soul,” Ifiot pressed. “But we will.”
Basuaye frowned. “You will what?”
“Welcome them,” she said. “Once we destroy the Great Dome and
rid this continent of its artificial divisions: wards, protectorates,
fences—all of it.”
Basuaye blinked. “You cannot be serious.”
Ifiot blinked back. “Dreams are serious things, Cockroach. We
dream of a republic of nations, succeeding together with mutual
respect, trade, and development. We hope to achieve this dream.
And we do not need a redeemer to lead us there. We will do it as we
plan to rule it—by council.”
“And what council is this?”
“Does it matter? We will not have a name, because we do not
need one.”
 “Listen,” said Basuaye. “You are but a few. You will need
hundreds more to join you before the emperor gets wind of your
activities and sends any one of her forces after you: beast, Soldiers
of Red, peace officers, civic guards—take your pick.”
“Well.” Ifiot rose and cocked her head. “Our ancestors say: You
do not wash your hands with spittle when you lie by the stream. We
have chosen to wash our hands in the stream.”
A strike, and the brief brightness of a char cloth flame lit up the
inner room. The doorway, which had been dark all this time, became
illuminated once the lamp was lit. Then the man who had led
Basuaye emerged, and after him came another figure.
The sheer height of the person caused Basuaye himself to rise.
Basuaye was a tall man, but this person was at least a head taller,
and not as lanky. When Basuaye had looked in the room and seen
youthful zealots, he had deemed them unable to grasp the extremes
they might need to go to in order to achieve what they wanted.
These children had never killed a person in their lives.
The man standing before him had. Basuaye was sure of it.
He was dressed in clothes that Basuaye had never seen, and his
skin was darker than the darkest Idu Basuaye had ever set eyes
upon. Judging by the decorative marks etched into his face and the
large pieces of jewellery hanging from his ears, this man had never
seen this side of the mainland before either. He stood barefoot, two
hands folded behind him, and it was clear this was a person who
understood power in all its manifestations, and knew exactly how to
use it.
“Who…” Basuaye, for the first time in a long while, found words
failing him.
“Perhaps I should offer you another wise word from our
ancestors,” said Ifiot. “Do not start a fire in a dry forest, because you
never know what may catch.” She pointed to the man standing in
front of them. “Your emperor, upon deciding that every land the sun
touches is hers, ventured into the delta swamps and started a fire by
capturing the Ninki Nanka. The one beast who, for decades, was
revered by every swamplander for being the reason the seas did not
overrun the swamps and all who lived there. But she wanted power
so much that she took away the one thing that kept all the peoples
of the delta settlements in the swamplands. Kept them from leaving,
yes, but also kept them from dying. Now, thanks to your emperor,
the swamplanders must find a new home, before the seas find
them.” Ifiot cocked her head. “You know what this means, yes? For
the first time in hundreds of seasons, the peoples of the delta
settlements have been given reason to venture inland. And venture
inland they have.”
Basuaye glanced over the man, his heart rate increasing. A
swamplander? In Bassa?
“You are… from the delta settlements?” he asked the man.
“He doesn’t speak our languages,” Ifiot said. “And we will not be
translating for you because your ears are of no use to us.”
“Just tell me what you want. We can always find a way to discuss
this.”
“I have told you. Were you not listening?”
“You can’t seriously want to gather warriors from all over the
mainland and bring them to Bassa?”
“Why not? Your emperor seems to think it is a winning strategy.”
She pointed to the Tombolo and hinterland Elders beside him. “Are
they not from your court?”
“Yes, but—” Basuaye breathed deeply, calmed himself. “You do
not want to start a war with Bassa.”
“No, we do not,” said Ifiot. “We want to start a funeral for the
empire.”
Basuaye felt all the fight slowly leave his body. Now he
understood what he had been told. These were not people to be
reasoned with. These were people driven by something that could
not be satiated by dialogue. These were, as he had been truly
forewarned, people driven by rage alone.
“Okay, okay,” said Basuaye. “I will take your message back to the
emperor. Is there anything else you would like me to tell her?”
Ifiot smiled, clicked her tongue, and the swamplander moved. Not
a lot of steps, but enough to reach the spear leaning on the wall. He
grabbed it, and in the same swift motion, turned and hurled it at
Basuaye.
 Basuaye did not feel pain when the spear impaled his chest, or
drove him into the wall and pinned him there, in the corner of the
room. All he could feel was the pounding in his ears, his vision
failing, his senses straining to catch what they could. His heart beat
faster and faster, trying to keep him alive. Blood welled up in his
throat, and he coughed it out, pouring over his lips, his tongue
struggling to translate what it was tasting—metal? salt? bitters?
Ifiot went over to the alarmed Elders and spoke to them.
Basuaye, senses failing, could catch only snatches of the words: tell
your people… something big… us or Bassa… no in-between.
Then Ifiot turned to him, sidling up to where he was pinned. He
could only see her out of what was left of his peripheral vision,
fading as fast as his heart. She leaned in close, so that her breath
was like a flame in his ear.
“As I said,” Ifiot whispered, “we do not speak to ears unworthy.
But if you must give the emperor a message when she joins you in
the skies, tell her this: We want her to know that it was the
Nameless faction that did it.”
 Lilong

The Lonely Roads East

Sixth Mooncycle, 25–26

CAMPING IN THE OPEN savanna at night was a perilous endeavour. There

was always something seeking a next meal, and not all of them were
afraid of people. Ugo, who had spent some time with animal trainers
in Chugoko, explained that the wild leopards were the least of their
worries, as they didn’t attack people except when their usual prey
became scarce. The most dangerous animals here, Ugo said, were
not predators, but insects like mosquitoes and pilferers like hyenas.
Regardless, Lilong insisted on barricading the party—travelwagon
on one side, kwagas on the other—to form an enclosed camp. But
even then, it was impossible to sleep soundly. The savanna
mosquitoes, almost nonexistent during the day, intensified tenfold at
night, buzzing about with menace. A bite from one meant severe
fever and dehydration—and on the road, that was sure death. Alaba
had packed some repellent oil, but between the five of them, it
finished quickly. Luckily, Ugo knew a recipe of the eucalyptus leaf,
and that tree thrived in the savanna.
A pack of hyenas found their camp a few nights after the peace
officer encounter. They did not come close, but watched from afar in
coordinated groups, eyes lit, waiting for whoever was on watch to
doze off. When Danso and Alaba, both on watch, dozed off at the
same time, the hyenas converged. If not for Thema, who awoke
then and fussed, causing Ugo to wake and raise the alarm after
spotting red fiery eyes prowling the camp, all their supplies might
have been stolen.
Upon hearing the alarm, Oke rose, and her eyes turned grey
instantly. She pulled from the dying fire and batted the beasts back.
The hyenas scattered into the grass, laughing into the dark, embers
trailing after them. A quick assessment showed that they had done
little more than rummage through storage and pilfer some smoked
meat.
“Is this whole journey going to be like this?” Danso, ruffled,
asked.
“This is nothing,” said Oke. “Wait until we get to the real
wilderness.”
So far, they had not run into any new predators, save for the
night Ugo had spotted a puff adder slipping through the grass,
chasing after a rodent.
“Blacksmith was right,” said Ugo. “We should be seeing all these
animals, yes, but not all in the same place, and not all at once.”
“You think we’ll see—what did he call them, genge?” asked
Danso.
Ugo shrugged. “Maybe we look out for the little hills he spoke of.
As a precaution.”
For Lilong, surviving wild animals was the easier part of the trip.
She was yet to recover from the peace officer encounter, and found
herself irritated by Oke and her partners’ behaviours. The three
always found new ways to bicker, and Lilong couldn’t tell if it was
worse that the arguments were never really bitter or aimed at
inflicting harm. Just expressions of frustration here and there in the
manner of many romantic relationships. It raised tension among the
group, and everyone was forced to sit in the negative energy they
left behind, like pigs in shit.
Then, in the same manner of many romantic relationships, they
would reconcile and return to good relations by nightfall. That, in
fact, became the most annoying part of it all for Lilong, because said
apology and good relations would then lead to, well, really good
relations.
Nightfall today, for instance. They had come upon one of the
safest campsites they’d found in a while—higher ground—and could
finally let off their guard for a bit. After Oke and Alaba had largely
ignored each other the whole day due to the ever-present argument
that Oke should never have dragged her partners on this trip, Ugo
ended up playing peacemaker. After said mediation was over, Oke
came over to Lilong and attempted to hand Thema over. Just for a
moment, she said.
“Why?” Lilong snapped, eyeing the squirming child. “Because I’m
a woman or what?”
“I’ll take her,” said Danso, writing nearby.
Afterward, the three partners commandeered the unhitched
travelwagon for the specific purpose of vigorously exploring their
bodies. It was not their first time having sex on the road, but those
had been too-short moments stolen under sleeping packs,
attempting to whisper their moans so as not to wake Lilong and
Danso (it never worked—Lilong always heard them). Tonight,
however, they had given up all discretion and invested time and
energy in the act. Which was how it came to be that Lilong sat with
Danso, squirming child in his arms, while behind them, the
unhitched travelwagon rocked gently.
“They could have waited a few more days,” Lilong was saying.
“They could have had a proper bed and better privacy at the Weary
Sojourner.”
Danso shrugged. “Sometimes, the body just wants what it
wants.”
Lilong raised an eyebrow. “Ah, so your new best friends have
confided in you, have they?”
“Best friends?” Danso snorted. “Wait—don’t tell me you’re
jealous?”
“Jealous? What am I—a child?”
“No, jealous because you have no friends.”
Lilong winced, but Danso didn’t see it.
“Besides,” he continued, “bodily desires don’t go on holiday just
because our lives are in peril. Haven’t you heard the saying that in
wartime, all soldiers think of is sex and death? All I’m saying is that
it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Well, this savanna must be making me hear things,” Lilong said,
“because the mighty jali of Bassa did not just defend sex on the
open road.”
Danso laughed. “I’m just saying! Not everyone can be emperor of
restraint like you.”
For the second time, something he didn’t mean as an insult stung
Lilong anyway. She shifted in her seat.
“Is that what you really think of me?” she asked. “That I suppress
myself?”
Danso looked up from the child. “No, Lilong, I mean—” He pursed
his lips, searching for the right words. “I know you have your
particular way of… being. I just wonder—when you bear the weight
of responsibility for so long, it does something to a person, you
know? Easy to forget to listen to your body and mind when you put
yourself under so much pressure.”
“So, be like you, then. Go wherever my nose points.”
“Harsh!” he said, laughing. “But—I don’t know—is that so bad?”
He adjusted in his seat. “Okay, like this—when last did you think of
someone you’d like to, you know…” He angled his head. “Rock your
travelwagon.”
Lilong had indeed considered this, starting back in Chabo, where
there was no shortage of charming young men eager to take off her
wrappers. But no—her restraint was not because she did not enjoy
relations or companionship. It was because so much of her was still
not… hers. She had given all of herself over to something else, and
now that foundation was crumbling. She couldn’t also give herself
over to a person. Not until this was over. Not until she knew who she
was.
 “Contrary to your smelling opinion,” said Lilong, “I know what it is
to be loved.”
Danso’s eyes widened. “No lie?” He grinned. “Do tell!”
Lilong shook her head, thinking of Turay back home. When she
had conceded defeat, distanced herself from him, and chalked up
what they had to youthful infatuation, these actions had ended up
searing deep marks in her heart. And though both of them had
remained friends and continued to be around each other, she
believed Turay’s heart carried those same marks. Something
permanent had shifted between them.
Or maybe it was only permanent in her mind. Unlike her, Turay
was not quite the kind to bury himself so deeply into something that
he couldn’t be extricated from it. With him, a door was always open.
She wanted to believe—and a part of her truly did—that somewhere
in Namge, Turay was still there, waiting for an answer from her.
Lilong sighed. It’s for the best, she’d once convinced herself. But
as Danso said, sometimes, it was okay to go where your nose was
pointing. So right here, right now, she thought: If I get a second
chance, if we get home safe, if that door is still open—maybe I’ll
walk through it.
The travelwagon stopped rocking. A moment later, Ugo exited,
glancing at them sheepishly. Lilong and Danso snickered. Thema,
laughing with them, hiccuped, and a quarter of her last meal spilled
from her mouth and all over Danso.
“Moons!” Danso leaned over. “Hold her a moment while I get this
off.”
Lilong received the child. It was her first time holding Thema, and
the girl felt smaller than expected. Warm too. Comfy. She babbled,
as if happy about the mess she had caused. Lilong chuckled back at
her.
“What about you?” Lilong asked Danso as he wiped his wrappers.
“I’ve never heard you speak of anyone you fancy. Anyone outside of,
you know, her.”
He tilted his head. “I…” He stopped wiping his wrappers for a half
moment, then continued. “It’s complicated.”
Lilong did not press. There had to be some damage done to
anyone who had to endure being the intended of one of the most
ruthless emperors the continent had seen. She wouldn’t fault him if
he never again wanted to look at another person with interest.
Ugo came over and offered to relieve Lilong of the baby. Lilong
looked at Thema, now drifting into sleep, face tucked into the crook
of her arm. Warm. Comfy.
“Not yet,” replied Lilong. “Just a little while longer.”

The next day, they did not go far before spotting the first little hill. It
was an isolated cleft outcrop, whipped into shape by fierce, dry
winds. It stood out in the grassland like a thumbs up, surrounded by
a clump of vegetation that seemed greener than everything else
around it.
The group stopped, crouched in the grass, and waited.
Danso was the first to spot the pack of genge lazying about the
little hill. At first glance, they looked like the blacksmith had truly
said: tall as antelopes, darker than leopards, ears like a kwaga’s. But
that was where all the normal ended, and the ethereal and
otherworldly began.
They were spindlier than any four-legged creature Lilong had
ever seen. Velvety skin shimmered with each movement, but they
weren’t hairless—in lieu of fur, numerous strands of skin extended
from all over their bodies, sticking out like a cat’s whiskers, swaying
of their own accord, sensing the environment like a cockroach’s
antenna. The animals themselves moved in a manner that was
similarly confusing—slow and stately at first, then in quick bursts, as
if spooked, then slow again, each time iridescent.
Their mouths, when they opened them, were traps. There were
more teeth in there than Lilong believed any animal should be
allowed to have.
“Magnificent,” said Danso, when they first spotted the pack. He
reached into his wrappers for a stylus to draw with. Lilong put a
hand over his and shook her head slowly.
“They’re hunting,” she said.
Indeed they were, and their target seemed to be a wildcat, a
predator in its own right. But the genge did not look like they
understood or respected the natural order of things. One genge,
slightly bigger than the others, paced back and forth, shooting the
group glances whenever it could. The others followed suit, prancing
as it did.
“That’s a dominant,” said Ugo with conviction. “Looks like a
hunting vote.”
“How do you know?” asked Danso.
“Pack animals. They’re all the same.”
The dominant genge sneezed. The rest of the pack—about eight
in total—sneezed back in unison.
“Well,” said Ugo, “sorry to that wildcat.”
As he said it, the pack rose and charged at the wildcat, which first
attempted to stand its ground, then turned tail at the last moment.
But it was too late. The genge were faster than anything Lilong had
ever seen run. They didn’t even all need to chase the wildcat—they
simply seemed to enjoy doing so, as if toying with it. But toying or
not, soon, the wildcat was between those trap-like teeth, and then
there were only blood and intestines left.
“Where could they have even come from?” Alaba wondered
aloud. Oke, next to him, baby strapped to her back, was lost deep in
thought.
“I don’t know, but they surely don’t belong here.” Ugo pointed to
the little hill. “You know why they gather there? Stone hills like those
have crevices that trap water from the rainy season. Or at least
when there was still a proper rainy season in these parts.” He
massaged his chin. “These animals expect this place to be green,
maybe like it was back, I don’t know… four, five hundred seasons
ago?”
“You’re saying they’re from the past?” asked Danso.
Ugo shrugged. “I’m saying they think nothing has changed.”
They gave the little hill a wide berth, and Lilong thought they had
put the matter of the genge behind them. But at their next stop to
switch wagon drivers—Alaba for Ugo—Danso had a thought.
“The Diwi,” he said, cornering Lilong at the rear of the wagon,
where she was sorting rations for the forthcoming evening meal. “Is
your offer of practice still up?”
Lilong frowned. “I feel like I won’t like where this is going.”
“No, listen.” He sounded inspired. “We should go back. Get one of
them.”
“Get one of who?”
“The genge.”
Lilong stopped sorting. “Explain get.”
“You want me to find my way back to iborworking, yes? So,
instead of some harmless critter, we get the biggest predator in the
savanna. Imagine capturing one of those, Possessing it,
Commanding it.” His tone had become breathless, enchanted. “We
use it to protect us, like the Skopi. We make camp wherever we
want, sleep however long we like. We cut through any predator, any
peace officers. We get back on the open road, we cross the savanna
in no time.”
Lilong put away the rations and stared at Danso. Whoever this
was, it wasn’t the young jali she’d called out to for help in that
Bassai barn seasons ago. This was someone who said things like cut
through when they meant kill. This was someone who’d been so
racked by anger and loss that he couldn’t see how it was slowly
chipping away at who he used to be.
“I’m not sure we need a genge for… that.” She tried her best to
be gentle. “We can handle ourselves.”
“Oh, can we now? Is every band of peace officers going to fall for
the baby-in-your-face routine? We escaped by the skin of our teeth!”
“I’m replenished now. I can handle them.”
“At best, you’re still one against many, and that is still insufficient.
At worst, it means we die, Lilong. Enough people have died already,
don’t you think? I don’t want to die, Lilong. Not today, not on this
journey, not ever.”
He was sweating. She realised, now, that his situation was worse
than she’d thought. He seemed to have been doing all right since
before the heist. Something must have happened to take him back
to this place of gloom and recklessness.
Ah. It dawned on her now. Kubra. Witnessing such a brutal death
would leave a mark on any person.
“Kubra’s death was… unprecedented,” she said. “That will not
happen to anyone on this trip. Not while I’m here. I promise.”
“And if you aren’t? What then—we become helpless?” He shook
his head. “I’ve been helpless for too long, Lilong. I can’t do it
anymore. I need… something.” He pointed in the direction of the
isolated hill they’d left behind. “That’s something.”
Before he turned to leave, he said: “If you won’t help me, fine. I’ll
ask Ugo, and we’ll take a stab at the next pack we see.” He paused.
“Don’t try and stop me. I’ve already made up my mind.”
 Danso

The Lonely Roads East

Sixth Mooncycle, 27

UGO AND DANSO ROSE before daybreak and prepared to hike back to
the isolated hill they’d left behind, to see if the pack of genge was
still there. The night before, when Danso had broached the subject
to Ugo, he had nodded solemnly, squinting like a sage older brother,
before simply replying, “Say when.”
Under the twilight of dawn, they gathered every conceivable
weapon they could find without waking up the rest of camp. Danso
felt underprepared regardless. These were no ordinary beasts after
all. He’d been of a mind to steal the Diwi from Lilong and take it
along, just in case. But the pouch at her hip remained glued to her
body, even when she was asleep.
They were about to head out when Lilong suddenly appeared and
stood before them, bright-eyed, fully dressed, blade at the ready.
The stone-bone pouch was with her.
 “I told you I don’t want anybody to die,” she said. “And I meant
it.”
They set out without waking Alaba and Oke, instead leaving a
message in the sand: Gone hunting nearby, will be back before
noon. Then they began their trek.
The genge were still there when they arrived at the spot an hour
later. Or a genge—just one, lying in the grass and soaking in the
early morning sun. The rest of the pack was nowhere to be seen. It
was unclear if they were nearby, or if this one had been abandoned.
The trio surveyed the resting genge for another hour, lying in the
grass a distance from the outcrop, waiting to see if others came to
join. Nothing.
“If this isn’t a sign from the moon sisters, I don’t know what is,”
said Danso. “Best we strike now while the iron is still hot.”
Lilong, the dregs of her previous hesitation still lingering, sighed.
Danso had never seen her this reluctant to use iborworking. How
could one have access to something so great and be so hesitant
about employing it for a good cause? Now he realised how silly he
must’ve looked all this time, rejecting this power in favour of… what?
Sitting in a dark room and moping?
“It’s as I said,” she said finally. “I go alone. You two wait here.”
She didn’t even didn’t need to go too close to the genge. After
finding a good vantage point behind a nearby naboom plant, she
shut her eyes and unleashed her power.
The blade flew, clean and true, and sliced through the neck of the
animal. But it didn’t stop there. For assurance, she Commanded it to
strike certain spots: skull (in case it had a brain), upper torso (in
case it had a heart), all four knees (so it couldn’t walk even if it
lived), face (as a precaution). It was bloody, messy, and efficient.
All was silent in the savanna afterward, as Lilong trudged back to
where Danso and Ugo waited. She untied her pouch, retrieved the
Diwi—still wrapped in cloth—and handed it over to Danso.
“All yours,” she said.
Danso and Ugo approached the animal together. (Lilong opted
not to go. Seen enough death already, she said.) Up close, the
genge was much larger than he’d thought, almost kwaga-sized. Ugo
knelt next to it, plucked dry grass, and wiped the blood off the
beast’s snout.
“What a waste of something so beautiful,” he said.
“At least we can still get some use out of it,” said Danso, rolling
the bundle from one hand to another. “You’ve… never seen this,
have you?”
“Seen one resurrect a deceased being? No, I can’t say I have.”
Danso chuckled. “You might want to join Lilong. It’s not…
pleasant.”
Ugo surprisingly agreed, leaving Danso to slowly unwrap the
stone-bone. When his fingers brushed the bare ibor, it felt so cold,
so smooth, so old. Somewhere within his body, once-dormant senses
arose, but only in a trickle. The responses felt strange but familiar,
like reuniting with an old friend. This was the first time he was
touching it since they’d emerged from the Soke mountains, and it
returned to him a sense of confidence and control, a welcome
feeling he’d sorely missed.
He knelt in the grass, gripped the Diwi tight, and placed a palm
on the dead genge.
The stirrings of power within him began, but soon he realised
something was amiss. That was all they were—stirrings. They did
not grow into a rush of power as he’d expected, or overtake him and
bring him into being one with the animal. When he opened his eyes,
nothing had changed. The genge remained cold and dead in the
grass.
He tried again, and again, and again. Nothing. He stared at the
stone-bone, surprised, then rushed back to where Lilong and Ugo
lay in wait.
“Something is wrong,” he said, troubled. “I think the Diwi’s been
stolen.” He handed Lilong the heirloom. “I think this is a fake.”
Lilong received it with a frown and examined. “No, it’s the same.”
“Then why isn’t it working? I did everything like usual.”
Lilong looked from him to the stone-bone to the animal in the
distance. “I don’t know.”
“I can still feel the power and everything, but it’s like… it’s too far
and I can’t reach it.”
 “Or too small and you can’t grow it,” said Lilong.
“Exactly.” Danso paused. “Wait, so you know about this?”
Lilong gazed wistfully into the distance. “Not this. But I’ve seen
something… similar happen to warriors back home. A broken
connection between an Iborworker and their stones.”
“What was wrong with the stones?”
“Not with the stones, Danso. With the Iborworker.” She peered
into his eyes. “With you.”
That gave him pause.
“No,” he said. “No, no, no. We can’t have done this for nothing.”
He stepped forward. “How do I stop it? What do I need to change?”
“Nothing,” she replied. “In every situation I’ve witnessed, the
disconnection was always because something else was broken within
the person. Something else they needed to fix before the power
could find them.” She shrugged again. “The only way to surmount it
is to try and try again, until you find your way there.”
Danso could see that Lilong was doing her best to be gentle.
Once, he’d have appreciated that. But now, he hated it. He did not
need anyone’s pity. He just wanted to have some damn agency.
Moons, was that too much to ask?
“We should head back,” Ugo interjected. “The others will be
getting worried by now. And that dead beast will attract other
predators and pilferers, if not the rest of the pack itself.”
“Then we take it with us,” said Danso. He turned to Lilong. “Try
and try again, you said, right? That’s what I’ll do.”
“That is one heavy beast,” said Ugo. “I’m not sure we can travel
lightly with that.”
“Lightly, slowly, what does it matter,” said Danso. “We won’t make
it to our destination anyway if we don’t have better protection.”
Lilong was still silent, pondering. After a moment, she said, “Ugo
is right. We shouldn’t take that with us. But I understand what you
are going through, and I understand that there could be benefits to
this. It is reckless, foolhardy. It is going wherever your nose points.”
She paused. “But maybe sometimes we need that. I can’t say if this
is one of those times, but I’m willing to take this chance. For you.”
Danso was unsure if to say thank you or fuck you.
 “Consider it a favour,” she said. “Perhaps the last one I’ll do for
you in a while.”
Fuck you was more like it, then.

The genge, when they’d successfully lugged it back to camp,

surprisingly fit into the spacious rear of the travelwagon. Alaba and
Oke were at once alarmed and fascinated by what the group had
brought back, and were a bit surprised it was not meant to be food.
They rejoined the road, with Ugo driving and Alaba occupied with
Thema. Danso finally had something new to enter into his codex,
and was in the process of doing so when Oke brought everyone in
the travelwagon to attention.
“I’ve been pondering,” she said. “About where the genge came
from. And I think—I finally have a theory.”
“Go on,” said Lilong.
“Remember the Risisi plagues? From the tale?”
“I remember.” Though he didn’t need to, Danso flipped through
his codex to the place where he had documented The Cautionary
Tale of the Stone City of Risisi, as told to him by Oke over their trip.
He scanned the pages and read out the plagues in question for their
benefit.
“Plagues of dirt, fire, wind, water, and beasts.” He paused, his
eyes lighting up. “Beasts.”
“Exactly,” said Oke, conviction in her tone. “I think something has
happened in the seven islands.”
“Like what?”
“An event. A catalyst.”
Lilong sat up at the same time Danso did.
“I think someone has set off the plagues.”
By late evening, Ugo had found a suitable campsite. They set up
quickly and went straight to nighttime arrangements. Danso spent
most of the time in deep conversation with Oke. Both were equally
frenzied by the possibility that the genge were Risisi’s plague of
beasts come to life. What did this mean for the islands, for Bassa,
for Oon? What did this mean for their trip, for Jaoudou’s plans?
He found Oke to be a delightful intellectual companion. For the
first time in a while, he felt like a jali again, like he was back at the
university chatting with a fellow scholar—postulating, projecting,
scribbling. None of the others responded in a similar manner. Ugo
maintained a workmanlike, practical demeanour, while Alaba became
deeply invested in worrying about their fates. And Lilong—she simply
curled in a corner of the wagon, lost in her own head.
After Ugo and Alaba had put Thema to sleep, Oke made her way
over to where Danso was writing in his codex, and they continued
their discussion. Lilong emerged from the travelwagon, bleary-eyed.
She sat next to them, at first saying nothing. Then, after a while,
she cleared her throat.
“So,” she said.
Danso and Oke looked at one another.
“So,” Oke replied.
“It’s time,” she said, staring at Danso.
Danso blinked. “Time for what?”
“To show her the…” She angled her head.
“Oh. Are you… sure?”
Lilong turned to face Oke. “Did he trust you?”
“Who?”
“My daa. Did he trust you?”
Oke offered a wry, sad smile.
“He took hold of your family heirloom and rode for days to meet
me at the Weary Sojourner. I would say that takes trust.”
“And you trusted him too?”
“As much as I could.”
Lilong gave her a long look, then turned to Danso and nodded.
Danso shrugged, then reached into Lilong’s pouch, which he now
wore around his body. He pulled out the bunch of rags tied with
strips of cloth. Unwrapping them took a moment, but once done, he
set the Diwi carefully on the ground.
 Oke’s eyes lit up. Danso took this to mean that the woman
recognised the chunk of red stone-bone, even if she’d never seen it
before. Lilong’s daa must have described it to her at least, and it had
not changed much—still chipped, still lustrous, still retaining much of
its character.
“Does it… work?” was her first question, once she had regained
her composure. She reached forward and made to grab it, then
stopped herself at the last moment, realising that touch possibly
came with consequences.
“It does,” said Lilong. “On some people.” She motioned toward
Danso.
Oke’s eyes widened. “You?”
Danso shrugged, grinned.
“Tell me more,” she said.
“Here,” said Danso, handing her his codex. “It’s all here.”
They waited as Oke read silently, leaning into the light of the fire.
Danso watched her digest his accounts of everything before Chabo:
Lilong on the mainland, crossing the Breathing Forest, the Skopi, the
discovery of red iborworking, the dalliance with Whudasha, the great
escape in the Dead Mines.
By nightfall proper, when her two partners had fallen soundly
asleep, Oke had learned about Esheme and Oboda and the
Whudasha Youth and Zaq and Habba.
She shut the codex and lifted her head. Her eyes were watery.
“Now you understand,” said Lilong.
Oke nodded. “I understand.”
Lilong rose. “Maybe, now, you will think of me less harshly, and
know that I’m not stupid, or unfeeling. That I am simply…”
“Afraid,” said Oke.
“No,” said Lilong. “Tired.”
But to Danso, watching her closely, her eyes said: Yes.
 Biemwensé

Bassa: Outskirts
Sixth Mooncycle, 23

ON THE MORNING BIEMWENSÉ and Kakutan left the tiny homestead

outside of Bassa in whose barn they had been hiding for half a
fortnight, they donned wrappers over their heads and bade goodbye
to the owners. The couple, two men—one mainlander, one
desertlander, just like the Gaddos—were familiar with the entails of
living on the outskirts of the Bassai Ideal, literally and figuratively.
The younger of them, who came from merchant blood, had invested
his privilege of land ownership in the Gaddo Company, becoming
one of various waypoints connecting the otherwise wilderness
between the city and the border.
They offered the women a travelwagon, but Kakutan refused. She
thought it would attract too much attention, especially if they ran
into any overeager civic guards. In lieu of that, the couple furnished
them with a pack of supplies—food, water, medicine, two short
blades—and sent them on their way.
Walking to the fringes of the city was arduous and time-
consuming, lasting the better part of the day. It was no match for
their earlier trip, in which Alaba’s directions had led them from
Chugoko to a small vigilante outpost and to the contacts they
sought. Then they had taken a circuitous route through a
circumspect portion of the border, a little ways east of the Pass itself.
They did not go under like last time, as it turned out the border was
more porous than usual because large parts of it were in various
states of disrepair.
The paucity of civic guard patrols continued once they’d entered
the mainland, and also now, as they headed for Bassa. That didn’t
make their trip any less challenging, though. Entering Bassa from
the outskirts meant that there was an equal chance of arriving at
Sixth Ward as there was arriving at Tenth. The women had little
intelligence on how to ensure they entered closer to Fifteenth than
not. As it stood, their plan was like a blade thrown by a blindfolded
person: equal chance of being completely deadly or completely
useless.
Both women trudged on for the better part of the day, keeping
well out of sight. So far, they’d only come across lone travellers.
There were no notices out for their capture like Danso and Lilong
had, so they were at little risk of being identified except by the Red
Emperor herself, the only person who had set eyes on them. But it
was best to be cautious than caught unawares, so they wrapped
away every measure of skin to prevent their complexions and
likenesses from being easily deduced. Beneath the folds of cloth,
sweat ran slick down Biemwensé’s armpits and settled in the folds of
her belly. The sun had doubled its heat, become angrier.
Soon, the architecture of the city loomed before them. The
heights, designs, and relative cleanliness of the buildings ahead
were sufficient evidence that they had arrived at a ward much closer
to the Great Dome than intended.
“We could go around,” said Biemwensé to Kakutan.
The younger woman wrinkled her nose. She had not spoken
much throughout their journey and had spent much of her alone
time deep in thought. Biemwensé would give a cowrie to learn what
plagued the woman, but she sensed it was the same thing that
plagued her. Both of them, independently and together, had failed
Whudasha, and they wanted to correct that. But they both feared
that they would die or be captured before being able to.
“Night comes too early these days,” said Kakutan. “It’ll be unwise
to camp in the open this close to the city.” She spat in nearby
shrubbery. “Perhaps we can find somewhere to hide until morning.”
Rather than step into the mainway that ran through the ward,
they slipped into its corridors and hugged the shadows. There were
more Idu and Emuru using these backways than Biemwensé’s foggy
memory remembered were allowed. Between the heavily starched
wrappers, facepaint, and the size of the courtyards they went past,
Biemwensé took a guess and decided they had landed somewhere
between Fifth and Seventh Wards.
She also sensed something amiss. There was much serious
chatter—not gossip, but the kinds people huddled in a corner and
whispered. Everyone: nobles, mainlanders, immigrants, even the few
civic guard patrols they came across. Biemwensé attuned her ear
and tried to grasp the discourse but fell short of the exact words.
She came away with only the overwhelming feeling of anxiety and
impatience gripping the city.
They circled the corridors covertly for two hours until darkness
met them there. Still, they were yet to find a compound with an
open barn or stable into which they could slip and spend the night.
“Perhaps it’s time to try our luck with the mainway,” said Kakutan,
after they had surveyed their umpteenth barn and found it fortified
against entry.
“Wait,” said Biemwensé, pointing. “Listen.”
A small distance from the barn behind which they hid, a trio that
looked like farmhands offloaded a large cart. They tucked bales of
cotton and bags of what seemed to be kolanuts into storage in other
equally secured barns in the compound. They worked quickly, and as
they did, spoke a rapid-fire combination of Mainland Common and
some kind of border pidgin.
“What are they saying?” Kakutan’s Mainland Common was not as
good as her Whudan.
“The tall one says they need to be quick so he can get back home
for evening food,” said Biemwensé. “The other two are laughing,
saying Fifteenth is not that far away.”
Kakutan nodded. “They’re heading back there once done.” The
woman eyed the wagon. “A tight squeeze, that’ll be. I don’t see how
we can hide in there without at least one of them spotting us.”
“I wasn’t planning on hiding,” said Biemwensé, then stepped out.
“What are you—?” Kakutan started, but Biemwensé was already
gone.
“Dehje!” she greeted, loud enough that it startled all three
farmhands. “Dehje!”
They soon relaxed once Biemwensé pulled her cloak over.
“I… lost,” she said, wearing her Old Woman Voice like a wrapper.
She repeated the words in a random border pidgin, then in Mainland
Common, then in Savanna Common, hoping the men would latch on
to at least one.
It worked. One of the laughing farmhands, who looked like the
most experienced and therefore with most authority, relaxed. His
body language shifted from that of fear to concern.
“Are you okay?” he asked, matching her Savanna Common. “Are
you looking for somebody?”
“Yes, yes, thank the Four Winds, yes!” She paused and bent
forward, feigning breathlessness. The man put down his bale of
cotton and stepped to her, waving his colleagues to continue with
the offloading.
“Who do you seek?”
“My son,” she said. “My son. Sent to Fifteenth Ward, they say. We
are trying to find him.”
“We?” the man said, then looked up, and anxiety returned to his
posture again. Kakutan’s shadow loomed over them both.
“This is my sister,” said Biemwensé, “who has come with me from
our small town along the borders.” She put a hand over her mouth
as if she had said something wrong. “Oh no, I should not have—I
should not have said.” She looked at Kakutan. “I am so sorry, sister. I
forget sometimes.” She turned to the man. “Please, do not report us,
I beg you. We are not trying to cause any trouble. We are simply
trying to find the boy and take him back home to his family, where
he belongs. We have walked for days—” She shook her head, slowly.
“He is only a small boy, all alone…”
“No, no, maa,” said the man. “No, we will not report you.” He
placed his hands akimbo. “You don’t have to worry, I understand.
Family is everything, yes? I came to this land just like you, without
the blessing of the elephant throne. You do what you need to for
family.” He gestured toward his colleagues. “You are just in luck—we
are going to Fifteenth. You…” He glanced at Kakutan. “You can come
with us.” He turned to his colleagues. “Yes?”
The other two looked at one another and nodded.
Biemwensé let them help her into the wagon. While the
farmhands went on to finish their offloading, Kakutan came and sat
beside her.
“Well, that was reckless,” she whispered, her lips registering
minimal movement. “They could have easily been pro-Bassa. Then
we’d be in hot soup. You should always wait until we have a clear
and reliable plan.”
“One former Supreme Magnanimous to another,” said Biemwensé,
“your plans are often shit.”
“That’s not true.”
“We are here because of your last plan.”
“That was your plan.”
“Yes, but only the parts that worked.”
Kakutan clicked the back of her throat. “With this your coconut
head, it’s a wonder they didn’t kick you out of the Youth earlier.”
Biemwensé went silent.
“Oh, I’m…” Kakutan sighed. “Sorry, that was too far.”
“Yes, it was,” said Biemwensé. “You have no respect for elders.”
“I think I’m just…”
“Afraid?”
The younger woman looked at her. Even without the light to see,
Biemwensé knew her eyes were moist and honest.
“Me too,” she said, and placed a hand over Kakutan’s.
She did understand. Afanfan and Owude were not her real
children, in the same way the Whudans were not really Kakutan’s
family. But it did not matter. They were leaders, and their job was to
lead. Biemwensé had failed at hers twice—at the large scale of the
protectorate, and at the smaller scale of her home—with nothing left
to salvage from either. Afanfan and Owude, and the children who
had come before them, had been the only ones willing to give her a
chance, an opportunity to lead again. They had come willingly,
looking beyond the stories that denounced her as a madwoman.
Lead, their eager gazes had said, and we will follow.
She had obliged, and so had Kakutan, in her own way. They had
failed, yes, but they had the chance to do it over. Fear was natural,
but so was courage.
The farmhands had finished offloading.
“Do we need to hide?” asked Kakutan, once they all climbed on.
“Hide?” said the lead farmhand, then chuckled. “Ooh, no, maa.
This city has bigger problems than two women from over the
border.” He leaned toward them, conspiratorially. “And if you ask
me? This is just the beginning.” He looked up, breathed in a chestful
of air, and exhaled.
“Big things are coming,” he announced to no one in particular.
Then he goaded the kwagas.
The wagon rolled out of the courtyards and joined the mainway.
 Biemwensé

Bassa: Fifteenth Ward

Sixth Mooncycle, 24–26

BIEMWENSÉ AND KAKUTAN SPENT their first day in Fifteenth Ward at a

public house, gathering courage. Kakutan, being the more agile of
the two, eventually went out and mingled, garnering as much
information about the Whudans as she could. Once they had
sufficient information on where to locate the Whudan quarter they
sought, they headed there the next morning.
Much like on the night they had arrived under the cover of
darkness, Biemwensé could sense something impending. An
incessant crackle and pop of excitement filled the air. Biemwensé
noted that she did not feel endangered by it, only flummoxed, things
moving faster than she could keep up with. The myriad manners of
speech, the variations in manner of appearance, the frenetic pace of
hustling for an everyday living. If not for the climate and the darker
inclinations of most complexions, she could have sworn it was
Chugoko by another name.
At least she appreciated being able to move freely for the first
time in a while. Kakutan shared this sentiment. For the day’s
sojourn, both women had forsaken their layers and opted for the
lightest clothing they could get. Kakutan was back in what was
closest to her appearance as a Whudasha Youth—cowries and
weapons excluded. Biemwensé stuck to a simple Bassai wrap.
“Yaya!”
The two women had barely ventured down a nondescript street
before running into their first Whudan. Biemwensé startled when the
name reached her ears, sending tremors down her body. She had
not heard that word in a long time, and the memories that came
with it doused her in equal levels of apprehension and excitement.
But she did not recognise this person hastening to catch up to
them: a young woman, twice the age of the children she sought.
Kakutan seemed to be having the same difficulty recognising her, but
as the girl neared, it became clear she was Whudan. As soon as she
spotted Kakutan, she immediately put a hand to the bridge of her
nose.
“Dehje, Supreme Magnanimous,” she said in Whudan, out of
breath. “Oh, I—I can’t believe it! You—I saw you and I just—I knew.
Oh, thank moons, you’re alive. We heard you all died!”
After such a long time away, hearing Whudan from someone
else’s lips other than Kakutan’s tickled Biemwensé’s ears.
Kakutan nodded, accepting the girl’s greeting. “I can assure you
we are very much alive, er…”
“Mudoro,” said the girl with a shy smile. “But everyone calls me
Rudo.”
“Rudo.” Kakutan smiled back, in a way Biemwensé had never
seen her do before—all nice and warm. “You are indeed blessed.
Thank moons, we were not dead, only lost.”
“Thank moons, indeed!” said Rudo, her eyes shining. “I can’t wait
to take you to everybody.”
Kakutan smiled that smile again. “We would want nothing more.
We have travelled far to find our way back to you.”
“This way!” the girl said, excited, tucking her arm beneath either
woman’s and leading them forward.
Biemwensé frowned at Kakutan across the girl, and Kakutan
frowned back. What?
You are indeed blessed, Biemwensé mouthed, mimicking her. We
have travelled far to find you.
Kakutan laughed, and Rudo glanced, inquisitive. Kakutan smiled
at the girl. When she looked away, Kakutan mouthed back at
Biemwensé: Leadership is performance sometimes. Deal with it.

The Whudan quarter, when they arrived, was more well-to-do than
Biemwensé had expected. The ramshackle houses they often built
on the coast weren’t as many, and their abodes were now larger and
made of sturdier material, with some even going as far as decorating
their walls with paintings. Unsurprising what a people could do with
more resources at their disposal, even in the buttocks end of the
city.
Rudo led them through the quarter, screaming, “The Supreme
Magnanimous has returned! The Supreme Magnanimous has
returned!”
Many came out as Biemwensé and Kakutan passed through,
unsure of how to react, especially once they spotted Biemwensé by
Kakutan’s side. Some bowed in greeting, excited to see their old
leader and the promise of new direction she might bring. Some
stood rock-solid in defiance—likely those who did not take kindly to
being led to their almost-deaths, and who wanted nothing to do with
the Whudasha Youth ever again. Others nodded toward the duo, as
equals.
None of the discontent was surprising. Biemwensé and Kakutan
had discussed the possibility of it during their journey. Their people
had survived another near-extinction attempt on them, and had
been given an opportunity at a new life, even though under Bassa’s
watchful eye. Most would not welcome a return to old ways—
especially those who had always thought of moving from Whudasha
to Bassa as progress, the end-goal of their existences.
Discontent was fine. It was malevolence Biemwensé was worried
about.
Kakutan, enjoying the attention, bent to embrace children and
the elderly, exchanging greetings, as if reuniting with a long-lost
family. Not Biemwensé, though. She was here for one specific family,
and she hadn’t found them yet.
She grabbed the girl Rudo and took her to a side.
“I’m looking for two boys,” she said. “Young, twenty-three,
twenty-four seasons when I last saw them. They’d be older now and
might no longer be small. Their names are Afanfan and Owude.”
“Oh, I know those two,” said Rudo. “They work with the
Nameless faction.”
“The what?”
“The Nameless.” She angled her head. “Come, I’ll show you.”
Biemwensé tried to get Kakutan’s attention as the girl pulled her
away, but the woman was too busy enjoying the affections of her
people. Someone had found a colourful wrapper and draped it over
her. She was beaming and, in Biemwensé’s mind, had completely
lost focus as to why they had come here in the first place.
She let Rudo lead her away.
As they meandered through the Whudan quarter, Biemwensé
marvelled at how even though the people had been transplanted,
their way of life had not changed much. Most homes still had
shopfronts for their facades, and internal trade was still the primary
means of sustenance. Biemwensé suspected that the Whudans must
have tried to trade with mainlanders, but could imagine how well
that went.
They arrived at a nondescript house, smaller than most.
“Here,” said Rudo. “They don’t seem to be home, but you can
wait. I will look around, see if I can send them your way.”
Biemwensé sat on a low stool out front. The neighbouring
abodes, just as small, contained inhabitants she didn’t recognise. In
the boys’ abode, there were telltale signs that young men lived here
—the clothes hanging on the line, for instance. There was a
whetstone for sharpening tools, or weapons. From the arrowhead-
shaped stones tossed around, she figured it was the latter. She’d
completely forgotten that Afanfan had always wanted to be an
archer.
As she sat there, a chorus of cheers went up among the people
around her. A wagon cantered past, to which celebratory strips of
colourful cloth were tied. In the wagon was a person-shaped thing,
covered in cloth that was now wet and stained with pepper and
tomato seeds. As it went past, they pelted the body with rotten fruit
and screamed cockroach and betrayer at it. The driver, who was not
Whudan but a mainlander, they cheered for, throwing flowers and
sweet-smelling herbs their way.
All of this Biemwensé found odd. Why were her people cheering a
Bassai person and desecrating what increasingly looked like a
corpse? What had this person done to draw such ire that could unite
Whudans and Bassai?
She was pondering this when someone said her name: “Yaya?”
Afanfan and Owude came down the street, eyes bulging at the
sight of her. At first, Biemwensé did not recognise them, how poor
her eyesight was now. But also—how big they’d grown! The two
seasons between now and when she’d last seen them felt like an
eternity. Afanfan, who was the skinny but tall one, had accumulated
an amount of muscle that did not match his boyish face, showing
signs of stubble that arrived with a coming of age. Owude, the
younger and stockier of them both, still carried a childlike
disposition, but with the way he walked, had clearly begun to
understand the social expectations of his manhood.
“My children,” said Biemwensé, and opened her arms. The two
ran into them, and they embraced, tight. The children smelled of
sweat and dirt and something like stale water. It was the best thing
Biemwensé had smelled in a long time.
The day wore into evening. Biemwensé sat back and let the boys
take care of her. She watched them cook and chatter, asking
questions about what happened to her while simultaneously filling
her in on what happened to them. She told them just enough to
satisfy their curiosity, but was more interested in how they had fared
since that night at the Dead Mines.
Turned out that the emperor’s forces had lifted them out of the
cave, but prevented any of the young ones, them included, from
returning to Whudasha. Most of the elderly opted to return, even if
the protectorate was practically a ghost village now, and every single
Whudasha Youth left had been imprisoned. The rest had taken the
option of Fifteenth Ward.
There was much to be sombre about in that account, but
Biemwensé was content with listening to the music of their voices.
Afanfan’s had broken and had an unnerving quality to it, an
assurance she did not quite know he’d always possessed. Owude
chattered away—she had forgotten how talkative he could be. Both
laughed a lot. They seemed much more at home here than they had
ever been in Whudasha.
Afterward, they had one of her favourite meals—boiled plantains
soaked in pepper soup—though they used grasscutter meat instead
of the usual catfish. As they ate, she asked them about the corpse
wagon she’d seen earlier.
“Oh, that’s the Cockroach,” said Afanfan. “The Great Dome sent
him here to scatter our plans, but the Nameless faction killed him.
They are sending his body back to the Great Dome as a message.”
Biemwensé remembered what Rudo had told her. “This is the
same Nameless faction you work for?” Afanfan nodded. “Who are
they?”
“Resistance,” said Owude.
“What do you mean resistance? And who was this cockroach
person?”
“Former resistance,” said Owude.
“He was the old leader, but he betrayed them,” said Afanfan.
“New leader is different—she helps us. Helped us build this house,
helps us get food, makes sure nobody treats us Whudans anyhow.
So we help them back.”
“Help them how?”
“With anything they want,” he said. “Like, today, they asked us to
dig. That’s why my clothes were rough when you came. But I don’t
know what we’re digging for.”
Something about this put Biemwensé at unease. She made a
mental note to discuss this with Kakutan once she saw the woman
tomorrow. For now, she just wanted to spend some time with the
boys.
Once they were done with dinner, she raised the question she
was there for.
“I will be going back to Whudasha as soon as I can,” she said.
“You can come with me if you want. Forget the emperor’s command
—if you come, you can stay with me. I will protect you.”
The boys looked at one another.
“Is Whudasha not empty?” asked Owude.
Fair point. “You could say that.”
“Why would we want to go back to an empty place?” There was
clarity and assertion in Afanfan’s tone, one that said he’d thought
about this already.
“Because it is quiet, it is safe, and I will be there.”
Owude lowered his gaze, upset at the idea of her leaving so
soon.
“Why don’t you stay here with us instead?” asked Afanfan. “This
way, we can still be together, but here.”
“Why would you want to stay here?” asked Biemwensé,
perplexed. “This isn’t home. This is just a prison Bassa doesn’t want
you to leave.”
“But so is Whudasha.”
That caught Biemwensé off guard. But Afanfan was right—it was
simply one prison for another, wasn’t it?
“I can’t just leave the Nameless,” Afanfan continued. “You say this
isn’t home, but… it is for us. The Nameless has made it so.”
There was a part of Biemwensé that agreed with the boys, that
understood they didn’t have to be with her or in Whudasha for their
lives to be better. In fact, she knew, now, that all of this had been a
selfish endeavour, a quest to satisfy her own yearning for meaning.
Things had gone wrong, yes, but Ashu had shined on the boys, and
they had turned out fine. Better, even, than whatever life they’d had
in Whudasha. She was trying to cook a meal that was already done.
But this business about the Nameless—it rubbed her the wrong
way. What sensible person would risk such young lives in a battle
with Bassa? Someone so tactless as to murder a Great Dome
messenger and parade his body in the ward with the most
defenceless population? It reeked of recklessness, and she did not
like that the people she cared about were being made accessories to
this. They were already easy targets for Bassai ire—this would just
make that worse.
“Okay, enough upsetting talk for tonight,” she said. “I will stay for
now, and we can talk about this later.”
Before drifting into sleep, Biemwensé made another mental note
to speak to Kakutan about possibly meeting the leader of this
Nameless faction or whatever they called themselves. If someone
was roping the Whudans into a fight with Bassa, it was best for the
Supreme Magnanimous—nay, the Supreme Magnanimouses—to
have a say.
But Biemwensé would not have to wait long for that.
Hours before dawn, an explosion rocked the house to its
foundations. Pots shattered and shelves fell. Biemwensé rose from
sleep, groggy, heart pounding. She called out the boys’ names, but
neither was anywhere to be found. Their beds were empty, lightly
slept in, the fine dust of dislodged mudbrick sweeping over the
abandoned beddings.
Biemwensé dressed, picked up her stick, and ventured into the
Whudan quarter.
 Ifiot

Bassa: Fifteenth Ward

Sixth Mooncycle, 24–26

THE SAFE HOUSE HAD an odour. Salt-air was the description that came to
Ifiot’s mind when she stepped into the dark living room. After a long
night of drinking and celebration, she had left the smells and sounds
and lights and laughter of Fifteenth behind. Making her way through
the corridors had been by feel alone, because she knew every corner
of the ward that had been her home since birth. And though it was
only a few mooncrossings ago she’d begun to use this safe house as
a private abode, she knew every corner of it by feel too. Every piece
of furniture, every sound made when they scraped the floor, every
smell in the house.
The salt-air that greeted her was alien to this place. She had
encountered something similar to it once before: back when she still
had work as an Emuru hand, loading and offloading travelwagons at
the border, just enough day’s wages to keep her belly full. Upon
return, travelwagons carrying salt mined in the desertlands smelled
like this. But those odours were fresher. This smelled stale,
something left too long to absorb moisture, become damp.
Someone was in the safe house.
It was dark inside. Ifiot prodded the space ahead with her foot,
angling into the room with her shoulder. She approximated the
distance between her and the corner across the door, where she
knew one of her spears leaned. Twelve steps, she counted, then
took one. Eleven. Another. Ten.
Ifiot did not consider herself a fighter. Not in the sense that those
who sought out her faction envisioned. They all approached the
Nameless with lofty dreams of a Saviour-with-a-Spear, as they’d
taken to calling her, since very little was known about the secretive
faction. She hadn’t called it Nameless by mistake—she’d been
inspired by the Nameless Islands, that place of myth (or was it?)
that no mainland eye had seen or set foot upon (or had they?), that
existed only in minds but maybe also in reality (or did it?). She liked
this idea of either/or, of invisible visibility, of being something that
transcended time, space, reality.
Those privileged enough to meet the coalition weren’t always as
enamoured—neither fellow Bassai nor immigrants nor outer
mainlanders now hauling into the city’s fringes by the wagonload.
But most of them stayed because they wanted the same thing:
someone to fight and win with and for them. Much unlike the past
coalition, which did little but use everyone for its selfish goals of
revolution, only to leave them in the dust after, right back where
they started.
She angled her body to slip past a stool she knew was there. Five
steps.
They were disappointed, too, once they met her; once they
realised she was much better with her words and strategies than
with her spear, and most especially, when they discovered she was
not the man they’d sometimes been erroneously told she was. But
they were wrong about that too. She was a woman now, yes, but in
times before, she’d been raised to live as a man, a life she’d quickly
found detrimental, insufficient, scant in its embodiment of who she
truly was.
It was the same with the spear: She could wield it as capably as
any hunthand out there, but found violence alone deficient in
problem-solving. Only in combination with ears that listened close,
lips that spoke carefully, and a mind that strategized conscientiously
did she find violence effective. Ifiot knew that she could fight
anything using that combination and always win. Especially when it
came to protecting what was hers.
She was three steps to the spear when the second odour hit her.
Something akin to rotting eggs, although not quite. Only then did
she stop, sigh, and shake her head.
“You should really change out of those clothes,” she said.
A flint struck, and the lamp next to the only chair in the room lit
up. In the chair was seated Hakuoo, the man from the swamplands.
Ifiot willed herself to settle. The tall stranger’s presence still put
her on edge. It didn’t help that, with the room now lit, she could see
her spear wasn’t actually in this corner, but had been moved to a
different one. Hakuoo did that often, repositioning weapons. Keeping
them within reach so they were still there if truly needed, but not as
reachable by reflex. She hated that, but she could understand it. No
stranger came into the home of a resistance leader and slept easy.
He lifted his two hands, then signed: “What did you say?”
She chuckled, signing back: “Swamp stink gives you away.”
He chuckled too, then sniffed at himself. He did not jerk his head
back as she expected, but instead signed: “I smell fine.”
Fair point, she thought. It was she, after all, who was a stranger
to the smells of the swamplands. Everything about him would be
different to eyes trained to see the Bassai way: his garments of
woven jute and bushrat skin, crocodile hide for heavy chest armour;
his hair that had never seen a blade; the tribal marks etched into the
skin of his cheeks and temple. Hakuoo was as different from her as
night from day, and in more than just complexion.
Thankfully, the one thing they shared was the only thing of
importance: They could communicate despite not speaking a word
of each other’s language. Their sign languages were different—hers,
she perfected while growing up near the Soke border, learning to
communicate across various pidgins and without verbalized
language; his from practicing the silence crucial to hunting in the
swamplands and living to tell the tale. Luckily, they mostly
understood each other, which was the only reason he was still sitting
here unharmed since his unannounced arrival in Fifteenth.
“A drink?” Ifiot signed, abandoning her quest for the spear and
heading for her gourd of weybo. She poured two calabashes and
handed him one. He frowned at it, so she laid it down on the table
and set herself on the stool.
“Have you not just been out drinking?” Hakuoo asked, signing.
“I have been with people who were drinking,” she said. “Different
thing.”
He picked up his calabash and sipped at the spirit, then gazed out
the window, into the darkness, at the two moons in the sky.
“You seem calm for a person who only just murdered a Bassai
noble,” Ifiot signed.
Hakuoo smiled, put down his calabash. “I am not calm.”
“Best not to be. You do not know Bassa like I do. What they can
do.”
“Yes,” he signed. “I do not know your fear of this place. In the
deltas, we fear greater things than a woman with a dead serpent.”
He took another sip of weybo. “If you must fear something, do not
fear death. Instead, fear living with nothing but fear.”
His manner was direct in a way that Ifiot appreciated. It kept her
on her toes. It was why the day he had appeared in the city, and
then in her home—man from nowhere, sitting in a corner in the dark
of her living room, repositioning her spear, calmly asking questions
in sign language—she’d known he was worth her ears. So she had
sat through the smell of garments soaked by days of swamp travel
and listened.
What a listen it turned out to be.
So much had changed in her life, and in the outer wards, since
that day. Sure, it had taken a lot to convince her faction, and then
the representatives sent by the hinterlands’ interested clans. Few
thought Hakuoo and the swamplanders to be a good addition to the
faction’s plans. They considered his presence threatening and
suggestive of imbalance. Even earlier tonight, after demonstrating
his commitment to their cause by killing Basuaye with his own hands
—this way, everyone else could deny involvement—there were a few
who were still yet to be won over.
She understood, though. She would give them time to come
around. The hinterlanders and Bassai folk and immigrants and
Whudans would soon come to see that, just like she had done the
painstaking work of gaining their trust and pledging allegiance to an
uprising if it ever came, they would need to do the same with the
people of the delta settlements that Hakuoo represented. It was the
same hand of Bassa that had touched them all, after all.
“Have you decided when you will you return?” she signed. “To
gather your people?”
He nodded, signing: “Soon.”
“How soon?” she asked. “Will you be here when they come for
us?”
He shrugged. “Why wait?”
She didn’t understand this expression. She repeated her question.
He clarified, signing slowly: “Why wait for them to come to you? You
should go to them.”
Ifiot leaned back and took another sip. “We are not ready to
strike yet.”
“Perhaps you are using a lacking approach.” Hakuoo sat up. “Or
you have your sights set on the wrong targets.”
Ifiot regarded the man. “You have ideas?”
He angled his head. “Knowledge more than ideas. One does not
become the leader of a hunting settlement without learning a few
things about hunting.”
“Is that what we’re doing?” Ifiot signed. “Hunting?”
“You seek to bring down something many times larger and
stronger than you are,” he signed. “You do it with one wound, two
wounds, three wounds, until they bleed and stop moving. That is
hunting.”
Night animals called in the distance. Ifiot took another sip of
weybo.
“Tell me,” she signed.
 “No need.” Hakuoo rose. “Let me show you.”

When Hakuoo presented the swamp gas to Ifiot, she recognised the
smell as similar to that which clung to his clothing, but did not
understand what it was. When he described the method of collection
—siphoning the gas over rotting and decomposed vegetation in the
swamp—she wondered why he considered the smelly contents of his
gourds any sort of gift.
In demonstration, he lit a tiny flame over the top of one of the
gourds.
The gourd exploded into pieces, producing a burst of flames large
enough to swallow a face whole. Only then did she realise that
Hakuoo had just gifted her a power even the Red Emperor herself
did not have. Not a power that could command the dead, yes, but
one that could ensure they stayed that way.
Hakuoo showed her to a storeroom in her safe house where,
while she’d been out all night celebrating the Cockroach’s demise, he
had safely stacked a significant number of these gourds, away from
any fire and light. His plan had been simple: If they come for you,
here’s how to defeat them. But now he was asking her to do
something else.
Strike first.

By dawn, Hakuoo had left for the swamplands, promising to gather

and return with as many warriors and as much swamp gas as
possible. In the interim, Ifiot called an impromptu meeting of the
Nameless council.
 An idea had come to her during her morning bath, borrowed from
the very city she was trying to take hostage. Bassa had held power
for hundreds of seasons by digging its moats deep and keeping a
wall behind them to protect its resources. To keep Bassa’s hand at
bay would require something similar. She could find something Bassa
desired, barricade it from reach, and force the emperor to negotiate
for its release.
Death by many wounds, as Hakuoo had said.
She presented this at the meeting of the Nameless council. It was
immediately refuted. Once the leaders learned of the swamp gas, a
direct attack on the Great Dome was favoured instead.
A direct hit to the Red Emperor, they argued, will serve us better.
Especially one that could take out her Ninki Nanka—or even better,
the woman herself—before any response could be fashioned. They
proposed lying in wait for her return from Chugoko before striking.
But Ifiot was stuck on Hakuoo’s words. A lacking approach, wrong
targets. They did not need the emperor’s presence to take over
Bassa—if anything, her absence was crucial. As far as Ifiot was
concerned, there was only one important question:
How and where could they dig a moat, uninterrupted, in under a
day?
Luckily, impossible feats galvanized Ifiot more than they inhibited
her. After the meeting, she consulted in secret with other
stakeholders, collecting information about various means of
approach. She sat with allies from nearby wards, including some
Whudans, who now made up a significant number of said wards. All
thought, as usual, that she was a bit too hasty, too ambitious. Such
choices will only annoy the emperor, they said, and then we’d be
doomed.
But Ifiot wanted to annoy the Red Emperor. Angered people
made rash decisions, and rash decisions got them in difficult
positions, which would be a boost for the Nameless faction. If her
plans brought the emperor back into the streets and out of that
Great Dome where she’d remained hidden for many mooncycles—
that would be another boost.
So, on the twenty-sixth day of the sixth mooncycle in the second
season of the Red Emperor, Ifiot set off the biggest explosion Bassa
had ever seen.
 Nem

Bassa: The Great Dome

Sixth Mooncycle, 25–26

NEM’S LATE AFTERNOON MEAL was interrupted by urgent, heavy knocks on

the door to her private chamber. She groaned, dipped her last
mound of cassava into the bitter-leaf soup, then stuffed it in her
mouth. Meals were the only time she got alone other than when
asleep—which was why she ate in her chambers and not the large
dining hall where even the emperor rarely ate. Why couldn’t they
just leave her alone for one moment? She was not the emperor,
after all.
“Come,” she said.
Satti was the visitor, and her face had lost all colour.
“What?” asked Nem.
“You need to come see,” said Satti.
Nem washed her hands and let Satti push her down the hallways,
winding past hands and officials and everyone who had a word for
Nem that she didn’t want to hear. Soon, they were in the dining hall,
the very room Nem had been avoiding. But it wasn’t empty—all
members of court were there, save for the hinterlanders and
Tombolo Elders.
One person lay on the table, dead.
Basuaye—or at least, his body—was covered in waste, reeking of
a range of nasal assaults from wastewater to urine. Face and clothes
still splattered with dried blood. A smattering of cuts and bruises on
his arms, legs, neck, forehead. A fleshy red hole gaped wide open in
his chest, his chestbone crushed, shoulder disjointed, hanging loose.
From her sitting position, Nem was at just the right angle to see
through his broken ribcage and make out his cold, dead heart.
The best way to describe the corpse was molested.
“How?” was all Nem asked.
“Second says they found his body in a wagon in a corridor in
Fifteenth,” said Elder Yao. “Apparently, Basuaye took the outlanders
and went to go parley with one of the breakaway factions.”
Yes, I did send him on such an errand, Nem wanted to say, but
elected to delay that crucial piece of information. Instead she asked:
“Do we know which faction?”
“No.”
“Where is the Second? And the others he went with?”
“Second is in hospice.” Yao shuffled on his feet. “The four
Tombolo and hinterland Elders… nowhere to be found.”
Nem looked to the rest of the court and saw the vindication in
their gazes.
“If you love your tongues, better hold them,” she shot at them.
“This is not the time for gloating.” To Yao, she said: “The Second—
what has he said?”
“Not much. Said Basuaye refused to tell him anything useful.
Almost harmed himself with a blade, too, after delivering the body.
Said he’d rather punish himself than be on the receiving end of the
Great Dome’s wrath.”
Nem sighed. “And you all—you have nothing? Not even from all
the fingers you have in this city’s pots?”
The advisors all looked at one another.
 “We believe the factions are becoming braver because of help
from the hinterlands,” said Ebrima of the farming and hunting guild.
“Even from the Tombolo hamlets. In fact, we hear whispers of
swamplanders now arriving in the outer wards.”
“We hear stories, of strange beasts emerging from forests beyond
the confluence, driving the people here,” said Elder Inyene, of the
craftworkers.
Nem angled her head. “And you’re only telling me this now?”
“We did not want to distract from—”
“Get out, all of you,” Nem turned her gaze toward the body. “I
need a moment alone.”
Satti rolled her chair closer to the body, then helped usher
everyone else out. Nem sat there, looking at the rictus expression
plastered on the dead man’s face. Battered. She hadn’t been
particularly close with the man—they had always been business
partners more than anything. But no one deserved to die like this,
not even him. Nem felt a tinge of guilt knowing it was she who had
brought him out of the frying pan into this fire that had now
consumed him.
She might not be invested in a personal quest for revenge, but
she sure was invested in the empire’s integrity. He was a member of
the Court of the Great Dome, after all. It could have been any of the
other advisors—it could have been her. This deserved a response,
fast.
She called everyone back in.
“We will address this attack immediately and quickly,” she
commanded. “By the emperor’s return, everyone involved must be
one with the humus, or we will have a much bigger problem on our
hands.”
Nem doled out the instructions. Basuaye was to be discreetly
incinerated and sent to the skies without ceremony, seeing as he
had no living family anyway. Oluodah would take care of that. Yao
was to send word to every civic guard captain, and Mawuli was to do
the same to the leaders of the hunthand guild—the Great Dome
needed the best of their best. Ebrima and Inyene were to engage
their whisper networks once more, find out everything they could
about this faction and its leaders and members.
They had until dawn.
By the time Nem returned to her room, her food had grown cold.
She asked for it to be taken away, then asked for a bath and to be
put to bed early.
All she could think about during the bath was that it was perhaps
best that she was the one here when all of this was happening.
Though Esheme did not give a grain for Basuaye, she imagined her
daughter’s response would be to gladly burn through the whole city
just to find the perpetrators. The Bassai knew their emperor well
and would expect that kind of response, would welcome it, even.
The only problem was that Nem, after so long in the trenches,
fighting to gain power—she was no longer that person. She could
not be her daughter for them.
In bed, before she slept, Nem prayed for the first time in a while.
Dearest Ashu, she thought, please let all this pass us by, and let
peace reign.
She had chased power for so long that when it finally bought her
the freedom she sought, she did not want to let that freedom go.
Not freedom from fighting, but freedom to choose when to, which,
these days, was more like no freedom at all. It had taken Nem
watching her daughter rise to the highest level in the land, drink of
this forbidden cup, and let it fill her with even more ravenous hunger
—for stone-bones, for beasts, for the destruction of her loved ones,
her subjects, even her own body—to understand that she, herself,
did not really want power like this.
No—what she really wanted was peace. But the kind of peace
that power bought was peace without harmony, which was no peace
at all.
Dearest Ashu, Nem prayed, let this be solved quickly.
Prayer, as she would soon learn, was a fork with many prongs.
And one of such prongs came to bear soon when, hours before
dawn, she was stirred in sleep by a thunderous boom. Far, far away,
so she did not awaken.
Soon, though, urgent knocks besieged the door to her chamber.
Groggy, Nem sat up and called the knocker in.
 This time, Satti wasn’t alone. Elder Yao was with her, and both
looked ashen.
“What now?” asked Nem.
“An explosion,” said Yao, flustered. “Eighth Ward.”
 Ifiot

Bassa: Eighth Ward

Sixth Mooncycle, 26, same day

THE EXPLOSION WENT OFF on mainway eight.

The choice of location was not random. Extensive plans had
identified three matters of high importance to the success of a
blockade campaign, the first of which was its location.
Fourth Ward had been the initial choice, a transition ward
between Emuru and Idu. Ifiot had argued against it, citing that it
was still only a lateral division between two kinds of mainlanders.
Eighth Ward was the definite caste divider, she offered, because it
separated most mainlanders from most immigrants. Mainway eight
was where Emuru citizens gave way to Potokin and Yelekuté,
meaning more immigrants would be protected behind the
demarcation than lost beyond it.
But that wasn’t all. The outer wards’ farms, being farther inland
and closer to the rivers, produced the most crops in the city—even if
they weren’t owned by the ward dwellers, only operated by them.
These farms contained tuber, bean, rice, and nut crops the nobles
needed for sustenance, but also cotton for textile and thatch for
building and craftworking, two of Bassa’s most useful resources
beyond gold and other ores. This made mainway eight the most
important roadway for Bassa’s goods.
A blockade across mainway eight would cripple the city in more
ways than one.
The explosion went off with a blinding flash, so bright that at
first, some inhabitants thought the sun had risen much too early. A
rolling tremor followed, like a stampede of elephants, rippling across
Eighth and adjacent wards. Next: a cloud of dust and ash, sweeping
over the ward, so that all manner of vision was lost. Debris rained
from the sky, and the acrid stink of burning sand was sharp enough
to bleed noses. Citizens ran out of their abodes, screaming about the
sky falling on their heads. They were quickly greeted by a crier’s
gong and loud announcements commanding them to return to their
abodes, until all was assessed and it was deemed safe for them to
venture out.
Timing had been the second matter of import. Ifiot planned for
this to happen long before the farmhands awoke for their trip to the
farms, but close enough to dawn that the blockade would be up and
functioning just as daylight broke. The ward dwellers would be
asleep in their homes and unlikely to come to harm. She had no
interest in harming those for whom she was fighting.
Explosion completed, Ifiot and her faction rolled out to the site.
The next stage of the plan was to examine the pits formed, ensure
they were of satisfactory depth. Ifiot had learned from Hakuoo to
bury the gourds of swamp gas shallow enough to make sure the
explosion from their ignition did not destroy buildings, but deep
enough to ensure it created pits that carts carrying goods or
travelwagons carrying civic guards could not go through. So deep
that even people on foot would be unable to cross without the aid of
a bridge.
A moat, in essence.
A cursory survey of the ash and dust told Ifiot that the pits were
deep enough. She waved her people over, and they moved forward
with their carts, began the task of building a short wall. A pit was
just a pit. Ifiot’s thinking was that, with the right fortification—not
even necessarily a high one—a pit became a barrier, a border, a
blockade.
They dumped all gathered material onto the outer side of the
pits. Mostly dirt, loads and loads of it dug from the forests in secret.
Within an hour, anthill-high lines of dirt stood along the pits that cut
across the ward from bushland to bushland. Before the smoke fully
cleared, the faction added other objects atop their hills of dirt, a
haphazard combination of throwaway material. Sticks, metal, old
tools, weapons. Carts and wagons broken down to pieces. Palm
fronds. Bones. Whatever they could find.
By the time the sun rose on Bassa, the blockade was an
insurmountable hill of tightly bound rubbish. Eighth Ward and
beyond came under the control of the Nameless faction. Then Ifiot
and her people planted themselves behind the blockade and waited
for Bassa’s response.

Waiting in silence was by design. Ifiot learned from her time growing
up in the armpits of Bassa that it was never the strength that one
possessed that made one feared, but the appearance of it. So they
set up sentry points behind the blockade, with sight holes that
betrayed neither their faces nor their few numbers. Hakuoo had
painstakingly described this, explaining that it was the way he and
his ancestors had kept their settlements safe from intruders, human
and non-human alike. Depriving the enemy of sight and sound was a
performance in itself. It made the Nameless faction a difficult enemy
to approach, made it so that if they were ever forced to speak, they
could do so with voices that made them seem larger than they really
were.
 Ifiot herself sat behind one of these sighting holes, watching the
Bassai citizens on the other side of the newly created moats gather
and wonder what was happening. On her side of the blockade, a
mass of confused citizens had formed as well, a growing buzz of
murmuring. Members of her faction had tried to drive them off, but
Ifiot advised against it. Let them see us fight, she said. It will
convince them to join us more than anything else.
One of her advisors, a woman named Sileya, came across to
inspect the sighting holes. She stopped before Ifiot’s and shuffled on
her feet. She was the youngest of the Nameless faction’s leadership,
but was one of the few people who had the effrontery to take Ifiot
to task.
“Out with it,” Ifiot said without taking her eye off the hole.
“Are you sure about this?”
Ifiot shut the hole and frowned at the woman. “What do you
mean?”
“There is uncertainty among the faction,” said Sileya. “They
believe we are no longer taking orders from you, but from a stranger
from the swamplands.”
“And what does it matter where the ideas come from?” Ifiot
asked. “Have we not in the past implemented ideas drawn up at
council?”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing,” said Ifiot. “Nothing about what Hakuoo has said is
new or revolutionary. This is but a common strategy even the little
snake in the forest employs. A small predator does not tackle larger
prey in a contest of strength. It does so by slinking swiftly in the
darkness, taking its target by surprise, delivering a thousand bites
laden with poison.” She opened the hole and peered out again. “This
blockade is only the first of many such bites. We will keep biting until
our enemy lies in the understory and stops moving.”
Sileya stood there for a lengthy moment, then nodded. “I will tell
these words to them.”
“You do that.”
It wasn’t long after Sileya left that the first party of civic guards
appeared. They were surprisingly fewer than Ifiot had expected, few
enough that her people could take them all in direct combat if they
wished. They were also all from Eighth Ward, judging by the captain
who arrived with them. Perhaps word had not yet reached the Great
Dome?
The captain got his guards to push the crowd on the outer side
back, surveyed the moat, then descended into it himself. He walked
to within shouting distance of the blockade.
“This is Captain Jantar of the Eighth Ward civic guard. In the
name of the Scion of Moons, Sovereign Emperor of Bassa and all of
Oon, I command whoever put up this monstrosity to emerge and
speak.”
Silence. Murmurs rose on either side of the blockade, something
only those peering through the sighting holes could experience.
From a nearby stack, Ifiot grabbed one of the shorter, lighter
desertland ikiwa spears designed for throwing.
“I must ask again—are we sure?” Sileya, who had returned to her
side, whispered.
“Is there a choice?” Ifiot replied. “A thousand bites must begin
with one.”
The captain, opposite the blockade, cleared his throat again. “I
repeat, in the name of—”
Ifiot opened up a larger portion of the blockade and flung the
spear. It travelled fast across the short distance, then planted itself
into the chest of the captain. He took one step backward, two steps,
then knelt in the dust, cradling the spear, before falling to the
ground. It was a quiet death, ensconced by the hushed silence of
those who witnessed it.
Nobody moved. Not even the civic guards, who looked at one
another, unsure about what to do in the absence of a command.
Attack? Delay? But that hesitation only lasted for a moment, after
which one civic guard stepped forward, an air of authority having
gathered around him. A second-in-command, Ifiot guessed.
This one did not announce himself. Rather, he lined up the few
archers in their party and prepared to shoot into the blockade.
Ifiot dropped him with another spear before he could finish the
command. Then she called on her archers, who shot arrows at the
feet of all who remained before the moat. Citizens and civic guards
alike scattered in every direction.
“Put out the signs,” Ifiot ordered.
They climbed ladders and placed wooden signs across the length
of the blockade. Ifiot had painstakingly overseen their preparation
and did so again for their lengthwise placement, all boards together
making a coherent statement. Large enough to be read from afar,
clear enough to declare intent, menacing enough to institute action.
Our demands are thus, the message read in High Bassai, so they
knew it was serious. Independence from Bassa, or we deprive this
city of food and resources until it crumbles. No negotiations. We will
speak only to the emperor. Attack in any way and suffer the
consequences. We have more where this came from.
“We are missing the last board,” Sileya said to Ifiot, after the
message was in place. “The one with our name.”
Ifiot checked, confirmed it was missing, then snapped her fingers.
“Give me a fresh one.”
Handed a new board, she dipped an oxtail into ochre and
scribbled hastily across it. Then she ordered them to place it at the
end of the line.
Signed, it read, The Nameless Republic.
 Biemwensé

Bassa: Fifteenth Ward

Sixth Mooncycle, 26, same day

DAWN CAME OVER THE Whudan quarter like a mistful blanket. Most of its
inhabitants were already up and about, awoken by the same
disturbance that had shaken Biemwensé from sleep. They
meandered like spooked fowls, babbling questions at everyone
within sight. Biemwensé easily found Kakutan among them, slipped
neatly into her leader role, calming the flustered and ushering them
back into their homes until she could find out what was happening.
The girl from before, Rudo, was there, shadowing her.
“Thank moons you’re alive,” Kakutan said when she spotted
Biemwensé.
“The boys are gone.” Biemwensé went on to explain everything
that had happened since they’d last seen each other.
“Said they were working with the Nameless to move dirt,” she
concluded. “I suspect that’s where they are, but I don’t know where
that is.”
“I hear wagons have been carrying dirt from here to the middle
wards,” said Kakutan, turning to Rudo. “You know where?”
The young woman nodded. “I hear somewhere between Seventh
and Tenth.”
“Maybe we visit this dirt site, see what’s what,” said Biemwensé.
“I agree. These people deserve some answers.” Kakutan looked
around. “But we’ll need a ride.” Her eyes lit up and she snapped her
fingers. “Our old friend!”

Their old friend’s name was Mpewa, and he was just hitching his
kwaga onto his wagon when Rudo arrived with the two at his house.
“Ah, the Supreme Magnanimous!” he said when he saw them.
“Why did you not tell me who you were on the night? I would have
been honoured.”
Kakutan shook her head. “Can never separate enemy from friend
in the dark.”
“Indeed,” said Mpewa. “In the daytime too.”
“We’re trying to get to the middle wards,” said Biemwensé. “See
what caused that thundering.”
“Oh, that happened in Eighth,” he said. “One of my comrades
with an early delivery got turned around it. There’s a blockade there
now.”
“A blockade?”
“Yes, maa. The Nameless faction has constructed a moat and wall
across the mainway. No goods or people crossing Eighth until they
speak with the emperor.”
Biemwensé looked to Kakutan. “That’s where the boys went. To
help.”
Kakutan turned to Mpewa. “If you can’t cross, how come you’re
you still going?”
 The man gestured toward his wagon. “I still have an employer,
don’t I? If they put in a complaint to the local government, they’re
not going to hear that I couldn’t do my job because someone was
protesting. I’m going to try my luck with the corridors. That’s what
most of us are doing.”
“We will come with you,” said Kakutan.
“Me too,” said Rudo.
Kakutan frowned at the girl. “It could be dangerous.”
“I know,” she replied.
As the three clambered on, Biemwensé caught Kakutan’s creased
brow, the one she often wore as Supreme Magnanimous. She was
indeed getting her fill of being back where she belonged, a leader of
her people. Biemwensé couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. She
had only just gotten her boys back, and now they were gone again.
Please be safe, she prayed as the wagon pulled away. Please.

The trip to Eighth took longer than it was meant to, the wagon
meandering through masses of people migrating toward this new
blockade. Anxious chatter from the crowd filtered through to
Biemwensé: Most people wondered what future this new
development bade for them. Interspersed with this general concern
was Mpewa’s own chatter, offering accounts of other recent woes in
Bassa. Biemwensé only half listened as he spoke of strange beasts
emerging from the Breathing Forest, and how the Nameless faction
chose the wrong time to divide the city. Despite these distractions,
her thoughts remained with her boys.
Once they reached Eighth, the crowd became too thick to pass
through with a wagon. The women and the girl got down and bid
Mpewa goodbye as he opted to try his luck with the corridors. They
pushed their way to the front of the crowd until they came face-to-
face with the blockade.
 The monstrosity before them was a giant earthworm that had
wriggled through debris and collected everything in its way. Now it
stood as a wall of rubbish separating the outer wards from the rest
of Bassa. On this side of the wall was a small but diverse group of
armed guards—the Nameless faction, Biemwensé guessed. From the
tongues and inflections she was picking up, they seemed to contain
people from various parts of the continent, not just the city. A few
members of the faction milled about the wall, peering through gaps
in it to see through to the other side. The rest were tasked with
convincing everyone gathered here to return home and await further
instructions. The gathered citizens offered them a few choice words
in return.
Biemwensé scanned the crowd for Afanfan and Owude, but her
eyesight was not very helpful. She grabbed the girl Rudo instead.
“Can you see them?” she asked. “Point for me.”
The girl squinted, looked around, then pointed. “There.”
Biemwensé pushed her way through in that direction, until she
heard someone say: “Yaya?”
It was Afanfan, armed with his bow, sweaty and smeared with
dirt. Owude stood glued to him, looking the same. It occurred to her,
now, that she’d never asked them if they were related. She had
always assumed they were brothers or cousins, and they had never
bothered to furnish her with the details of their relationship. Perhaps
Afanfan had only appointed himself protector of the younger one,
much in the same way she had appointed herself protector over
them.
“What are you doing here, maa?” Afanfan’s voice had a nervous
quality to it, as if he was afraid someone would hear. “Come, come
away!” He pulled her and Owude to the back of a nearby shop, a
small shed whose owner—tomato seller, judging by the baskets
around—had never opened for the day due to the events. The front
of the shed was filled with onlookers attempting to stay out of the
sun while keeping an eye on proceedings. The rear was vacant.
“I heard the thundering,” Biemwensé was saying. “Awoke and
didn’t see you two. I thought you were in trouble.”
“Sorry I didn’t tell you we were leaving,” Afanfan said hastily,
leaning to glance elsewhere, as if watching for someone. “I did not
want to wake you. Can I—explain later? We are working.”
Working? Biemwensé thought, but before she could make sense
of this, Rudo had found them.
“Ay, you are there,” she said. “Supreme Magnanimous is asking
where you went. She wants you to meet somebody.”
As she said it, Kakutan emerged from the crowd and was
immediately followed by a younger Bassai woman with soft features,
but with an air that told another story. She wore her hair short, with
a few plaits adorned with cowrie. Her facepaint remained
immaculate, even though she was sweating beads above her lips.
“Ah,” said the woman, speaking first. “This is this the infamous
Yaya, is it?” She greeted in the Bassai way, a hand on the bridge of
her nose.
Biemwensé frowned at Kakutan, who looked almost sheepish, but
stood firm, demonstrating clearly that this was not a chance
happening.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I am Ifiot.” The woman smiled, but it did not soften Biemwensé’s
demeanour. “I lead the coalition here. Your boys have spoken often
about you.” She reached forward and draped an arm about Afanfan
and Owude. The boys looked down at their feet. Not scared, not
giggling, just… comfortable.
Something bitter clawed at Biemwensé’s insides.
“Coalition leader,” Biemwensé repeated.
“That’s right.”
“I remember meeting one such leader recently,” she said. “In a
wagon. Dead.”
“Ah.” Ifiot’s smile had not left. “Well, you know what they say
about desperate times and measures.”
Biemwensé turned to Kakutan. “What is this? What are you trying
to do?” She paused. “So you lured me here, is it? Pretended you
cared about the boys, about helping the Whudans.”
“I apologise for the clandestine nature of things,” said Kakutan,
“but we both know how stubborn you are, and that I couldn’t have
gotten you here otherwise. But don’t you for one moment believe I
don’t care—why am I here otherwise?” She had put her Supreme
Magnanimous voice back on, something Biemwensé had not heard
in a long time. “Maybe if you can climb off that throne you’re sitting
on and listen to her speak? She has some interesting ideas.” Kakutan
waved a hand behind her, at the blockade. “This one is just the first
of many more to come.”
Biemwensé regarded the coalition woman again, taking time to
study her eyebrows, her skin, the spear strapped to her back. She
was lovely looking, slightly muscular yet maidenlike at the same
time. Back in Whudasha, she would not have been deemed
appropriate for the Youth. Too languid. She seemed adept anyway,
like she knew how to be in charge. But, Biemwensé thought, there’s
already one such person occupying the highest seat in the empire.
Look how well that’s going.
Ifiot, knowing she was being weighed, angled her head.
“This is not a great time to become acquainted, I admit,” she
said. “But I hope we can call on your support, seeing as you and the
Supreme Magnanimous have worked together a long time. The
Nameless Republic will be grateful to have your experience and
expertise on our side.”
Republic? Side? What was this woman talking about?
“Your people are eager to be of aid to our quest,” Ifiot continued.
“Stuck here as they are with the rest of us, they could do with some
guidance like that which you have given your boys.” She pressed the
boys closer to herself.
Biemwensé’s eyes narrowed. She did not like this woman, and
she did not like whatever this talk was. She did not dignify Ifiot with
a response, but instead turned to Kakutan, betrayal brimming in her
eyes.
“One day with your people,” she said. “Just one day, and you
could not hold back. Could not take time to hold them, love them,
care for them. One day, and you’re already out here making deals on
their behalf, selling them out to renegades.”
Kakutan, whose role so far seemed like it was to placate, turned
sour.
“This is care,” she shot back. “I am here because I care, because
it is my duty to make things better for them.” She stepped forward.
“The people chose me to make decisions on their behalf, and that is
what I am doing.”
“By what—making them soldiers in a fake war with Bassa?”
“It is not a fake war…” Ifiot started, but the look Biemwensé shot
her dripped with so much poison, the woman swallowed the rest of
her words.
“Tell me—what is this, really?” Biemwensé asked Kakutan.
“Because I refuse to believe you have chosen to stay here, in a
foreign land, to fight behind a blockade made of litter and waste—
one that the emperor will sweep away with a wave of her hand. So
tell me—why?”
The flick of Kakutan’s eyes toward Ifiot did not seem intended.
The moment was fleeting, but it was clear. Something passed
between them, a softness that Biemwensé often found absent in
Kakutan’s demeanour. She turned to see Ifiot, who still wore a smile
of amusement, brushing away her dangling plaits.
“Menai strike me, for I must be dreaming,” she said. “You are
selling your people just to crawl into this woman’s wrappers?”
“Ooch,” said Ifiot, placing her hands over Owude’s ears. “There
are children here.”
“If you speak again!” said Biemwensé, a finger in Ifiot’s face. She
lifted her stick. “Go on! Try me! Speak and try me!”
She hadn’t seen the people standing in the wings, watching the
group like vultures. The moment she raised her stick, they
descended, and suddenly the group was surrounded by a small
armed guard.
Ifiot held up her hand before they could do anything. “It’s okay.”
She shuffled aside, away from the children. “You’re right. I shouldn’t
speak. This looks like something… private.” She ran a hand over the
heads of the boys, winked at Rudo, then beckoned to her guards.
After they had left, Kakutan turned to the older woman and
shook her head like a disappointed parent. “Now look what you’ve
gone and done.”
“Me? I have done something wrong?” Biemwensé laughed dryly.
“I can’t do this. I can’t.” She beckoned to the boys. “Come. We’re
leaving.”
Kakutan put a hand on her shoulder. “Wait.”
Biemwensé looked at the Supreme Magnanimous’s hand. “I give
you until the count of five…”
“You can’t leave yet,” said Kakutan. “The blockade is not going to
be opened for anyone. Not here, not in the corridors, not anywhere
in the ward. There are Nameless everywhere to ensure that.”
“Ah, so we’re prisoners,” said Biemwensé. She turned to the
children. “You hear that? A resistance, they say, but still oppressors,
yes?”
“We’re not prisoners.” This was Afanfan, head still slightly lowered
to show his deference. But there was firmness in his tone. Images of
the young, ruffled orphan boy who once came seeking food in her
corner of the protectorate, kneeling in the sand at her door to ask
for an onion to eat, flitted through her mind.
“We are not prisoners,” he pressed, “but we are not leaving.” He
did not look Biemwensé in the eye when he said it. Owude, to his
side, turned away too.
“Look at me,” said Biemwensé. She could feel them now, all the
tears she never cried when she lost everything—family, status, the
respect of the protectorate. Creeping out of her eyes, threatening to
run down her cheeks.
The boys did not look.
“Everything I have done, I have done because I want you to be
safe,” she said, lips trembling. “You are not safe in this city. You are
not safe with these people.”
“We will be fine, Yaya,” said Afanfan.
“Will you?” she said, then pointed to Kakutan. “Because she says
so?”
“Ifiot says she will take care of us,” said Owude.
“I will take care of you!” Biemwensé had never screamed at them
before. She couldn’t even recognise her own voice.
“Okay, that’s enough,” said Kakutan, pulling Biemwensé away.
She pointed to the children. “Wait here.”
Biemwensé let Kakutan pull her out of view and earshot of the
children. She did not want them to see her cry.
 “What is wrong with you?” asked Kakutan.
Biemwensé could not find the words. Kakutan gave her a moment
to wipe her tears and collect herself, then said: “You say you do
everything because you want them to be safe. That is a lie.”
Biemwensé looked up. “Excuse me?”
“It’s a lie, because you and I have been doing the same thing—
avoiding the truth that we’re just empty shells trying to fill up with…
something. It is why you planted your feet and helped Danso and
Lilong back in Whudasha, even when you knew it was foolhardy. It is
why I believed I could lead a whole protectorate beneath the Soke
mountains. It’s why we’re both here, trying to fill up our empty
shells again.”
Kakutan sighed. “For once, we should stop thinking about
ourselves and start thinking about what they want. I have listened to
the chatter in Fifteenth—no Whudan wants to go back to an empty
protectorate. Here, there—what does it matter? We’re still all under
Bassa’s thumb. But now…” She pointed toward the blockade. “They
have something to fight for, and they want to fight for it. They need
a voice at the table. So yes, I’m happy to be that voice because I am
listening. Are you? Listening?”
The incessant clamour of the crowd around them filled the
silence. Many in the streets had begun to depart, trying their luck in
the corridors like Mpewa had done. If Kakutan was right, they were
going to encounter similar barriers elsewhere.
“I can’t stay here,” said Biemwensé. “I just… can’t.”
“I know,” said Kakutan. “Which is why I will ask Ifiot to let you
go.”
Biemwensé peered into her comrade’s face. She wasn’t joking.
“No one is looking for us right now,” said Kakutan. “There are no
notices with our names. So you’re free to go wherever, but I say go
to Whudasha. Start afresh, become someone other than who you
used to be. Do not stay in Bassa. It will be dangerous here for a
while.” She exhaled. “But the boys have chosen to stay, and you
must respect that. I know it will be lonely, travelling all the way back
alone. I will ask Ifiot to get you a travelwagon.”
“I will go,” said a voice behind them, piercing the moment. It was
Rudo.
“What are you—”
“I want to go back to Whudasha. I don’t like it here.”
Finally, thought Biemwensé. Someone with sense.
“And your parents—what do they have to say about that?” asked
Kakutan.
“I have no parents,” said Rudo flatly. “But my great-uncle is alone
in the protectorate.” She swallowed. “I don’t want him to die alone.”
Biemwensé looked at Rudo’s eager eyes, alight with anticipation
in a way the boys’ no longer were, in a way that rekindled her own
fires. Perhaps Kakutan was right. Perhaps this was truly an
opportunity to start afresh, become something new.
“Trying times are coming,” Kakutan was saying, stepping forward.
“Even more trying than now. Whudans, here or in the protectorate,
deserve guidance, a leader to help them navigate.” She placed her
hand on Biemwensé’s shoulder. “I can take care of those here. But
those in Whudasha need a Supreme Magnanimous too.”
Biemwensé’s eyes widened. “What are you doing?”
“As Supreme Magnanimous of the Whudasha Youth,” said
Kakutan, “I hereby bestow upon you, sister, an equal claim to
leadership. As the moons are my witnesses above, and young Rudo
my witness below, I bid you: Go forth, serve your people.”
Biemwensé blinked at Kakutan, unable to find words. The other
woman kissed her on the cheek.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I will keep the boys safe. You have my
word.”
Biemwensé stood there, leaning awkwardly into her stick,
struggling to process the barrage of emotions that washed over her.
Then slowly, surely, she leaned forward, into Kakutan’s arms.
Kakutan held her close, warm, sure. It was a long time since
Biemwensé had last embraced someone like this.
“Be careful,” Biemwensé whispered.
She took Rudo by the hand and turned away. She did not return
to say goodbye to the boys. She could not bear for them to see her
face. But she was sad no longer, angry no longer, only hopeful for
the future and all the possibilities it promised.
 Kangala

The Lonely Roads East

Sixth Mooncycle, 20

“A FAMILY, TRAVELLING EASTWARD in a wagon,” Igan was saying. “The men

did not say how many, but they spoke of a baby. Said a woman put
the wailing child in their face.”
The emperor, whom the advisor was regaling with this tale,
blinked her understanding. The caravan had stopped early to camp
because their numbers had swelled by up to three-quarters beyond
the initial, thanks to peace officers heeding the emperor’s call and
joining up with them along the way. The Sahelian-to-peace officer
ratio was now one-to-one, which meant the caravan now required
an extra hour to set up camp, forcing all into closer quarters than
usual.
The emperor’s own camp, built around the royal travelwagon,
frequently changed position for safety reasons—today, they had
chosen the edge of camp. Which was how Kangala’s daily meditation
became interrupted. He’d opted for shade and discreetness behind a
towering naboom plant on the edge of the location, but had now
ended up an accidental eavesdropper on the emperor’s conversation.
“Put a child how?” the emperor was asking.
“Like…” Ikobi, the other advisor, pantomimed lifting something.
“Into the man’s face. Said he was trying to look into the
travelwagon, but the woman was asking for water, and the baby was
crying. Said they were in a hurry to come join us, so they just left.”
Daylight had begun to wane, and the sky above melded blue with
orange. Kangala considered revealing himself, but decided against it
when it became clear that neither emperor nor her advisors or
guards noticed him.
He kicked a nearby dead rat away and settled in, crouching lower.
This was the second bushrat he was seeing that had nibbled its way
to death by ingesting the naboom plant’s milky, poisonous sap. Even
he couldn’t attempt that. Skin irritations, blindness, death—those
were givens. Both bushrats showed signs of having clawed at their
eyes and flesh before succumbing to death.
If the animals in the desertlands could no longer survive the
harsh conditions, what hope did he and his family have?
“Did they spot him? Or her?” The emperor’s voice was soft, out of
character. She adjusted the small armlet on her arm, the one she
always wore everywhere, even now, while she sweated from the
exhaustion of the day’s travel. Kangala thought she looked pale, and
wondered why she had insisted on coming on this journey. The
savanna did not seem to agree with her.
“No,” Igan said, chewing on a blade of dry grass. “But putting
together the Chugoko wardens’ descriptions of the prison escapee, I
believe that baby-thrusting woman was Abuso’s daughter. Has to be.
I hear she bore a child in prison. Can’t say there are many women
out here with a child, headed east in a travelwagon.”
Kangala agreed. It was their fifth day of pursuit, and they had
followed the trail of campfires and travelwagon tracks that Oroe had
picked up from the razed hut discovered in Chugoko. There was no
easy way to tell if each new campfire they encountered was the
product of the fugitives they sought, but not many walked the
Lonely Roads East and made campfires in the open—and definitely
not such a motley group as Igan was describing. Though the tracks
disappeared and reappeared at will, erased by fierce wind, the
campfires offered footprint evidence as well. Oroe had counted at
least five people in the party, enough bodies to contain the
emperor’s fugitives. Igan’s assessment was more right than wrong.
“Hmm.” The emperor’s eyes were distant, unfocused, the
information received absentmindedly. “Why did they say it was a
family?”
“Looked like a family,” said Igan. “I’m almost sure that if Abuso’s
daughter is going east, then at least one or two of those who aided
her will be going east with her. And if one of those is the yellow
woman…”
They left the sentence hanging, but Kangala knew what this
meant. The fugitives—and they, their pursuers—were headed for the
Forest of the Mist, that storied place, which Kangala had so far only
regarded with amusement. But the seriousness of Igan’s tone made
him reconsider that position. If they truly believed this pursuit would
lead them there, then so be it. He was open to being wrong.
“At least this means we’re going in the right direction,” said the
emperor. Seemingly satisfied with this information, she reclined into
the cane seat she often used outside the travelwagon, the matter
closed.
Kangala had earlier seen a group of peace officers being punished
—stripped of their officerhood, relegated to hand status, shunted to
the rear of the caravan—for a reason he didn’t understand at the
time. Now he realised they must have been the ones who brought
this news to Igan.
Kangala was a bit disappointed that the emperor was yet to
display the ruthlessness she was famed for. The complete absence of
her rumoured Soldiers of Red was conspicuous. Though there was
the Ninki Nanka—the undead beast’s motionless, unbreathing sleep
unnerved Kangala even more than the animal’s size, or the stories
he’d heard of what it could do, how just a drop of its spittle could
peel a man’s flesh off his bones. It had taken him a while to get
used to travelling alongside it, and always ensured to keep it at
arm’s length.
But all the beast had done so far on this trip was sleep. For some
reason, the emperor was not interested in meting out brute force.
Even when they had faced danger—say, on their third day in the
savanna, when they had come upon a herd of feral elephants, and
the lead elephant had trumpeted at them, refusing to leave the path.
He’d expected the emperor to rouse the Ninki Nanka and scare them
off. Instead, the caravan ended up killing time by using loud noises
to scare the herd away.
Kangala was not a superstitious person, and did not really believe
in or pay reverence to any gods in the desertlands or mainland, but
he knew one thing: A beast of this nature did not come under a
person’s control without a significant amount of power of some form
being expended. Which begged the question: If one harboured such
power, and one was the most powerful figure in the whole continent,
why would one refrain from exercising said power?
There was only one answer: The power was finite, and was being
conserved.
The emperor, as if responding to this discovery by Kangala,
emanated a sudden long groan, jolting Kangala out of his thoughts.
He made himself smaller behind the naboom plant, watching Igan
and their posse encircle the emperor to cover her from sight. But not
before Kangala, who was close enough, noticed the emperor place a
hand on her belly and wince.
Slowly, recognition dawned on him.
He’d heard that groan intermittently before, during the ride—
most of the caravan had. Everyone simply pretended it did not come
from the emperor’s travelwagon. But he had seen, with his own two
eyes, which mouth the sound had come from, and what it signified.
The signs had been there to see all along. The emperor’s swings
between periods of extreme boisterousness and extreme tiredness,
so that she was missing for large swaths of the trip, asleep in the
royal travelwagon even in the daytime. Her growing pallor, her
slower gait, her increased asocial demeanour. It made sense now.
The emperor was with child.
He managed a peek from behind the naboom. The cane chair
was empty, emperor and advisors nowhere to be found. The door to
the royal travelwagon was shut.
Kangala crept away from behind the plant and went in search of
Oroe.

That night, while all of camp was asleep and only the peace officers
on watch were out, Kangala awoke and prayed.
“Four Winds,” he whispered into the dark, night breeze caressing
his face. “If there is a sign, show it to me sooner than later.”
Once, while attempting to investigate why Oroe’s champions’
rations had been suddenly reduced (all of the caravan’s rations had
been shorted to make up for an unplanned shortfall), Kangala had
discovered that it corresponded with an increase in the emperor’s
rations. He’d wondered why one who felt such ravenous hunger
would subject themselves to travel through the wilderness. Now that
he knew her pregnancy was the reason, it raised even bigger
questions.
Who were these fugitives, and why were they so important? What
did she seek of them that made this sacrifice worth it?
He knew only what Butue had told him, what the public notices
offered, what gossip he’d gleaned. An invader, yes; a former
intended, yes; a deceased politician’s living daughter, yes. But there
seemed to be something deeper here than just prison escapees and
enemies of the crown.
He rummaged in his pack, dug out and unwrapped the cloth tales
his daughter, Ngipa, had handed to him before they left.
He and Ngipa had developed this secret messaging—one even
Oroe did not know—for situations such as these. Stories told in
fabric, strips of cloth with thread woven through in very specific
patterns only the weaver and the receiver understood. She’d handed
him a stack of them before the journey began, informing him that it
was all she had learned from her sojourns into the city in the few
days since they’d camped outside Chugoko.
Now, Kangala held the strips of cloth between his fingers,
positioned them just like Ngipa had taught him, so that every finger
was equidistant from the other in the pattern of the weave. Beneath
each weave was a knot of thread, pinprick-like, easy to miss if one
wasn’t feeling properly. One knot followed the other, each knot a
sound, each sound a word, each word a small part of a longer
message. He shut his eyes, settled in, and began to read.

Ngipa’s report began with a retracing of the steps of the prison

escapees, from every location they were deemed to have been
spotted, back to the prison. She learned about the constant visitors
to the escaped prisoner—two men, who had been given the baby
she bore in prison. Few knew much about the men—even after she’d
visited the public houses, no one was willing to speak. So she
returned her gaze to the woman, and was surprised by what she
uncovered.
Her investigation asked deeper questions than the wardens had
dared to. Why now? Why did the emperor’s greatest enemies leave
hiding after all this time, show up in the one city with the most allies
of the empire, break out a prisoner, then escape?
She began to seek out wardens, searching for one of those who
had set sight on the yellow woman that day, whether they had
interacted with her or not. She finally bribed her way into a drink
with one of the wardens on duty at the prisoner’s gate during the
escape. He was still limping from the beating by baton his knees had
taken, and had a bandage wrapped around his head.
“I have not work here long, see?” the man said. “I just join a
mooncycle or two before the attack. Only thing I know is that the
prisoner is Bassai, and she don’t talk plenty. She just sit there and
sing sometime. A long song, maybe like a story, I don’t know.”
Ngipa wanted to know what the song was.
“A foreign language, I don’t know it, but I can say what I hear.
Maybe it is correct, maybe it is not.”
Ngipa asked him to sing anyway. It indeed was a foreign
language, sounding like the gibberish the warden thought he was
singing. But that was only because it was not one language: It was
many braided together. High Bassai slipping into Mainland Common
twisted into Savanna Common chopped up with various border
tongues. A tale hidden by its own telling, so that only a person
blessed with multiple lips and multiple ears could unravel it.
Unluckily for this clever weaver, Ngipa was such a person. And so,
as the man began to sing, Ngipa began to translate:
Listen, then, children of the seven islands, for I am going to tell
you of a city once prosperous in this archipelago.

When Kangala lifted his head, both moons had taken to the sky. He
put away the cloth tales and rose. It was a bright night, but the two
peace officers on duty did not seem concerned with him. He shuffled
across camp, greeting the two watchmen, pretending to seek a spot
to piss in. The tent he sought stood opposite his. He slipped into it
silently.
Oroe was already waiting in the dark, awake.
“How many peace officers can each champion kill before they are
killed?” Kangala asked.
“Eh?” Though he couldn’t see it in the dark, Kangala was sure
Oroe’s eyes widened.
“How many can they kill,” he repeated, “before they go down?”
“What are you planning?” Oroe asked.
“You know what,” was Kangala’s reply.
“She is only pregnant, not indisposed,” said Oroe. “One wrong
move, and she rouses that beast. We won’t last half a moment.”
Kangala paused, then said: “I know why the fugitives are headed
east, and why the emperor is really going after them.”
He told Oroe of the tale of the buried city of powerful minerals
he’d learned about from Ngipa’s story, a tale that spoke of the power
to rouse dead beasts and move mountains. A city beneath islands
filled with peoples that may or may not exist—people like this yellow
woman the emperor spoke of. A tale that told him what said power
was: not a blessing from the moon gods, not an ordination of
person, elevating them to supreme being.
It was all a little stone. A little stone that could be taken away.
Oroe was shaking his head, even after Kangala finished his
explanation.
“Ngipa should know better, filling your head with this nonsense,”
said Oroe. “A dozen peace officers and a great beast aside, there is
also the Second’s posse. We cannot possibly defeat them all?”
“No,” said Kangala. “We cannot, and we should not plan to. To
achieve our goals, we do not have to defeat them all, or all at once,
or all in the same manner.”
“What are you planning, daa?”
“I don’t know yet,” Kangala said, “but I know it is possible.” He
straightened. “How many, Oroe?”
Oroe was silent for a moment, then said: “Two.”
Kangala nodded in the dark. “Two is a good number. It is more
than one.” He rose. “Stay close and stay ready. Opportunity may
arise at any time.”
Oroe’s breath was audible. “And the beast?”
“Haven’t you heard the old saying The bigger they are, the harder
they fall?” He chuckled. “Leave the beast to me, son.”
Kangala slipped out of the tent and back into the cold night.
 Lilong

The Lonely Roads East

Sixth Mooncycle, 28

BACK ON THE ROAD, Lilong opted for driving duty, hoping for some time
alone to settle the tempest raging in her mind. She had not driven a
travelwagon such as this before, but she took to the reins anyway,
absentmindedly receiving Danso’s navigation instructions. The sun
was at its most violent by the time she climbed into the driver’s seat,
and the lonely roads were unshaded. After applying sun-butter to
her face and arms, she pulled large wrappers around herself and
wore her large straw hat, then began to steer the kwagas with
difficulty.
The plagues of Risisi have not been triggered. There is no plague
of beasts. Danso and Oke must be wrong. We don’t even know if
Risisi is a real place!
These and other denials had filled her mind throughout last night.
But the more she thought about it all, the more she realised not
everything could be a lie. The genge were proof. These were no
ordinary beasts, so something had to have triggered their arousal
from slumber. Maybe ibor had something to do with it; maybe not.
But something was happening.
She just couldn’t bring herself to believe that the Ihinyon or the
Abenai League could be involved in this world-affecting change. Or
worse: her own daa. If this buried city of Risisi was truly real, and
someone had uncovered it—and in so doing, unleashed plagues onto
the world—her daa was the only one who had the knowledge,
access, and will to do so.
Did this mean he was still alive? Did this mean he had somehow
found a way to uncover this city and its secrets? Did this mean that
the ibor scarcity in Ihinyon was over?
As if sensing her disconcertment, the kwagas drawing the
travelwagon kept disobeying her commands. She manoeuvred them
back into place, suddenly aware of the discomforts of this job, like
the bare wood of the seat digging into her buttocks. Regardless, this
felt revitalizing, distracting enough to lighten her mind and heart.
Driving the travelwagon gave her a sense of purpose and direction, a
conviction that she was doing something, as Danso had put it.
And indeed, she had decided she was going to do something.
Witnessing Danso’s strange new desire for iborworking made her
realise that maybe her daa and Oke had it all wrong. Power like this
—it rotted insides. It turned the most well-meaning people into
predators. And if her daa had truly discovered a buried city full of
power, what was she—an Abenai warrior, sworn to protect her land
and people—to do?
She couldn’t turn her back on it all. Not with all the knowledge
she’d gained, especially if it turned out to be true. She didn’t even
have anywhere else to go—she had been to the world out there, and
it wasn’t exactly welcoming. If Risisi was truly real, then there was
no running from it. She might escape the plagues of fires, dirt,
water, wind, and beasts, but she’d never escape the plague of
human greed and desire.
If Risisi’s reopening didn’t destroy the world in plagues, then
someone would eventually gain access to its immense power and
become a problem for all of Oon.
No, she couldn’t turn away from this. Her very responsibility as a
warrior—the only thing she knew how to be—demanded that she do
something. So yes, she was going to do what was required to
protect everyone from Risisi and its plagues.
And maybe the best protection from a city that was going to
implode on itself was to ensure that, this time around, it finished the
job.

They were coming upon a wooded area, one of many such areas
they had marked on the map and planned to steer clear of, as these
were notorious for travellers getting waylaid by bandits. If she
remembered Danso’s instructions correctly, Lilong was to turn them
off the lonely roads and onto any of the various bushpaths that
circled the area.
She steered the kwagas conscientiously, and they went down one
of the requisite paths.
A bang came on the roof of the travelwagon. Someone was
calling for her to stop. She pulled the reins, and the kwagas
reluctantly obeyed.
Danso’s head poked out of the window. “Where are you going?”
“Hmm?” Lilong looked around, frowning. “You said take the path.”
“Oh for moons’ sake, I said do not take the path.”
“Oh,” said Lilong. “I thought we were avoiding woodland?”
Oke, Alaba, and Ugo emerged from the travelwagon, looking
around.
“Where are we, even?” Alaba was asking.
“We’re avoiding woodlands, yes,” said Danso. “Except this one.”
Lilong retrieved the map he’d marked and squinted at it. In the
high sun and without her reading stones, she couldn’t see anything
useful.
 “The Weary Sojourner is a half day’s ride,” Oke was explaining,
balancing Thema on her hip. She pointed behind Lilong, in the
opposite direction. “That way. So we should be going through the
woodland, not away from it.”
“Oh,” said Lilong again, looking sheepish.
“Why are we not avoiding this one again?” Alaba asked.
“Because it’s not real,” Ugo offered. “Set up by bandits so that
travellers avoid it, take these paths instead, then run into their
waiting ambush.”
“Ah,” said Alaba, chuckling. “So that means—”
A fizz, a thwack, and there was an arrow sticking out of Alaba’s
side.
The blood did not come immediately, but in slow motion,
spreading over his garment. Alaba stared at the arrow, confused,
before falling to a knee, and then to the ground.
“Everybody down!” screamed Lilong, and Drew as two more
arrows flew past them.
Six figures appeared from nowhere—two on foot, four on two
kwagas. They were fast, even the two on foot, closing the distance
in a quarter moment. They were dressed head to toe in singular
robes, veils over their faces, and hands wrapped so that their skin
could not be seen. Almost Gaddo-like.
But Lilong knew, at once, that this was no company. There was
no order to their approach, and no strategy to their assault. They
simply charged toward the group, misjudging their constitution—two
women, a baby, three men who didn’t look like fighters—and
thinking them there for the taking. Their eyes, the only parts of
them she could see, were not even assessing the dangers, as if they
expected no threats.
She had not harmed anyone in a long time, and she was not keen
to return to doing so. But one look at these bandits, and she knew
that if she did not move fast, arrows would be sticking to them the
way one stuck to Alaba right now.
Lilong Drew as they approached, and did not bother to swing a
blade in anyone’s direction. Instead, she sent it toward the ground,
whirling it before the kwagas in wild, whipping motions. The beasts,
spooked, barked and reared to a halt, pitching their cargo—including
the archer, whose bow snapped as they fell—into the dust.
Those on foot headed straight for Oke. Lilong could see the plan:
hold on to the most vulnerable of them and use that as leverage.
But Oke saw it too, and she Drew. Water hurled from inside the
travelwagon and smacked the first bandit in the face, sending them
down. The other was close—too close. Oke was pulling the water
back from the other bandit, now in the dust, but it was a slow and
arduous process.
Lilong did not think. Her warrior training took over, and she
Commanded the blade without hesitation. Go.
The hilt arrowed straight into the back of the bandit’s neck,
knocking them from behind and off balance. The bandit staggered,
dagger a hair’s breadth from Oke’s face. Oke stepped out of the way
as the bandit fell forward—
—and crashed their jaw into the edge of the travelwagon.
There was a jarring pop, and the bottom half of their face
separated from the top, veil tearing off, clinging to the white bone
and bloody flesh that landed in the dust. The bandit rolled over, nose
and upper teeth drooping, eyes wide. Where the rest of their face
should have been, flesh dangled, and blood spurted. Oke turned
away and covered her baby’s eyes.
Time stopped, and not just for Lilong. Even the remaining bandits
—three of them—paused, suddenly putting together what they had
witnessed: Lilong’s moving blade, Oke’s Commanded water, their
fallen comrade, the wounded Alaba, whom Oke and Ugo were now
kneeling beside.
Lilong found that her throat was dry, watching the wounded
bandit jerk in the dust, saying a silent prayer that they were still
alive. This was not something she had done before—praying for the
well-being of someone she had just attacked. When last had she
even attacked someone this way? Not even as Snakeblade of the
Gaddo Company, and not even during the prison break. The last
time, if she remembered correctly, was at the Dead Mines, when she
had hurled her blade at Esheme, or before then, when she had
fought Oboda in Whudasha, or Nem in Bassa. Those were deserved.
This? Not so much.
She was a warrior, yes, trained as such. But more than anything,
Lilong thought herself a protector. Not an aggressor or attacker. Not
a killer.
The wounded bandit stopped moving.
She turned around to face the three still standing. One of them,
the only archer left, had their bow taut, arrow aimed straight for
Lilong’s head only a short distance away. Their hands shook. Watery
eyes darted toward the bandit on the ground, then to Lilong’s
discarded blade, then back to Lilong.
“Put it down,” Lilong said, calmly lifting her hands. “Put it down,
and you can take your comrades home. Survive.” She angled her
head in the direction of the wounded bandit. “Especially that one.”
The archer looked at their comrade in the dust again, then to the
others who had been knocked unconscious when they fell from the
kwagas. Behind, the other two looked unsure as well.
“Down,” said Lilong. “Do it now.”
The archer’s eyes brimmed with tears. Their arms relaxed, the
string slackened a tad, and the bow lowered just a pinch.
Behind Lilong, Alaba groaned. From the corner of her eye, she
saw Oke compressing the wound, having removed the arrow. Danso
knelt next to her, Ugo on the opposite side, trying to keep the
stricken Thema calm. Lilong wanted to turn around to see if Alaba
was okay, but feared that the bandits would do something rash with
that opening.
“How is he doing?” she shouted over her shoulder.
“Not good!” Ugo screamed back.
Thwack.
Perhaps it was nerves, or poor training, but the bandit let go.
Lilong was sure she’d seen the resignation in their stance, was sure
that they wanted to put it down. But a taut arrow was primed to fly,
and fly it did.
Fortunately, Lilong had been prepared for this too. As soon as the
arrow left the bow, she Commanded her blade.
It struck the arrowhead exactly where she’d wanted it. The arrow
diverted, but only slightly, whizzing too close by her ear, the tail
slicing her cheek. She did not hear a thunk behind her, or a scream
of pain, so knew it did not hit anyone or anything, and therefore was
still flying into the wilds.
A stinging pain bloomed on her cheek. She lifted a finger, touched
it. It came away wet and sticky.
The bandit, eyes wide, fell to their knees in the dust. Then their
shoulders heaved, and tears wet the veil, causing it to droop. Now
she could see the face: a young boy—too young.
“Brother,” he was saying in what sounded like a savanna pidgin.
“Brother.”
The other two bandits did not pull back their veils, but Lilong
peered now and could finally see they were all young. She turned
around to see the bandit without the face, and decided that one was
similar too.
Children, she realised. These are all children.
In that moment she registered Danso rise from beside Alaba and
disappear behind the wagon. She felt for her pouch, and
remembered that Danso had it, with the Diwi inside. Then she
realised why he’d run to the rear of the travelwagon: The dead
genge was there.
“Danso!” she called, trying not to turn her gaze away from the
bandits. “Danso!”
No response.
“Danso!” she called again. “Don’t! They’re just children!”
Slowly, tentatively, Danso appeared from behind the travelwagon.
His eyes were fiery red, a tumultuous blaze. In his hand: the Diwi, to
which he was completely given over.
Oh no, thought Lilong.
The bandits panicked at the sight of him. A foolhardy bravery
took over the face of the lead child, who now stepped forward,
ready to advance on Danso.
“No,” Lilong said in the child’s direction, then to Danso: “Put that
away!”
The bandit advanced farther.
Lilong stepped in to cover the distance, gesturing toward Danso.
“I said move—”
 A buzz like a giant bee filled her ear, and with it came sharp air.
An arrow whistled past her and struck the back of the travelwagon,
next to Danso. She shot around to find the archer reloading the bow.
“Stop!” she screamed, running over to Danso, blocking him with
her body. She grabbed the Diwi from his hand, praying that the
genge had not already been activated. Thankfully, it was still in the
back of the travelwagon, yet to move.
She returned her attention to the bandits.
“You have a choice,” she said. “Turn around now. Take your
injured comrade and go. I promise you will come to no harm. You
have my word.” Then she flexed her mind, and her blade rose and
swung in circles before her, raising dust. “Or you can stay and meet
your end. You have my word on that too.”
After what seemed like an eternity of pause, the archer finally
lowered his bow. The other two quickly stepped forward, pulling
back their unconscious comrades, and then their wounded one.
Soon, they were on kwagaback, retreating, dust in their wake.
Lilong exhaled with relief and turned to Danso. “Are you all
right?”
He was staring at his hands. “It still didn’t work.”
“And thank Great Forces for that,” said Lilong. “You were going to
let that thing murder children.”
“They tried to murder us.”
“And so what? They’re still children! Did you ever stop to think
that somebody trained them to do that? Did you ever think that
maybe they never had a choice?”
She saw that Danso knew she was right, but was too consumed
by anger to back down. After glaring at one another, fuming, she
tempered tensions by putting the Diwi back in his hand.
“Put that away,” she said. “Now.”
Alaba’s groans cut through their quarrel. Conflict suspended, they
dashed for him. Alaba whimpered with pain as Oke pressed down on
his wound.
“I can dress that,” said Danso, dashing to the travelwagon for
medicine. He returned with a pack, giving instructions—chew this,
spit that here—while Alaba’s lips emanated sounds of agony. Even
after wrapping the wound in herbs and a bandage, the pain did not
seem to abate. And when he sat up, it resumed bleeding.
“Can we get to the Weary Sojourner before nightfall?” Danso
asked. “He needs to lie flat, get some rest, maybe even a strong
drink.”
“If we ride hard,” said Oke, and climbed into the driver’s seat.
They tried to make space for Alaba to lie in the wagon, but the
genge had taken up so much that there was little left for them all.
“We have to get rid of the beast,” said Lilong to Ugo. She glanced
at Danso. “Unless you object.”
What that look in his eye was, she wasn’t sure. A sort of twisted
anger, maybe a little of it directed at her, but most of it wasn’t about
her. It wasn’t even about those child-bandits. It was something else,
something she didn’t have time for right now.
“I said do you object, Danso?”
He shrugged. “You do what you have to do, Lilong, and I’ll do
what I have to.”
She kissed her teeth, beckoning to Ugo. “Brother, help me get
this thing down. We’ll drag it under that naboom plant there. And
then let us ride for the Weary Sojourner with everything we have.”
 Danso

The Weary Sojourner Caravansary

Sixth Mooncycle, 28, same day

THE WEARY SOJOURNER, WHEN the party arrived, did not look like a
formerly burned-down establishment to Danso. Before them was a
quaint little compound with an entryway, a main building with one
storey, and scattered adjoining huts. At said entryway was a
conspicuous sign that read in as many languages as it could: NO
ARMS. Beside the entryway was an array of wooden chests, some
open, some nailed shut. Likely where all the disarmed weaponry was
stored.
“What if we don’t want to leave our weapons?” Lilong asked
aloud.
“Then you fit to be on your way,” said a voice in Savanna
Common.
A woman emerged from the main building. She was stout and
hard-faced, yet had a matronly air about her. She held a gourd of
water, and a rag hung from her shoulder.
“You must be Madam Pikoyo,” said Danso.
“Indeed I am,” said the woman.
“We have a wounded,” said Oke. “And we need aid.”
The woman tilted her head. “Bandits, yes? You no hear about
taking the woodland?” She observed Lilong’s sheepish expression,
shaking her head. “And what this business about keeping your
arms?”
“We have just been attacked,” said Lilong. “You can’t now be
asking us to give up the only thing that ensures we do not suffer an
attack again?”
“I can, and I will,” said the woman. The rag and gourd made her
seem very ordinary, but Danso knew that no ordinary person built an
establishment in the middle of the savanna, to talk less of insisting
upon disarming as a rule.
“Okay, okay,” said Oke, casting panicked glances at Alaba, who
still lay bleeding in the wagon. “How will we keep safe while we’re
here?”
“Safety is no worry at the Weary Sojourner,” said Madam Pikoyo.
“This establishment bear allegiance to nobody. Whoever you are out
there, in my house you are neutral party. No enemies here.”
“What if we get in there and someone chooses not to follow your
rules?”
Madam Pikoyo offered a wry smile. “I say you can’t have arms. I
don’t say I can’t have arms.”
Lilong and Oke glanced at one another.
“It’s okay,” said Lilong, then unlatched her blade. “Oke and I don’t
quite need it anyway.” She dropped it in one of the open chests. Oke
and Ugo, who both had daggers of their own, did the same. Danso
held up his hands to demonstrate that he had nothing.
It was then Madam Pikoyo spotted the baby strapped to Oke’s
chest.
“Oh, my, my, my,” she said, flummoxed. “Why you carry a child
into this kind life so?” A formerly missing earnestness had suddenly
crept into her voice, as if she were scolding a member of her family.
The party looked at one another.
 “No just stand there,” she said, tucking a hand into the crook of
Oke’s elbow and leading her away. “Less get you and that baby
clean.”
“My partner, wounded…” Oke was saying, but Pikoyo whistled.
Out of nowhere came a number of young people of all genders.
“They will take your wounded upstairs,” she said, beckoning to
Ugo to lead two helpers to where Alaba lay in the wagon. Another
helper goaded Oke forward with the baby, pointing her toward some
place of comfort. Others helped unhitch the kwagas and take them
out to the back where they could rest and replenish.
Pikoyo turned to Danso and Lilong, left behind.
“Well, then,” she said. “Welcome to the Weary Sojourner. We
have whatever you are willing to buy. Food, drink, beds, comfort.”
She leaned forward. “Comfort.”
As she said this, one of the helpers approached Lilong and Danso.
“Same or separate quarters?” the young man asked Danso.
“Separate?” said Danso.
“Separate mean one of you stay in my quarters and the other
stay alone.” He smiled invitingly at Danso. “I choose you. But if you
like, us three can stay together.”
“No,” Lilong and Danso chorused.
“Fine,” he said, walking away. “That just mean you two stay
together in the same quarters.” He shook his head. “Boring.”

A stone scrub, a long soak, and a trim of his beard later, Danso felt
brand-new. Dressed in fresh wrappers and with the cleanest hair
he’d had in a while, he felt like the jali he was meant to be. Lilong,
who had been waiting out of his way as much as he’d been ensuring
to keep out of hers, took her things to the washroom as soon as he
emerged.
Danso dressed, deciding it was impossible to spend the rest of
the night within proximity of her. He gathered his manuscript and
charcoal stylus. Maybe later, he’d go to the main building and see if
he could find a drink and some stories for his codex. But he needed
to do something first, and that meant checking on Alaba’s health.
The compound, as he crossed it, was a loose collection of
buildings with no particular style. Each hut surrounding the main
building had its own character, built to represent the personality of
its inhabitant. The young woman whose quarters Lilong and Danso
currently inhabited had told them that each person here was from a
sacked community, displaced by peace officers gone wild and drunk
on the Red Emperor’s backing. Unable to live on the trade route or
under the ham-fisted rule of big cities like Chugoko, most survivors
of such communities ended up here, seeking a safe haven. Madam
Pikoyo had offered each new arrival materials to build their abode,
and the opportunity to make a living working at the Weary Sojourner
in exchange for sustenance and the protection of the neutral
establishment. And just like that, the public house had grown from
the singular housekeep into a community of desertlanders who did
not fit anywhere else.
Upstairs, Danso heard Alaba’s room before he saw it. The door
was shut, but Oke’s familiar voice carried through.
“You are staying, and that is final,” she was saying.
“You don’t get to make decisions for us.” This was Alaba. He did
not sound like someone in pain at all. Madam Pikoyo had assured
them that there were good healers in the community, but Danso had
thought it best to confirm for himself. Turned out he needn’t have
worried after all.
“This is not the time to be stubborn, Aba,” she said. “You have
risked your life enough for me already—you both have. I cannot
have your demise on my hands, don’t you understand? I cannot live
to see you die. I cannot—”
She choked, and then there was silence, filled only with
blubbering, unintelligible sounds Danso could have sworn Oke was
incapable of making. Then someone was saying in a calm, placid
voice: “It’s okay, it’s okay. Don’t let Thema hear you—she’ll cry too.”
“You have to make him stay, Ugo,” Oke said through sobs. “You
have to make him. I don’t care if you have to stay and do it—make
him stay.”
Danso thought he heard footsteps coming in his direction, so he
walked away. But Oke came storming out the door and saw him
anyway. He turned to her, pretending to have randomly stumbled
upon the room by chance, but her glare quickly sliced through the
act. She looked offended, as if he had just caught her in a bad act.
“Tell Lilong we leave tomorrow,” she said. “Just us three.” She
paused. “And Thema.”
She breezed past him and went downstairs to the main room.
Danso watched her order a drink and take a seat in the empty space
—there were no travellers in sight, save for them.
He watched her for a moment longer, assured that she’d
registered that she’d seen him with his codex. Then he slipped
downstairs, to the backyard, where the kwagas—now separated
from the travelwagon and being tended to—were tied.
A stablehand stood there, refilling the water troughs. Danso
beckoned to the young man, reached into his wrappers, pulled out a
copper piece or two, and handed them to him. The young man’s
eyes widened with appreciation, before his brows furrowed in
confusion.
“If anyone asks,” Danso said, unsure if the young man
understood his Savanna Common, “I’m inside there, writing in this.”
He pointed toward a nearby stable, then tapped the codex.
The man nodded. Danso plopped the papers, stylus and all, in the
young man’s hand.
“I want you to hold on to these for now.” He pointed to the
kwagas. “Prepare one of those for me.”

The genge was still there, under the naboom plant, when Danso
arrived.
 He’d only half expected to find it. Current conditions in the
savanna meant every animal was roving in hunger. He wouldn’t have
been surprised if another pack of genge had simply eaten one of
their own.
He descended from the kwaga, tied it at another nearby naboom
tree, then dragged the dead animal a little ways away so as not to
spook the kwaga when it awoke.
If it awoke.
He knelt in the dry, prickly grass, reached into his wrappers, and
pulled out the Diwi. He lay his other hand on the fallen beast. Then
he shut his eyes tight, inhaled a lungful of the night air, and hoped.
“I have done everything I can,” he said into the quiet night. “I
have done all I’ve been asked, and yet I come away with nothing.
With only pain, regret, ashes.” He swallowed. “So I will stop. I will
no longer do what I have done, what I have been told to do. Today,
I will do something else—I will no longer be a victim. I will no longer
be the basket that collects the rain, or the vane that the wind swings
any way it wishes. No—I will be the rain. I will be the wind.”
The genge remained unmoved. The disquiet of the open
wilderness, punctured only by chirping crickets, answered him back.
“I want to live,” he said as he felt the power of red ibor begin to
coalesce at the bottom of his belly, build up into his lungs. “If I must
help those I care about—the oppressed, the underserved, the
invisible of Bassa and beyond; my people—then I must live. I cannot
perish like those who have come before me, like those who I’ve
loved but who were not strong enough.”
His voice took on an edge, sharper, angrier. “I could not protect
them, and I cannot protect myself. But if I must live, then I must be
safe.” He inhaled, ibor rushing into him, filling every crevice. “So
rise, old beast. Rise and protect me. Rise, and aid my quest.”
Somewhere, the stirrings of something familiar—old and angry
and ready—began. He leaned into it, wished its journey along,
pushed its trajectory onto that of the animal beneath him.
Consuming power rushed forth—lively, eager, foreboding.
Memories circulated through his consciousness: lightning striking the
Bassai hunthands near the Peace Fence; the Skopi attacking various
hunthands in Whudasha; Zaq burning at the pyre, his screams
rending the air; Habba bleeding on the ground in the Dead Mines,
blade in his shoulder; Habba, engulfed in fire, burning.
The kwaga, tied to the tree, barked and snorted.
The memories cleared. The genge stirred.
Blood-red eyes opened.
Danso felt the prickle of the grass on the animal’s side where it
lay. He rose, and the beast rose with him. Now one with the beast,
every single motion of its was his: every straining sinew; every tired
knee; every nerve ending tasting the dusty water droplets in the air
and perceiving the sweat of the petrified kwaga in the distance.
Danso drank it in, laughter escaping his lips. The genge was a
majestic beast to look at, but even more majestic to feel.
When he had drunk full of this feeling, he returned to the kwaga.
The animal, sensing something new about him, remained perturbed.
He reached out a hand and calmed it until it allowed him to mount
its back again.
Then he turned it around, faced the direction in which the bandits
had gone, and cantered off.
The genge, eyes brimming red, followed its master.
 Danso

The Lonely Roads East

Sixth Mooncycle, 28–29

IT WAS EASY TO find the bandit camp. Danso had added so much to the
original map he’d started out with that he now had a better idea of
the savanna’s patterns. He knew where one might end up if they
followed certain roads, if they tracked certain vegetation, and
whether possibilities for settlement existed. From their direction of
escape alone, he’d surmised the most feasible location for a base of
operations and was unsurprised to find them there.
It was a small camp, semipermanent, with one large tent orbited
by a few smaller ones. Telltale signs of a nomadic lifestyle
abounded: Livestock—sheep, goats, a singular camel—were
scattered around the camp. A fire burned in the middle, and another
near the edge of the large tent. The children—the bandits from
earlier, he guessed—were crowded near that tent, morose and
whispering to themselves. Around the fire sat a group of three adult
men, enjoying a drink, some meat, and a lot of laughter and
camaraderie.
Danso did not wait or hide. He Drew and Possessed the genge as
soon as the kwaga was close enough to be noticed, sending the
unsightly beast ahead of him. The genge was a silent monster,
slithering silkily through the grass unnoticed until it was right upon
the morose children.
The children looked up at the shadow that fell upon them—and
screamed.
The men by the fire rose at the same time other men emerged
from the darkness. Danso, still atop the kwaga, counted six, all
dressed like the children had been earlier but without the veils. They
had their weapons at the ready: bows, swords, spears. They
recoiled, stricken, when they saw the genge, and their confidence
faltered. But they stood forward anyway.
“Who is you?” the closest to him asked in Savanna Common.
“Talk!”
Danso’s heartbeat increased at the sight of blades, but he willed
it to slow down. Be like Ugo, he told himself, channelling the
legendary journeyman who was always the embodiment of calm in
every chaos.
Instead of panicking, he Commanded the genge: Go.
The animal did something. Danso couldn’t say what that
something was because it happened too fast. One moment, the
genge was standing next to him; the next, it was standing next to
him again, a lump of bloody flesh hanging between its teeth,
dangling from the sides of its mouth, painting its chin in red.
The man who had spoken looked down at his sword, lying in the
grass, bloodied at the handle. Still gripping the hilt was a hand—his
hand, missing a few fingers. He lifted his arm to his face, and where
there used to be a wrist, there was a fleshy, bloody stump leaking
blood.
The man made a deathly noise that rent the night air. Then he
promptly collapsed. The rest of the party went white, from children
to adults.
The genge spat out the fingers and licked its bloody lips, primed
for another Command.
“Put down your weapons,” said Danso in Savanna Common. “Or
your heads will be next.”
The bandits slowly acceded, lifting their arms after letting down
their weapons. From inside the tent emerged one more adult,
unarmed, carrying a bloody rag. He followed suit.
Danso descended from the kwaga and strutted through the grass
to where the genge stood. He ran a hand over the animal’s velvety
body and teased one of its skin-antennae between his thumb and
forefinger.
“You hurt someone I care about,” he said. “You sent children to
kill us just for a few cowries. And now you sit here and banter as if
nothing about the world has changed.” He was looking at the adults.
“Do you ever think that each time you do what you do, people lose
more than their goods? Did you know that everything changes for
them?”
He was breathing heavily in a way that terrified the camp.
“Please,” the nearest man said. “We no do anything. Just take
what you want.”
“You think I’m a thief?” Danso felt insulted. “You think because
your life is driven by greed and murder, mine is too?”
“No, sorry—”
Danso Commanded the genge to stand in front of the man, so
close its antennae touched the man’s nose. The man yelped, knees
shaking.
“I am not a killer,” Danso said. “Or, shall I say—I do not intend to
kill. Not tonight. But you have done a bad thing to good people, and
for that, you must pay.”
He pointed to the men. “I will not ask this more than once. I
want you to turn around where you stand and start walking.”
The men looked at one another. “Where?” one asked.
“Away. Away from these children, from these desertlands, from
good people. I want you to wander the desertlands until your feet
ache and your throats peel from thirst. I want you to be so delirious
from sunstroke that you drink of the naboom plant and see visions
and scratch out your own eyes.”
 The men gulped.
“Please,” the nearest man said. “The child in there—is hurt. We
repair face. We must take care.”
Danso stepped forward, pushed aside the tent canvas with a
finger, and peeked inside. The wounded bandit child from earlier lay
there, asleep or unconscious, their face wrapped in cloth bandages,
leaving only their eyes visible.
“Please,” the man repeated. “Please.”
Danso returned to stand beside the genge. He flexed his mind
and gave the genge a Command: Maim.
He did not look at what ensued. What needed to be done needed
to be done. The only thing important was that the man yelped and
choked in the grass as the genge stomped on him and bit him in
places that were sure to leave scars, and that the camp watched all
of this, horrified.
By the time the genge finished and returned to Danso’s side, the
man in the grass could only make small motions, covered in blood,
cuts, and bruises, but very much alive to feel every single one of
them.
“Make me repeat myself again…” Danso said, leaving the rest of
his statement hanging.
The men did not need further invitation. One by one, they turned
around and began walking, away from the light of the camp and into
the darkness. One man tried to grab a torch as he went, but Danso
sent the genge after him. The man ran.
All was quiet at the camp afterward, save for the crackling of fires
and the billowing of tent canvas. Danso, satisfied, turned to go.
That was when he noticed the children, standing there, grasping
each other in a huddle, whimpers and shudders passing along them,
one to the other.
“You find some way else to better yourselves, you hear me?” he
said to them. “You leave this life of banditry behind. If I hear that
you robbed someone else in these desertlands again…”
He returned to the kwaga and mounted it. After a moment’s
thought, he added:
“Your comrade is in your care now. You take care of them, nurse
them back to health. You are all you have. Remember that.”
He turned around and rode into the night. The genge lingered,
then followed.

When Danso returned to the main room of the Weary Sojourner,

codex and stylus back in his hands, a couple of the Weary Sojourner
workers sat around, but the place was otherwise empty. Oke was
still there, drinking, but did not notice him enter. However, Ugo, who
sat next to her, joining her in drowning sorrow and anger, did. His
eyes followed Danso over the rim of his calabash, never leaving even
after he went upstairs.
Not that Danso cared. He’d done what no one else was brave or
powerful enough to do—bring order and safety back into the
desertlands, one bandit troop at a time. This was what power was
meant to do: help the weak and defenceless. The bandits had
thought he and his people were weak and defenceless, and he’d
shown them that they were not. Going forward, moons willing, he
was ready to show everyone just the same.
This had been Lilong’s daa’s dream—to put power in the hands of
ordinary people who could use it to protect others around them.
Danso agreed with that dream. It had taken him a while to come
around, but now he was sure: That was also what he wanted.
Do something—well, now he had. Never again would anyone take
something or someone he loved. Not if he could help it.
He opened the door to his quarters—
—and bumped into Lilong, emerging from inside. His codex, map,
and stylus fell to the floor.
“Oh—sorry.” She grimaced, bent, picked them up, and handed
them back to him.
“Thanks.” He hustled inside before she could smell the fresh dust
of the savanna on him. But as he went in, her eyes followed him.
 “What’s that?”
He stopped, lifted an eyebrow. “Hmm? What?”
“That.” She pointed to the side of his tunic.
He looked down. Across the lower right was a stain on his
clothing, a smear that went past the cloth and onto his skin itself. A
red smear.
“Is that… blood?” Her tone was accusatory.
The two stared at one another in elongated pause. Lilong’s gaze
prodded, the cut on her cheek still blooming red. In that moment,
Danso realised just how different from one another they were.
Foreigners, in all senses of the word.
A part of him prepared to lash out, to say, And so fucking what?
She’d be infuriated, but who cared? They were already strangers.
They might as well become adversaries too.
But he remembered the little matter of needing her good word
when they arrived at the islands, without which he might not fare as
well, Red Iborworker or not.
“Ah,” he said. “That must be Alaba’s, from earlier.”
Lilong’s gaze did not falter, her eyes asking the unspoken
question: But did you not just take a bath?
“I came to get my things,” Danso said, changing the subject.
“Think I’m staying with Ugo tonight.” He trudged through the room,
picked up his pack.
On the way out, he said: “Oke says the men are remaining
behind. Ugo will stay to nurse Alaba back to health. So it’s you, me,
her, and Thema for the rest of the journey.”
Lilong did not respond, gaze unwavering. He slipped out the door
as he had come in. Her steely gaze followed him all the way, and
even after crossing the compound, Danso could still feel her eyes
piercing holes in his back.
He found Ugo still drinking in the main room, Oke having
returned to check on Alaba. Danso took a seat next to him, put
down his pack, and ordered a drink—a jackalberry spirit like Ugo’s.
Ugo, on his own part, was discreetly eyeing the bloodstain on
Danso’s side.
“I’m staying with you tonight,” said Danso.
 Ugo nodded. “Do I even want to know?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Ugo sipped at his drink. “But if I may?”
“I would prefer that you not may.”
“If I may,” Ugo pressed. “You don’t have to tell me anything. We
all have our secrets, our demons, our haunts. But—” He held up a
finger. “The hope is that they don’t consume us. And it is my hope
that yours, whatever they are, do not consume you.”
Danso’s drink arrived. He gulped half of it down in a long
swallow. His hands shook.
“I’ve heard you,” was all he said.
“Okay, then,” said Ugo, and the two men, in silence, drank
jackalberry spirits for the remainder of the night.

The parting of the trio of Oke, Ugo, and Alaba the next morning was
a heartrending scene. Alaba, now able to stand with some help,
draped one arm around Ugo, the other around Oke, and together—
just like they did at the hideout—they wept.
Danso stood from a distance and watched, nursing a slight
headache from the night before. Lilong was also there, but her eyes
were not on the scene. Her eyes were locked on Danso.
“I will come back for you, I promise,” Oke said between sniffles,
accepting Thema and strapping her to her chest.
Alaba smiled. “Stay alive, you hear? Don’t eat cockroaches.”
Oke laughed. Danso had not heard her make that sound in a long
time.
“I never ate cockroaches,” she said.
“Well, I hear prison makes you do mad things.” Danso thought
Alaba sounded quite jocular for someone who only recently had an
arrow stuck in their side. He realised, now, that Alaba had ingested a
significant amount of pain herbs, which meant he was slightly
inebriated.
“I will not eat cockroaches, and I will be back.” She smiled at
Ugo, the more downbeat of the two. She kissed his forehead.
“Thema and I will be fine, I promise.”
Ugo smiled back weakly. “Nothing about this is safe.”
“I know.”
“You can stay. We can all stay.” He paused. “We should be
together. We only just got reunited. We should never leave each
other’s sight.”
“I know.”
His eyes were watery. He wiped them.
“I will come back,” said Oke. “But I need to do this. The world
needs it. We need it.” She kissed his forehead again. “You want us to
be together? This is the only way we do so freely. We give everyone
the opportunity to be free, and then we can be the family we
desire.”
“I don’t know,” said Ugo. “If we must be the ones to sacrifice.”
“It has to be somebody,” said Oke, “and fate chose us.”
Afterward, the men each kissed the baby affectionately.
“You know she can stay with us,” Ugo was saying. “I will never let
her out of my sight.”
“I know,” said Oke. “But she’s my reminder why I’m doing this.
She’s my reminder to stay alive.” She clicked her tongue. “Also,
insurance, maybe? I reckon the Abenai League will be less
threatened by a woman with a baby.”
She kissed both men on the lips, long and hard. Then she
adjusted the baby wrap and went into the travelwagon. Afterward,
Lilong said her goodbyes to the men with light embraces. Danso
clasped Alaba’s hand and nodded. When he clasped Ugo’s, the other
man held firm.
“You thanked me, once, for saving your life,” Ugo said. “If you
ever wish to repay me…” He motioned toward the travelwagon with
his head. “Take care of them?”
“I’ll do my best,” said Danso. “Promise.”
Afterward, Danso got into the driver’s seat. Oke, their primary
navigator, was saddled with Thema, which meant he was on driving
duty until they arrived at the Forest of the Mist.
Lilong busied herself with retrieving their weapons. Or so Danso
thought. But suddenly, there she was, standing beside him, looking
up into the driving seat.
“Hand it over,” she said.
She didn’t need to say what it was to know she was asking for
the Diwi. Even before bumping into her at the doorway the night
before, Danso knew she would ask for it at some point.
But what she was truly asking in this moment was for him to pick
a side: her side, or the side of ibor, of agency, of power. And as
much as he respected her, as much as he owed her his very life, he
simply could not choose her. Not this time.
“I left it for you on the seat inside,” he said.
A charged silence passed between them.
“And the genge?” Lilong asked.
Danso let the question hang for a beat before asking: “What
genge?” Then he turned his face away from her.
Someone had to do something to make the world better. An
emperor as ruthless as Esheme on their tail, a smouldering empire in
her hands. His stories alone were insufficient for this fight—that
much he’d learned in Chabo. This trip was about bringing salvation—
to himself, and to as many others as he could—but also retribution.
His maa. His daa. Zaq. Kubra. All perished at the hand of
powerful forces who cared nothing for the weak or defenceless. No
more. Not if he could help it.
They rolled away from the Weary Sojourner. Danso set the
kwagas into a trot, his mind turning. He would speak no more of his
thoughts—not to Lilong, not to Oke. He would do everything as
directed—cross the Forest of the Mist, go to Ofen, find Risisi. And
when they got there, Lilong could do whatever she wanted to her
heart’s content. But moons so help him, he would not leave those
islands without taking with him whatever Bassa needed to be saved.
This was it. The lines in the sand were drawn. There was no
going back.
 Kangala

The Weary Sojourner Caravansary

Sixth Mooncycle, 30

OROE’S CHAMPION YANKED THE sleeping hand out of bed. The hand, a
young man, hit the floor before his eyes opened. There was a click
where he landed with his shoulder, and the boy yelled. But Oroe’s
champion did not stop. He grabbed the boy to his feet, put a boot to
his buttock, and shoved him out the door.
The boy dropped to his knees in the dust of the compound
outside, where Oroe was patrolling, his voice loud enough that every
soul in the Weary Sojourner could hear.
“We seek the abouts of Red Emperor fugitives,” said Oroe in
broken Savanna Common. He slapped one of the public notices
containing the fugitives’ faces on a nearby wall. “Everybody of this
parlour—come out! Kneel before the elephant throne!”
Kangala watched from an archway near the entrance as every
worker and guest in the caravansary was pulled from their room and
forced to their hands and knees in the compound, heads bowed.
Each doorway was a mouth, offering screams from the huts within.
A new person or two or three was rushed out of each and put to
their knees, until every single abode was emptied.
Kangala did a quick scan and could at once tell that the fugitives
were not among this lot. No one here looked like a traveller.
But the fugitives had been here, he knew it. The caravan had
stopped here at the emperor’s insistence—she had some history with
this place Kangala could not quite deduce—but a cursory check was
the extent of her suspicion. She did not know what Kangala knew
about these fugitives, where they were going, what they were after.
They must have stopped here. He was sure that if he dug around
this establishment carefully enough, he would find evidence of this.
Once every abode was emptied, the compound filled with
whimpering desertlanders, Igan stepped in with their long axe
strapped to their back, flanked by their posse: jaws set, shoulders
locked. Next came Ikobi, announcing the Red Emperor’s string of
titles. And lastly came the Scion of Moons herself.
Kangala took the time to observe the Red Emperor again as she
floated in, surrounded by a gaggle of hands and an army of peace
officers. Stripped to mere travel clothes—roomier ones than usual,
he noted, to conceal her ailments and changing body—her entrance
did not carry as much gravitas as the more ceremonial clothing she’d
worn when he’d first met her. All this regardless, she looked every
bit as exquisite as all her representations and likenesses suggested—
fullness of cheeks, a twinkle in her eye, the stride of a youngling
who knew they had many days ahead of them. Every gaze in the
room was drawn to her.
The Ninki Nanka slithered in behind her, raising every head, even
bowed ones. Gasps came from every corner of the compound,
murmurs of shock, fear, discombobulation.
Kangala took this as his opportunity and slipped into the first
nearby hut.
Inside looked like he had expected—ramshackle, unkempt, banal.
He scanned quickly, moving into the next hut when he didn’t find
anything. The next was the same, and the next, and the next.
Ikobi’s voice droned on in the background, speaking on behalf of the
emperor, asking where the housekeep of the establishment was, if
she had fled. No one was answering.
The huts on the ground floor offered nothing, so he crept up the
stairs, scurrying in the dark spots between torches, pushing open
the doors to the upstairs rooms. He took off his shoes to move more
quietly on the wooden flooring, bending below the banister. His
knees popped and his back protested, both reminding him of his
age, but still he pressed forward, nudging open room doors, swiping
their mats and curtains aside to peer inside.
After looking into the last room, in which he’d found nothing
noteworthy, he was already turning away when he heard a squeak at
the end of the hallway. He headed for it, and even before he got
there, saw what it was: hinges, attached to a trapdoor
masquerading as dislodged flooring. And peering from between
trapdoor and floor were a pair of eyes, frozen with the panic of
being discovered.
The missing housekeep, he realised. Kangala reached a hand
forward silently, finger over his lip.
“Come,” he said in Savanna Common. “No harm.”
The trapdoor opened further to reveal the face of a woman only
slightly older than himself. It was dark inside, but Kangala could see
she was alone, evaluating the situation, considering if giving in
without a fight was worth it.
“Is okay,” he said. “Come.”
Finally, the woman swung the trapdoor open. Kangala took her
hand in his, then silently led her down the stairs.

“Where they go?” Oroe was asking. “Tell us now!”

Extracting Oroe from the mass gathered in the compound had not
proved challenging. He had been all but forgotten after doing the
grunt work of rounding up the inhabitants. But no matter. While the
rest of them were out there putting on a spectacle and poking empty
crannies in search of the housekeep, Kangala was out here with
Oroe in a small alley in the back, tucked between huts and hedges,
doing the real work of extracting information from the most
important person in this establishment.
“I don’t know,” said the housekeep, her jaw set. She was no
longer the scared figure Kangala had surreptitiously led down the
stairs, allowing her to think him an ally, asking her for a hidden
location, her showing him this nook, him asking her to wait while he
got more help. But that help turned out to be Oroe, whose voice she
recognised the moment he spoke, and her face had hardened ever
since. She knew, now, that he was no friend or helper, and was
furious. Not that Kangala cared—he had done his task.
Kangala put a hand on his son’s broad shoulder, nudged him
aside, smiled in a manner he believed was friendly.
“We just want to know why they stop here,” said Kangala. When
her eyes moved too quickly, betrayed her concern about what he
already knew, he pressed on. “Yes, the emperor know they stop
here. We see the baby shitcloth—nobody have baby here, yes? Then
blood bandage in same room. One of them wounded, is it?”
Indeed it was Oroe’s hands who had discovered this, and not the
emperor. So far, only the Sahelians were aware of this find, but the
housekeep didn’t know that.
“Nobody wounded,” the woman said. “The wounded people are
others, gone.”
“Oh.” So the group has separated, Kangala mused. But who has
gone where? He knew the scholar and the yellow woman were the
emperor’s greatest interests. Could those two still be together, and
were they still travelling east?
“They go east?” he asked the housekeep. “Or west? Maybe even
north?”
The woman glanced at Oroe, as if she wasn’t even listening to
Kangala. He realised, now, that she was sizing him up. Hopefully she
did not do anything stupid. Oroe was equally stupid when anger got
the better of him. Putting two goats into a fight never ended well.
 “Listen, maa.” He made his voice softer. “The emperor just want
to know if you hear anything, see anything, notice anything. Even
just tiny little—anything you can tell is fine.” He made a show of
glancing toward the enraged Oroe. “Better you tell fast also, because
this one is no patient.”
With those words, the woman’s expression changed into
something Kangala found discomforting: A twinkle arose in her eyes.
She’d had him worked out, realised he was pretending to be the
kindly alternative to Oroe’s brutish manner. She had realised, now,
that it was him who wanted the information, and not the emperor.
“Take me to the emperor,” she said, a turn in her demeanour.
“Anything you want to hear, I tell you there.”
“Now, now,” Kangala was saying. “No need to put you in danger
for nothing. I help you already, not?”
But she wasn’t listening. She was eyeing Oroe again, and this
time, Oroe was looking right at her when she did.
“What you looking at?” he growled.
Kangala saw it as late as Oroe did—a flat blade, crude, emerging
from the folds of her garments. She’d timed it perfectly too, waited
until Oroe was too close to dodge. Her assessment that he was the
greater threat was correct—Kangala would be an easier target after
getting rid of him.
She lunged forward and her hand came around, going for Oroe’s
throat. But Kangala, rearing back, defensively pushed against her.
This knocked her off balance, so that her blade missed Oroe’s neck
and instead angled toward his face.
Steel slashed through Oroe’s right eye. He reeled, clutching his
face, yelling.
Kangala, from his sitting position, gaped at Oroe’s bloodied face,
red lines drifting through his fingers, down his elbow. The woman,
too, was frightened by Oroe’s furious howls and knew in that
moment that she was dead if he caught her. The way behind her
was blocked, and Oroe was standing at the one opening she had to
get away.
Don’t do it, thought Kangala, eyeing the space she needed to slip
through.
 But the woman didn’t seem reality-prone. She scurried forward
on hands and knees, frazzled by fear, clattering into every bit of junk
in the alleyway. She would have made it too, so close the space was
to her. But Oroe had only one eye impaired. The other worked just
fine.
Oroe reached out and grabbed her hair as she went by. He
whirled her around, and in the very same motion, slammed his other
fist into her temple. The woman went limp instantly, but Oroe did
not stop. He turned her around and slammed her forehead to the
ground. A crack, but that was not enough for him either. He raised
his fist, pummelled the back of the woman’s head once, twice,
thrice, until not even her limbs were twitching anymore.
Kangala rose as his son did, standing over the dead woman.
“What a waste,” he said, shaking his head.
There was movement at the top of the alley. Igan stood there,
bald head shining, axe strapped to their back, silent, watching.

Back in the Weary Sojourner’s compound, Kangala and Oroe stood

before the emperor as Igan recounted what they had seen: the
housekeep of the caravansary being beaten to death. Kangala, when
asked, filled in the details—with truths that were really lies, of
course. They had found her (true) and she had attempted to escape
(true) by attacking Oroe (true), who then killed her in self-defence
(also true). When asked what they had been doing in the alley, he
simply said that was where they’d found her (lie).
Igan, who did not seem convinced, pressed the matter. So
Kangala was forced to reveal some other truth: the discovery of the
bloody bandages and the baby shitcloth. He braided it with another
lie: The housekeep had hidden these things away in a trapdoor
upstairs, trying to conceal the fact that the fugitives had in fact
landed here. All the better that she was dead, wasn’t it?
 This, coupled with the deep gash across Oroe’s eye, now
bandaged, seemed to convince the emperor enough. She waved
them away, asking to be prepared for bed. She looked completely
spent, and not just by the journey. Her eyes drooped, her words
slurred, and she seemed unable to hold a conversation for long.
Perhaps this was the perfect time, then, to hold one.
“Sovereign, can I?” Kangala said, stepping forward so that he was
past Igan, blocking the advisor from the emperor’s view. “Before she
try escape, the housekeep say something.”
The emperor turned. Bags settled beneath her eyes, like rotten
fruit weighing down a branch.
“Anything useful?” she asked, only half-interested.
“She say they split into two, when they leave,” he said. “One
escape go east, other one go west, north, I don’t know.” Another lie
that was not really a lie.
This gained the emperor’s attention. “She said that?”
Kangala nodded. “Say if you ask them, they can tell you where.”
He pointed to the establishment’s occupants.
“She could have been lying,” said Igan, stepping out from behind
to face him. “You could be lying.”
Kangala made a great show of taking offence. “Why I lie? What I
gain? We go on wild kwaga chase for nothing—how that help me?”
He was addressing the exact counterpoint Igan had been ready
to follow up with, and he could see from the way their eyes
narrowed that they knew he was doing just that.
“Go on, then,” said the emperor, motioning toward the
caravansary’s hands. “Ask.”
A short moment later, they had the information they needed.
Three men and two women had come here with a baby, one of the
men wounded. They had stayed a night, but only the women, the
baby, and one man had left for the rest of the journey. The other
two had remained behind for the injured one to recover, but for
some reason—as if they had known the emperor was coming—had
hastily packed up and left not too long after their comrades.
Whether they went in the same direction as the others, no one
knew, but they were all at least a day’s journey away from here by
now.
Once shown the public notices, the hands were emphatic: The
scholar and the yellow woman (“She was no yellow when here,” one
of them insisted) were among those who had left first. The woman
with the baby and the two men were not present on these notices.
The emperor was wide awake by the time this information
gathering was concluded. Igan and Ikobi briefed her in low tones,
keeping Kangala out of the discussion as usual. He had a mind to go
closer and listen as he’d done back at camp, but decided it was
better the emperor continued to think of him the aloof Sahelian.
To his surprise, Igan came over to him, looking triumphant.
“She has new directions for you,” they said, and didn’t wait for a
response before leaving.
The emperor’s gaze was measured but welcoming when Kangala
approached.
“We are splitting the caravan into three,” she said. “As we may be
looking in the savanna for a while, we will keep this caravansary as a
base of operations—a waystation of sorts. One small group will
remain here under Ikobi’s command.” She nodded toward her
advisor, who nodded toward Kangala. “Another will go in search of
the escaped men, and yet another will continue east.” She tapped
Igan, flanking her on the other side. “I will continue east with Igan,
and you will go…” She waved her hand. “West, north, I don’t know.
But your task is to find those men and bring them here.” She cocked
her head. “Should be easy, no?”
Kangala’s head spun. This was not the plan—everything had gone
completely wrong! He realised, now, that this was the reason for
Igan’s smirk. They had probably convinced the emperor of this exact
decision.
But slowly, he realised this was not a failure. As with most things,
it was an opportunity in disguise.
He cleared his throat. “My family and I most willing to serve
however Sovereign wish.” He cleared his throat again. “But if I can?”
The emperor nodded her go-ahead.
“Why waste time, energy, chase people who go in opposite
direction? Now we all know—your biggest enemies go east. Forest of
the Mist, you say? I don’t know of you, Sovereign, but I think that
say danger. Ambush, attack. You need men, army, fighters.”
Igan’s smirk began to crumble as the emperor seemed to warm
up to Kangala’s points. He pressed quickly, before the advisor could
jump in.
“I say you select best-trained warriors here.” He pointed to Igan.
“Your general and their people. Oroe and his best-best champions.
Then maybe one, two peace officer, the ones that fight well. The
rest? Some can stay here, some can chase men. No loss. You still
have army with you for hard east journey.”
“That’s enough.” Igan rose from their seat. “You were asked here
to receive instructions, not to give—”
“Igan,” said the emperor calmly. The advisor looked at her, then
glared at Kangala, before sitting. The emperor returned to him.
“Turning down an easy job,” she said. “You must have a good
reason for wanting to go east. And don’t tell me some kwaga shit
about service. I know you don’t give two nuts about service to me.
So tell me: Why?”
The emperor was poking him, seeing what underlying motivations
would emerge. He could not deny that he was gearing for something
—that would unearth him as a liar. He could not tell her of his other
plans, of course. So he opted for the best weapon in his arsenal: a
half-truth.
“I hear a story,” he began, “of old underground city. They say if
you cross the isthmus, and you meet the Nameless Islands—which is
call Ihinyon, by the way—they say you can sail to the smallest island
and see this city, which is call Risisi.” He paused. “You ask why I
come? Is because if your fugitives are going there, then I want to
see this city with my own two eyes also.”
Silence gripped them all once he was done. The emperor’s
expression had turned still. Not angered, but curious, a bit surprised,
maybe even some admiration.
“Who told you that?” she asked.
“My daughter, Ngipa,” he said. “She hear story in Chugoko,
gossip. Can be fake story, who knows? But I want to see, Sovereign,
if you will allow.”
 The emperor was contemplative. Ikobi, who had been quiet all
this time, said: “Taking the strongest fighters east sounds sensible.”
Igan, on the other side, shot back: “What kind of advisor takes
suggestions from a stranger?”
“I am stranger, yes,” Kangala jumped in. “And yes, no take my
advice if it no help. But emperor ask me why I really want to go, and
I be honest and say why.”
More contemplation. Finally, the emperor sighed. The tiredness
had returned to her eyes.
“Half your party,” she said. “You and your son inclusive. The other
half stay.” Then she rose for bed.
Kangala thanked her as he wandered off, his mind brimming with
ideas. Of course he did not give a flying fowl about buried cities or
hidden islands. Sure, the stones of power existed—he knew, now,
that they did, and that the emperor was using one, which was why
she was always wearing that armlet, never taking it off, even at
night. But just because they existed did not mean that he needed
them to gain the kind of power he sought.
The emperor herself was a good example why. One look at the
way she was shrivelling up like a dried date, and he could tell it was
more than just that child in her belly doing that. That was what such
power did, and the story, real or fake, had not been unwise to warn
against it. Power, Kangala had learned, was not always a mallet for
striking. It was also a glove: to be eased into, its fit ensured, before
being used to take hold.
Half his party, she’d said. Six men. He’d have to think of a way to
carry out his plans with this few. But the emperor would have fewer
at her disposal too—a posse of five, a handful of peace officers.
Two, Oroe had said. Before each champion is killed.
Six men was more than enough.
Kangala glanced over his shoulder. Igan was still there, eyes
locked on him, suspicion so strong it bore holes into his back. No
matter. That one, he would handle as well. He would handle them
all, just they wait.
 Danso

The Lonely Roads East

Sixth Mooncycle ends; new season begins

THEY WERE NOW A day away from the Weary Sojourner, but none of the
three had spoken a word to each other. Oke, still reeling from the
loss of her loved ones, withdrew from everything, throwing herself
into doing little other than caring for Thema and keeping her eyes
on the road ahead, only interested in the reason she was here:
getting to the seven islands. Danso and Lilong gave her the space
she desired, but walked circles around each other. At camp the night
before, they had exchanged watches with nothing but simple grunts
of acknowledgment. When passing food or items, they ensured their
fingers didn’t touch.
It was afternoon of the second day, and Danso remained glum on
driving duty. More little hills had begun to creep up, just as Ugo
predicted based on the blacksmith’s assessment. They stuck out
even more here, the landforms and vegetation changing as they
ventured closer and closer to the coast. More isolated woodlands
flung across the wide open grassland, thick with clumps of acacias
and baobabs.
They avoided both cleft outcrops and woodlands, but then were
unable to avoid other obstacles. A small herd of elephants, for
instance, frustrated with their failure to find water. They trumpeted
loudly at the travelwagon, but luckily trundled off. The other attack
came at night, from an unlikely source: a trio of massive scorpions
that tried to find cosy spots in the travelwagon. One got really close
to stinging baby Thema, but Oke set fire to it with an aggravated
scream, burning it to a crisp, and then to ashes, and even then, kept
it burning until Lilong had to stop her, remind her of the effects of
expending too much ibor.
On the third day, Danso was the first to spot the pack of genge.
It was a large pack. They seemed to be moving with purpose,
migrating somewhere, which explained the absence of a little hill in
sight. Eight or nine, he struggled to count.
He stopped the wagon and came down.
“We can’t go around them,” he said to Lilong and Oke, who had
also emerged. “They seem to be headed in the same direction as
us.”
“We can wait them out?” Oke asked more than said.
“Too slow,” Lilong said, her mind elsewhere. “I’m more interested
in why they’re here.”
“Hunting?” Danso offered.
Lilong nodded slowly. “Seeking prey.” She paused. “And now
they’ve found one.” She angled her head. “Well… two.”
One genge had turned in their direction and spotted them. Or
perhaps spotted the kwagas, which seemed like more juicy prey
than puny people. The dominant genge made a sound, abrasive and
guttural. The rest of the pack stopped, turned.
“Back in the wagon,” Lilong said. Her eyes blazed amber and her
blade rattled.
The dominant began to prance, shooting glances at the kwagas.
Oke unstrapped Thema from her body, handed the baby over to
Danso. “Whatever you do,” she said, “stay in that wagon.”
 The dominant sneezed. The rest of the pack sneezed back. Then
they charged at the travelwagon.
Danso slid in with Thema and shut the door behind him. Oke
climbed into the driving seat, and the travelwagon jerked into
motion. Lilong, outside, jumped onto the vehicle and held on, her
blade whistling through the grass, weaving ahead of the kwagas.
The blade caught the dominant first, slicing its paws as it lunged
forward. The beast rolled away, howling. The commotion spooked
the kwagas, who began to bark and flop, whipping away from the
direction Oke was steering them in. Instead, they swung toward a
wilting thorntree, the last standing vestige of a once-woodland. Oke
turned away at the last moment, grazing the edge of the tree,
tearing apart some of the wagon’s covering.
“Do something!” Oke was calling out to Lilong.
Thema began to cry.
Lilong’s eyes flared amber. Danso saw her blade aim for the
dominant, which had shaken off its injury and was leading the
pursuit. The blade went through its neck and emerged at its back.
The beast buckled in the grass and fell, writhing, then twitching,
then still. Blood stained the parched grass.
The rest of the genge, not giving up, bore down on them easily.
The travelwagon tumbled into grassier fare, giving the worn
wheels a hard workout and slowing their escape. Now compromised,
the travelwagon fared badly in this new terrain. After advancing a
small distance farther, the travelwagon eventually yielded and
ground to a slow halt.
Lilong called back her blade. When it ejected itself from the
genge’s body, the movement infuriated the others even more. They
howled, an eerie sound like a deep-throated giant bird.
“They’re too many,” said Lilong, blade whistling before her.
“I can do something,” said Danso. He stretched out a hand. “But I
need the Diwi.”
Lilong recoiled at the suggestion, but the genge were much too
close to argue. She grabbed the pouch and tossed it to him
reluctantly. Danso handed the baby to her, extricated the Diwi,
gripped it tight, and Drew.
 Somewhere in the distance, a genge in stasis, which had been
following the travelwagon out of sight, awakened. Its eyes flared
red, and it sailed through the grass, moving like the wind. From its
throat it called out to whichever nearby pack could hear.
The genge pack jerked to attention, startled, ears pricked.
Danso flexed another Command, and the genge called again,
louder, this time a challenge, a call to a battle of strength and wits.
This call—one that promised victory, and therefore food—the
pack could not resist. One by one, they turned around, and they
headed for the beast as it headed for them.
“On the kwagas, quickly,” Lilong said, and helped detach them
from the wagon. She helped Oke clamber onto the kwaga, clutching
Thema, then grabbed the closest pack of food and slumped it over
the beast. Then she climbed on the second one.
“Come on!” she yelled to Danso.
But Danso was skin-deep in the Possession. He felt everything as
the other genge finally caught up with his and pounced upon it.
Danso twitched as their teeth and claws tore at his skin, ripping it to
shreds. The beast’s antennae ensured he experienced it all: the
prickly grass, the smell and texture of the blood, the hot breath of
each attacker.
Lilong descended and ran to him, caught him just as he fell, just
as the beast succumbed and he pulled out of the Possession,
disconnected forever.
“I’ve got you,” Lilong said, dragging him along. She helped him
onto the kwaga, weak and heady. Then she climbed on herself,
wrapped her hands around him, and together, they escaped.

None of them three slept that night. They did not light a fire, and all
three stayed up, keeping watch in the dark. Danso spent most of it
recovering from his use of ibor, taking in the food and water required
to bounce back. Lilong did not ask him about the genge, and he did
not offer an explanation. When Oke broached the topic of what he
had done to call the pack away, he answered her with silence.
Sometime during the night, Danso realised Lilong had silently
whisked the Diwi back into the pouch around her waist. He did not
ask for it back.
The next day, they set out again on kwagaback, their journey
moving faster now. For food, they found wild millet and sorghum to
pair with their roasted meat. The water rations they’d replenished
from the Weary Sojourner thinned quickly, Thema taking up the
most of it. They resorted to only a few sips per day, and thankfully,
this did not form the basis of another quarrel.
For their spare time, they took to solitary activities. Danso filled in
the gaps in his codex, especially keen on documenting the tales told
he’d learned from his travel companions. The first, Why the Wind
Howls: A Desertland Tale, was from Ugo, offering insights into the
beliefs of the savanna folk, along with some information about the
northern trade route and the port city of Tkithnuum, which was as
far north as he’d travelled. The other was a recount of Oke’s time in
prison, which, as soon as he began writing it, he decided was too
despondent to pass on. He opted for Lilong’s tale, one she had told
back in Chabo, when they were still friends: How the World Came to
Be: An Ihinyon Tale.
He recalled it with genial feeling, loathing the fact that things had
soured between them so. After the tale was done, he documented
everything she’d so far offered about the seven islands—for
posterity, yes, but also for the purposes of keeping abreast of the
peoples of his destination.
She’d spoken about what each island was known for and why.
Hoor for its calm, because whenever storms came—and they did
every hundred seasons or so—all inhabitants of the seven islands
moved there for safety. Edana and Ufua for their green fields and
rice plantations, and for being the trade centres for the Ihinyon.
Ololo and Sibu-Sibu for their advocacy toward a tougher Abenai
League, wanting to go out and wage war rather than hide behind
the Forest of the Mists. Ofen, for being nothing—but if the story of
Risisi turned out to be true, for being everything.

On their fourth day since the Weary Sojourner, after the

mooncrossing that marked the coming of the rainy season, they ran
into their first traveller.
The three stopped and prepared themselves for conflict. But it
turned out that this was simply an ordinary traveller indeed—alone,
unarmed, nonplussed. Oke, who had the baby and seemed the least
menacing, interacted with the person.
“Seems we’re close to a few hamlets,” she said, once the traveller
was on their way.
True to the traveller’s word, a couple of such settlements began
to appear by the next day.
“We must be so near now,” Oke said, when they stopped to
consider replenishing their water supply at one of the settlements
but decided against it. “Can’t say if I’m relieved or tense.”
“Isthmus seekers.” Lilong was gazing over their heads, obviously
not responding to Oke. “Tried to find us a long time ago and failed,
so they just… stayed.” She glanced at Oke, as if to say: This is what
you were, once. She turned and gave Danso a look, but one that
said something different.
Not long after, the wind picked up. Far, far from the travelwagon,
there was the sound of something grand and monstrous moving.
“Coast is here,” said Lilong, to no one.
Danso inhaled long and hard. A silty breeze washed over him. It
was like being back in Whudasha, standing on the edge of the steep
drop. He exhaled, and it came out in short, ragged, anxious breaths.
 The Written Codex of Danso DaaHabba, First Jali of
Bassa to Journey over the Soke Borders: Hereafter lie
his personal accounts of travels and travails through
the desertlands, from the western vagabond colony of
Chabo, to the fabled eastern Forest of the Mist.

The Twelfth Account: The Crab-God and the Gourd of Wisdom:

An Ihinyon Tale, as recounted by Lumusi of Namge, a tale
which she has always known and in which she firmly believes.

THIS IS A TALE of the Crab-God, and how we became imbued with

different wisdoms.
In the land of wisdom and plenty and fruitfulness—which is to
say, the land of Gods—the Crab-God was the one most blessed with
wisdom. After all, she had ten legs, and with them, could fashion
almost anything she wanted. She taught the Spider-God how to spin
webs, the Octopus-God how to fashion a house out of coconuts, the
Scorpion-God how to see in the dark. She moved slowly, because
she contained wisdom great enough for the world.
After distributing all the wisdom she could to the land of Gods,
the burden of wisdom was still too much for her to bear. So she
chose to spread this wisdom to the land of people. She asked the
Spider-God to build a web for her, which would extend from the sky
down to our world. Once done, she took a clay gourd, put all the
wisdom she could gather into it, strapped it to herself, and began
her descent into the land of people.
Now, a man who had been working on his farm saw the spider-
web from the heavens and thought it a curse on his crops. So, he
took his axe and split the web.
The Crab-God was almost at her destination when the web
unravelled and she fell. Luckily, she fell into the water. But the gourd
did not. It fell on land and shattered into many pieces. The wisdom
contained within floated into the wind, the water, the soil, the plants,
and eventually, into people.
But though the wisdom spread equally into every element, it did
not spread so into people. This is why, today, some of us are wiser
than others. This is why we have different talents, abilities, and
understandings. This is why some of us can naturally use ibor, but
some cannot. We of the seven islands of the Ihinyon archipelago
understand this, which is why we revere the Great Lands and the
Great Waters and the Great Winds: for the three Great Forces are
wiser than us all.
We hear the Crab-God is still searching for her gourd. Sometimes,
you will find her descendants crawling on the beach, seeking the
place where the gourd has fallen. This is why we do not eat crabs.
Just as we do not wish to anger the Great Forces, we do not wish to
anger the Crab-God. Have we not intervened enough? Let us leave
the Crab-God be. Let us leave it all be.
Third Season of the Red Emperor
 Nem

Bassa: The Great Dome

First Mooncycle, 1

THE BLOCKADE AT EIGHTH had now been in place for eight days, and
Bassa was beginning to feel its effects.
First came the shortages, especially of nuts, produce, and trade
crops. Afterward came a dwindling of craftwork. Bribes were steep,
even for the affluent who could pay them and were willing. But the
Nameless Republic, as many had caved into calling them now, were
firm in their demands: They speak with the emperor, or remain silent
and keep hurting the empire.
The Great Dome, too, was in disarray. Not a single pair of feet
stood at rest, as everything that drew breath scurried in response to
Nem’s directives. Over the first two days, she prepared for war on
the blockade, pulling resources from everywhere and anywhere she
could: the civic guard, the hunthand guild, private Seconds who
were up to the task. Every last available kwaga was saddled, their
handlers standing ready. But even by the sixth day, she was still yet
to move on the blockade, because there were matters that needed
settling before she could.
Discontent flared in the wards. Nem met with Idu nobles, guild
leaders, and respected community Elders to quell worries about the
Great Dome’s ability to handle this insurrection in the wake of an
absent emperor. But the more she learned about this Nameless
faction and its spearhead—someone named Ifiot—the more she
realised that this was an operation that did not seem so simple
beneath the surface. Behind that blockade was a coterie of
dissidents who had no love for Bassa or its emperor—immigrants,
Whudans, hinterlanders, swamplanders—all mixed in with bona-fide
Bassai Emuru. One wrong move, and Nem could end up slaughtering
her own people. She did not want to be the First Consul who led a
Bassai massacre. That would be the final dagger to the heart of the
Red Emperor’s rule.
So she trod carefully, attempting to win crucial support before
going in. But by day eight, she was still yet to convince those that
needed convincing. The emperor’s absence continued to be a bone
in her throat. The hunthand guild leaders had decided to wait until
the emperor’s return before joining in any fight, as they wanted
assurance that they would be rewarded after the battle was done.
They knew to play this hand because they had seen how spare the
city had become now that most of its civic guard was either at the
border or at the Breathing Forest.
So Nem was forced, yet again, to remove more civic guards from
the border to compensate.
“If Igan were here—” said Yao.
“But Igan is not here,” Nem fired back. “Nobody is here. It falls
on me to make the decisions, and it falls on you to follow them.” She
turned from Yao to the rest of the advisors, who all stood before her
in the great hall. “All of you.”
After she had dispersed them with instructions for the civic guard
captains, Nem beckoned to Satti.
“Help me up to the elephant throne. I will address the captains
from there when they arrive.”
 The corner of Satti’s eye twitched nervously. “Are you sure, maa?”
“I am the final word in the emperor’s absence, am I not?” said
Nem. “If there was ever a day to look like it, it is today.”
Satti acknowledged and beckoned to two nearby hands for aid.
They rolled Nem to the throne and helped her onto it.
Nem wriggled herself into the massive seat. Too large, she
thought immediately, her spine unable to meet the backrest, her
bottom finding no purchase between armrests too far apart. The
hardwood pushed back against her tailbone, and even though she
had lost most feeling down there, this she could feel enough to
declare it uncomfortable.
But the elephant throne was not a seat, she knew. It was a
symbol, a performance, a tale. It was not made for comfort, and
rightly so, because no buttocks, no matter how wide, could find
purchase here. This seat was made to be uncomfortable because
power required one to shift position at any given time, angling this
way or that to suit whatever new purposes arose. Power was
discomfort and discomfort was longevity, and longevity was the key
to freedom.
Perhaps this was the thing that bothered her the most. She had
always thought of herself as seeking freedom. But that was freedom
to. Now that she had that, she ached for freedom from. And though
both were two sides of the same blade, maybe what she wanted
was not the blade at all. Maybe after living for over a hundred and
ten seasons in this city, all she wanted was peace.
But there would be no peace for her as long as she lived in
Bassa. There would be no peace as long as Esheme was emperor.
There would be no peace as long as Bassa existed.
“Help me down,” she said. “I’ve changed my mind.”

After her address, Nem returned to her chambers, but declined to

send Satti away as usual. Instead, she beckoned her Second over
and patted a seat for her to stay.
“What did you think of my speech?” she asked. “You think it
rallied them enough to commit the numbers?”
Satti made a show of looking over her shoulder, as if Nem was
addressing someone behind her. Nem clicked her tongue.
“Stop that, woman,” she said. “We’ve known each other too long
for theatrics.”
Satti studied her hands where they rested on her thighs. They
were small and veined, the hands of a worker. Deceptively strong,
deceptively tender—just like the woman.
“I thought your speech was marvellous. I also thought it didn’t
matter,” she said, flatly.
Nem leaned forward. “How so?”
“I believe the people already think what they think, and will act
accordingly regardless. Civic guards are a part of the people too, you
know. Their captains cannot change what they think.”
“And what is it that they think?”
Satti lifted her head. “That the emperor is young and hot-blooded
and delusional. That she is cursed and has transferred that curse
onto the city and the land. That she will send this empire to its grave
if something doesn’t change soon. That perhaps it might be best if
she does not return at all.”
Nem frowned. “Careful there, now, old woman. You sidle so close
to treason. Remember you are speaking to the First Consul.”
“Oh, I am simply repeating the chatter of the corridors,” said
Satti. “Besides, I was of the belief that I was speaking to my old
friend and protector MaaNem, the woman who brought me from
nothing, took me under her wing, and elevated me to a status I
could never have once dreamed of. That I could speak freely and
truthfully.”
“You can. I am still that woman.”
“Maybe,” said Satti. “Maybe more of that woman than you have
ever been.”
Nem squinted at her Second. “Are you trying to tell me
something?”
 “You do not want all this,” said Satti, waving her hand across the
room. “Or that.” She waved an arm toward the window that
overlooked the city. “Every day since you have lived in this city, you
have carried weights on your shoulders. What you really want is to
not have to carry those weights anymore.”
“Hmm,” said Nem. “I must confess—I did not envision that the
task of this seat would be so… labyrinthine.”
“Then why not simply leave it behind?”
The question gave Nem pause. Not the directness of it—that was
simply Satti’s way—but the fact that she had never considered it
before. Or more like let herself consider it. Moons knew she had
indeed felt, at various points, like she simply did not have the
capacity to juggle the tasks of keeping her daughter in check,
keeping the matters of court from disintegrating, while keeping her
sanity intact. Perhaps once, back when she was still a strong,
healthy woman. But that fall from that window two seasons ago had
taken its toll in more ways than one, and she was no longer as given
to such weights.
So yes, Satti was right: She wanted nothing more than to be rid
of these burdens. But what did that—leaving it all behind—even look
like? Where would she go, and to whom? There was no place for her
in this city, and there was no place for her outside of it. Power was
all she had worked for, and Esheme was all she had lived for. If she
abandoned both, what else would she have?
For the first time in a long time, Nem was afraid, because she
realised that though she finally had everything she wanted in life,
she, in fact, truly had nothing.
“I could never step down as First Consul,” she said to Satti. “Not
while she’s still emperor.”
“I do not think she will be emperor for very long, MaaNem.”
Nem shot her Second a fiery glance. “That’s getting too close,
Satti.”
“I apologise,” said Satti. “I do not wish MaaEsheme death—in
fact, I do not think her that easily given to it. She is like a beetle—a
stomp alone will be insufficient. She will return, all right, and will
likely set her wrath on this faction. But it is not just nameless
rebellions and blockades to contend with, is it? Dwindling crop
yields, drying rivers, people-eating trees, Ghost Apes. All Bassa
needs to crumble is simply one more crack in its wall. And no one—
no matter how strong or blessed—can be emperor of rubble.”
Nem knew she was right. She had thought the same ever since
seeing the trees on the edge of the Breathing Forest move. There
were simply forces on this continent bigger than anyone could
handle, not even the great power that was Bassa. But did that mean
she should just abandon everything? Abandon her own daughter?
“I should have made you an advisor instead of those cocoyam
heads out there,” Nem said. “Even if I know you’d just argue with
me half the time.”
Satti laughed. “I’m not one for the kind of politicking such a role
requires.”
“Indeed,” said Nem. “Perhaps which is why I come to you.” She
sighed. “The world is a dangerous place. We all need people we can
rely on.” She massaged her knee, only half feeling the touch, the
response distant and ephemeral. “Esheme relies on me. And I’m not
ready to leave her to face the world alone just yet.”
“I reckon she’s facing most of whatever the world has to offer
right now,” said Satti. “May I also point out that, so far, she has had
no problems leaving you?”
“No, you may not point that out,” Nem snapped. She was
beginning to regret having this conversation. She had called Satti
here for comfort and camaraderie, not to get hard truths thrown in
her face like a calabash of cold water.
“I apologise if I was too forthright,” said Satti, not really an
apology. She rose. “I will be outside if you need me.”
At the door, she paused, turned.
“If you ever decide to go,” said Satti, “I have a plan. For two. Just
say the word.” Then she was gone.
 Danso

The Forest of the Mist

First Mooncycle, 1

THE TREELINE OF THE Forest of the Mist turned out not to be difficult to
find. It was not the only forest within sight, but it was easily
recognisable.Whoever named it had not been joking about the mist.
Long before they even arrived at the threshold, mist had begun to
envelop them. Now, upon arrival, the treeline of palms and
hardwood was prefaced by tall, unwelcoming grass, soaked in low-
lying mist that swallowed everything above their heads.
They stood and stared at it awhile, drowning in feelings of the
sublime, the mist settling on their clothes, making them heavier.
Having abandoned the kwagas close to a nearby settlement for a
lucky person to find, Lilong and Oke began to walk along the edge of
the forest, looking for a point of entrance. A particular one, it
seemed. Whatever they found that marked this particular entrance,
Danso could not tell, but as soon as they found it, they stepped into
the leaves and were immediately swallowed by the forest.
Danso paused at the edge, willing his feet to cross. Memories
poured into him in a jumble, past and present commingling, so that
he swayed from the rush of it all. He was back at the Breathing
Forest, his kwaga stomping at the edge, Zaq with Lilong on his
shoulder, Danso urging him on. He kept expecting the ground
beneath him to rumble and undulate, the wind to howl, the Skopi to
appear from above and screech at him.
Lilong re-emerged from the forest.
“Are you fine?” There was a shadow of concern in her tone.
Danso was a bit relieved that there was no malice.
“I’m okay,” he said, and ventured forward.
The mists were more like clouds, as if they had opted to swing
low at this very point and blanket the forest, turning it into a
camouflage of green and white. The forest itself, inside, bore an
ethereal presence. It was impossible to see beyond the next row of
trees, and movement was only perceptible by how much mist swirled
around a body. Luckily, the terrain was predominantly flat and the
understory milder than that of the rainforests Danso was used to,
which meant they didn’t have to worry too much about stumbling.
But it was much easier to get lost in this forest—the mist closed
around them so tightly that when Danso looked back, he couldn’t
see the way they had already come. It would be impossible to
retrace their steps now. Bodies and trees and mist interwove,
slipping through one another like ghosts.
“This is so surreal,” Danso found himself saying. “I feel like I am
in another world.”
“You are,” said Lilong.
The temperature dropped considerably the farther into the forest
they went. They stopped to put on some of the thicker wrappers and
cloaks Lilong had brought along. Oke strapped Thema to her back
and put an extra wrapper over her head.
Danso looked up. He couldn’t even see the canopy. Or the sun.
“Are you sure we’re going in the right direction?” he asked.
“Yes,” Lilong and Oke answered at the same time, then glanced
at one another.
 “He taught me the system,” said Oke. “The… tree spacing.” She
pointed Danso to the treeline. “You see the space between those?”
Danso looked at the tall tree in question, its trunk disappearing
into the mist. He shrugged. Oke pointed at another. “Okay, you see
those?” Another set of inconspicuous trees. Danso nodded.
“If you look closely, from pattern tree to pattern tree, it’s in
almost in a line. You can’t see them all at once because of the mist,
but if you follow one tree to the other, the next one appears. We
follow it, and it’ll lead us directly to the isthmus—the land bridge to
the islands.”
Danso observed the tree in question. It had scaly bark, yellow
leaves in eights, and branches with arms up like a worshipper. Green
moss and budding, colourless flowers on its body. It was the most
unremarkable tree he’d ever seen.
“So you can recognise every single one of these in this whole
forest?” he asked.
“It is not a native of this forest,” said Lilong. “It grows farther
inland. Our ancestors brought it here because it was one of our most
recognisable trees—every islander can recognise the pattern tree.
They planted them as a guide for all islanders. And because it
doesn’t grow anywhere else on the continent, no mainlander can
recognise it and know what it stands for.”
Danso wondered if the story of Risisi were true, if it was the
survivors of that disaster who had made this decision. He made a
note to ask Lilong about this later, when animosity did not exist
between them anymore.
They resumed moving. As if on cue, something spectacularly
white appeared in the understory, revealed by the mist in that
moment. It shone against the contrast of the grass, and Danso
recognised it for what it was and shivered: bone.
“Perhaps one of many mainlanders who have tried to find us,”
said Lilong, and Danso thought maybe she was enjoying scaring
them a bit too much.
The mist did not let up in thickness. Everything was wet and
slippery, always dripping but without becoming spongy. Danso tried
to see if he could recognise the plants, trees, and flowers they came
across, but only a handful looked familiar. Again, he wanted to ask
Lilong for their names, but decided against it.
“How far out are we?” he asked. “Any idea?”
“The spacing,” Lilong and Oke said together again. This time,
Lilong took the reins.
“Space between the pattern trees tells us,” she said. “The closer
we are to the land bridge, the smaller the distance between them.”
She pointed. “With what we have now, I’d say we get there long
before twilight.”
“And then?”
“And then… we surrender.”
Danso frowned. “To whom?”
“Sentries,” said Oke, looking to Lilong. “Jaoudou told me if I said
these words”—she said some words in what Danso assumed was
Island Common—“they would not put an arrow through me. At least
not immediately.”
Lilong smiled a half-smile, like a proud parent.
“They will not hesitate to put us all down,” she said. “I was never
a sentry, but they tend to be the meanest of all the Abenai warriors,
especially because they don’t even need to be Iborworkers. They
just need to be willing combatants. When I was leaving, it was them
I worried most about. If they had caught me, I might have even
gotten worse punishment than I’ll likely get now.”
“You still think you’ll be punished?” Danso asked. “Even after
bringing us, and showing them…” He gestured toward the Diwi in
the pouch on her waist. “Even after all you’ve done?”
“Especially after all I have done.” She swallowed. “But I no longer
care what they say or do. I just want to be home, see my family.”
They continued for a while before stopping to rest, but without
making camp. The mist had begun to soak into their clothes, and
they risked intense cold if they stayed too long in one spot.
Danso couldn’t stop looking around, however. So much of this
experience reminded him of the Breathing Forest.
“There are no animals, so you can stop worrying,” Lilong said.
“What do you mean?”
“No Skopi, no beasts, no predators,” she said. “Just your ordinary
snakes and bushrats.”
The mosquitoes, however, seemed not to have received the
message of no predators. They descended on the group with almost
a fury. One of them bit Thema and she began to cry. That was their
cue to resume their trip.
True to Lilong’s word, the spacing between the pattern trees
began to shrink. Soon, they were able to see three in the same line,
despite the mist not letting up. Then that number increased to four,
five, and soon, the trees ended.
“That’s it?” Danso asked, when they were at the last tree.
“No,” Oke said. “Look.”
Across the last three pattern trees, the thick of their trunks
conjoined, having grown into one another. The last curved trunk
disappeared into a sprawling thicket that covered the area before
them and seemed completely impassable.
Lilong’s eyes flashed amber, and her blade floated forward,
disappearing into the thicket. All was silent for a moment, then—
The thicket began to part. Except, it was not a thicket at all, but a
woven net of vegetation made to look like so. Behind this thicket
was the forest line that gave way to the coast on the other side.
“Welcome to our great wall,” Lilong said with pride.
Ahead of them, as they emerged from the forest, was what
Danso had come to understand as the Neverending Sea. Spread in
every direction as far as the eye could see, just like back in
Whudasha. He wondered if this was the exact same body of water
that was at Whudasha, going around to meet the continent on the
opposite side. Mind-blowing, if it was.
Then the mists shifted further and he saw it—the isthmus, the
land bridge.
It was not easy to spot if one wasn’t looking. But there it was—a
thin brown line of dirt in the overdose of blue. Dry and wide in some
places, wet and so thin in some that Danso wondered if a wave
could carry them as they walked past.
It was, in the simplest of words, beautiful.
They stood there as if it was the end of their journey, watching
small waves crash at the beach. Even Thema had stopped crying
and was so silent that Danso forgot she was even there.
“Jaoudou told me this tract of land used to be wider,” Oke was
saying, softly. “Said the Great Waters have become less kind, and
now one can only cross in a straight file.”
“All of the continent is less kind, now,” Lilong said, looking up.
“Skies too, even.”
The clouds looked fine to Danso. The waters too, as much as he
didn’t want to go in there, looked fine. Everything was fine.
Something flew past his eyes. A mosquito, he thought, but it was
too fast, gone before he could see its shape. Then a gasp, beside
him—before he saw the blades.
They were similar in form to Lilong’s. Longer than daggers,
shorter than swords, showy at the hilts and grips. All of them floated
in the air, circling the group, aimed for their eyes, necks, hearts.
Then, out of the mists, figures emerged slowly, eyes blazing
behind fearsome masks.
Thema began to cry.
 Lilong

Namge
First Mooncycle, 1, same day

LILONG DID NOT SEE much of the sentries. Their faces were covered
with woven masks, as was the practice. She did not bother to ask
questions and raise problems at first instance—especially if she
wanted to ensure no one was harmed. She got down on her knees
and put her hands over her head. Her companions, seeing her, did
the same.
The sentries, unspeaking, blindfolded them all immediately, as
was the practice—not that sentries often got an opportunity to
blindfold intruders. They, too, understood that much, and began to
whisper among themselves, unsure of what the next step should be.
They seemed confused by the mismatch of the group.
Lilong did not recognise any of their voices. Perhaps she had
been away too long. But one thing she could do was prevent them
from doing anything rash.
 “I am Lilong,” she said in Island Common, the comfort of her
home tongue like a rush of warm honey in her mouth. “Daughter of
Warrior Jaoudou, member of the Abenai League. I have returned
home with the Diwi, and I have brought along the comrades who
helped keep me safe on my journey. Please take us to our Elders.”
There was a lull, then, whispers farther away, faster, faster. Lilong
craned her ears, and the wind blew their words her way. They had
heard the tales. They knew who she was. They were angry that she
had brought outsiders.
“The Diwi is alive,” she said, the only way to get their attention.
“You have not seen its work, but I promise you it is alive and bonds
to one of us here. The Elders will need my companions to
understand how it works.” She pushed the authority she knew she
had into her voice. “I say again—take us to the Elders!”
Another lull. Then arms began to pull them up.
She didn’t need to see as they crossed the isthmus, the sand
beneath her feet all but sufficient, memories accessible in every
step. When they crossed back onto dry land, into grass, onto stony
paths, onto wooden platforms, into the darkness of a house and a
door click, the land spoke to her feet all the way, and it said but one
word: home.

When the blindfold came off, Lilong was in an empty room, lit by
nothing but a single oil wick lamp that spat out smoke like a bad
cough. The warrior who took off her blindfold did not speak. She did
not recognise the young woman, and the woman left too quickly
before Lilong could make any inquiries. So many new recruits
already? Lilong wondered how much else had changed in her
absence. Just like the sentries, this woman had not spoken outside
of offering directions, which Lilong found surprising. As a warrior,
she had always been interested in what the scouts had to say when
they returned from their mainland excursions. Perhaps this was more
about her own adventures being unsanctioned. Or perhaps things
had changed much more than she knew.
She wasn’t tied up, which meant she wasn’t a prisoner. Not yet.
There was a door to the room (not mats or door blinds, she noted).
Both it and the windows were locked. Sunlight cut the room through
a thin gap in the window that let in a ray. She tried to peek outside
through the gap, but couldn’t see anything useful.
She didn’t need to, though. Locked door and windows could
mean only one thing: She wasn’t in a person’s home. She was in the
house of assembly.
It was the only place in Namge with multiple rooms that each had
their own door and windows that locked from outside. Useful for
when the citizens of the island or representatives from other islands
met with the Elders and leaders. Sometimes useful for engaging in
proceedings out of the public eye—like an errant islander returning
with strangers from the mainland. Situated in the quarter that stood
at the axis of proximity to the beaches, the Forest of the Mist, and
the island’s busiest parts. It made complete sense.
She reckoned her fellow travellers were locked up in this same
building, in rooms such as these. She wondered about their well-
being, especially the baby Thema, who she, for the first time,
remembered to count as a part of the group.
But the more she looked around, the less was familiar about the
place. She had attended a few of these assemblies herself. But this
was empty—no stools, chairs, or tables, nothing but spider-webs and
rags abandoned in various corners. It was as if the assemblies
themselves had dried up.
Lilong began to think back now to their long walk here from the
forest, stripped of sight. She could not remember hearing voices or
sounds of activity other than Thema’s constant crying. No people
whispering about her return, no one pelting her with words or rotten
fruit. Lack of reprimand aside, she also did not smell anything. Not
cooking, not fires, not the sharp smell of spirits or tobacco leaves
being smoked. Not the earthy smell of the clay the children used in
the centres of learning, which they had to have passed by on their
way here because it was only a few buildings away. The sands
beneath her feet had felt familiar as they walked, but the more she
looked around the room, the less everything else felt like home.
She did not have to wait long to know the answer to these
questions, because the door opened then, and a man walked in.
“Welcome back, coconut head.”
Lilong stood frozen for a moment, blinking not only at the shock
of a friendly face and voice, but the welcoming sound of Island
Common being spoken. Then she was flying across the room and
into the speaker’s arms.
“Turay.” She said his name with soft breath, like a good dream
awoken to. And he was a good dream, now that she stepped back to
look at him. Put on a good bit of muscle, had he? She’d felt it on her
cheek, soft against the meat of his shoulder. His face was lean and
spare, beardless jaw angled just so. Had he grown taller? Probably
not. But for some reason, he suddenly looked much more attractive
than she remembered. Perhaps the saying about absence and desire
was true.
Not that it mattered right now, because she realised Turay did not
return her embrace, arms hanging limply at his sides as he glared at
her.
She stepped back. “What’s wrong?”
“You left.” His tone was icy, bitter, sharp.
Lilong swallowed. “I—”
“You said you’d never want to leave,” he said. “Said you’d never
break the promises you made to the league and the islands. And
then you left, alone.”
It was pointless defending herself because he was right. She had
rejected him for wanting something beyond the walls of home, and
then had gone and wanted those things for herself. It was cruel, in
retrospect. So Lilong bowed her head and waited for him to finish, to
let it all out.
“I can understand why you didn’t tell anyone, but me?” He beat a
hand against his chest. “Me, who was going to run away for you,
who I thought you cared about.”
“I’m sorry, Turay,” she said. “I just… it was something I had to
do.”
“And put the whole of the seven islands in danger?” He was
raising his voice. “What is wrong with you, Lilong?”
“Okay, now, that’s too far,” she said. “Berate me all you want
because I left without you, and I can accept that. But don’t you dare
tell me what is dangerous or not for these islands. You know nothing
of what I know and what I’ve seen out there. You think I’d be back
here if I didn’t think it was important?”
He seemed shocked by her rebuttal, cold water poured over his
anger. Turay was never one for big outbursts anyway. He was more
of the passionate kind, insisting on the things he believed in, and
simply walking away from that which he didn’t. But he had not
walked away from her yet, not even now that she was a poisoned
fruit returned from the land of heathens outside. Did that mean he
still believed in her? Did that mean he still cared?
“I’m glad you’re fine,” he said softly, answering her question.
Then he shut the door and motioned for her to sit.
Lilong sat. The apology she had prepared for him—for her family,
for everyone—it stuck in her throat. The reality of return hit her now,
a weight lifted yet replaced by a new one. Home: solace, but also
dissonance.
“Are they—” she started, but could not bring herself to finish it.
“Your comrades are fine,” he said. “Though they will undergo
fiercer scrutiny than you, I suppose.”
She held his gaze, until he understood.
“Oh, you meant your family,” he said. “They’re… fine. I passed by
Ma Guosa on my way here, and she was with Kyauta and Lumusi,
doing some work outside.”
The names of her family members from his lips made reality
strike even harder. Each of her choices felt even more laden.
Leaving, surviving, exposing the islands. Abandoning.
“I have pressing questions for you.” Turay said this like an elder
brother, rather than a sentry, or a man who once proposed to be
joined to her. “Why in the name of all that is kind and wet would you
bring strangers—from the mainland!—into our home? What have
they seen? How much do they know? The league will surely have
even more pressing questions and some stiff decisions to make.”
She did not have an answer to his questions either, or rather she
had answers too lengthy to begin to explain now. So instead, she
just looked at him. Turay held her eyes for a while, then sighed and
shook his head.
He understands, she told herself. It was why she was sitting here
in this room, hidden away, rather than sitting in front of the league
Elders. It struck her, now, that this was his own act of rebellion, his
rejection of the league’s expectations, of the Ihinyon Ideal. Just like
allowing herself to look at him again, desire welling up inside her,
was also a rebellion of sorts, a culmination of all the small rebellions
she had cultivated on the trip. This was her finally beginning to
rewrite her story, and there was someone here whose hand she
could hold while she did so.
But first, she needed to know a few things, and until she did, she
would hold back everything she knew that he didn’t.
“Those sentries are my people.” Turay had dropped his voice to a
conspiratorial volume. “I convinced them not to speak to anyone,
and that might work while we’re still here, but I don’t know what will
happen once we get to Hoor. Luckily, the league has not sat for
many moons. There are matters more pressing right now than
whatever questions they might have.”
“You didn’t mention my daa.”
Turay frowned. “Pardon?”
“When you spoke of my family,” she said. “You did not mention
him.” And now that she thought about it, he did not mention Issouf,
her elder brother, either.
“Ah, well.” Turay looked around. “Perhaps we should make this
place comfortable. This one will be long.”
Without warning, his eyes flashed white.
White Iborworking was the most silent of all four. Where fire and
water often arrived with ferocity, and the other shades of ibor
needed solid objects or bodies to operate, white ibor and the
practice of wielding it often occurred in stillness. Unless the
Iborworker wanted it so, neither light nor wind announced their
deed until it was already far too late, when the deed was already
completed.
It happened this same way with Turay. All Lilong felt was a gentle
pull on the parts of her body she didn’t always know were there:
eyelids, eardrums, the hair on her arms. Then, as if the sun had
been drawn closer to the ground, the room was suddenly three
times brighter than the wick lamp could ever offer. The lone ray of
light piercing the room was gone, as if it had been diffused and
spread. A barely perceptible breeze filtered through the gap in the
window, a movement she was sure was completely absent before.
“I forgot how good you are with this,” said Lilong, finding herself
smiling and—at ease?—for the first time in a while.
“Your daa is gone,” said Turay.
Lilong went cold. Her jaw locked and she couldn’t find purchase
in her limbs. She tried to swallow, but her throat was too small, too
tight.
“He left with Issouf,” Turay was saying. “Nobody knows where,
but we have our suspicions. He had barely recovered when he began
to talk about the islands being in danger.”
Palpitations in her heart. Lilong blinked.
“He was speaking of some magical buried city or something. I
remember the league visiting, warning him to stop scaring
everybody by telling anyone who could hear that the islands will be
swallowed by the Great Waters. But he paid little heed. The league
said he was not quite well, that an attack from beyond the Forest of
the Mist had taken a toll on him. But I’m sure they had plans to
arrest him once he’d fully recovered, and I think he knew it too.
Because one day, we all woke up and he was gone.”
Lilong managed a swallow.
“Ma Guosa and Kyauta said they heard him whispering to Issouf
about taking a dhow. The league sent some warriors in pursuit, but
no one saw them at the twin islands. Which means they have either
already succumbed to the waves, or passed unnoticed.” He leaned
in. “But Lumusi told me, personally, that she thinks they’re going to
Ofen.”
“No.” It escaped her lips before she could hold it back.
“There is a lot we need to unravel, but we have no time,” Turay
was saying. “Perhaps your coming is a blessing in disguise. If we can
find your daa and Issouf before the storm, we can still save them.
But if we cannot find them before they make landing—”
“Wait, wait,” said Lilong. “What do you mean storm?”
“You didn’t feel it?” Turay said, rising. “Storm is coming.”

The cloud watchers had looked to the sky and made their
calculations. The storm was to be one-of-a-kind, nothing like they
had ever seen in the seven islands in their lifetime. There had been
no prior warning from the weather stone. One day, they had woken
up, and there it was—a change in the cloud patterns, in wind
movement, in the thickness of the air. A different swing to both
string and stone. This was not the rainfall anomalies they were used
to, no. This was an omen.
There were no clear patterns yet, no awareness of how the storm
planned to move. But those who watched the clouds understood
stillness more than they understood movement, and the long tails
they saw above told the tale of what was to come. They informed
the leaders of the islands and the Abenai League of what they knew.
Whatever was coming was big. Big enough to destroy huge swaths
of each island—Namge included—if not even big enough to swallow
a small island whole. The tiny island of Ofen, they declared, isolated
out there at the rump end of the archipelago, was most at risk of
disappearing completely.
Lilong had only ever witnessed small storms in her life, here one
day, gone the next. But she had heard the last big one discussed in
passing. Her parents and other older Ihinyon sometimes chatted
about how one felt it long before they saw it. They talked about the
stillness that came before, the absolute lack of motion, the quiet
before the panic. The thinness of the air, sharp enough to cut the
hair in one’s nostrils. The petrichor that lingered for days before the
storm made landfall.
They spoke of how every island evacuated its people to Hoor to
hide in the rock formations until the storm passed, then returned to
assess the damage and rebuild. It hadn’t always made sense to
Lilong that Hoor was the one island where emergency resources
were permanently stored and periodically updated. She had always
thought it was to ensure there would be enough supplies to cater to
the other islands if Namge was ever taken by forces from the
mainland. But Hoor was simply the only island in the archipelago
that was set apart from the wind’s path, and therefore tended to
receive the least damage from storms.
Forces from the mainland, it turned out, were now the least of
their worries. For Lilong and her friends to receive any sort of
punishment, they would first have to stay alive.
According to Turay, everyone—Elders, children, youth—was at the
west beach right now, headed for Hoor. Namgeans designated to
oversee and facilitate these transfers and welcome arrivals from the
other islands were the only ones left behind. That included him and
his teams of warriors, tasked with ensuring the Forest of the Mist
was still protected. This was why Namge was devoid of sound, of
soul.
It was the first day of the rainy season. Storm was coming.
 Danso

Namge
First Mooncycle, same day

THE ROOM THEY WERE kept in remained dark throughout. Sentries

entered every now and then, but no light came from the door
whenever they did, which led Danso to believe that they were deep
within a building. Neither he nor Oke could tell what time of the day
it was. The only window in their room was shut tight and was too
high up for them to peer through it.
Even without the light, he could make out most of the sentries’
features. Many had the same yellow complexion as Lilong, but a
handful looked just like a regular Bassai or even desertlander. In
fact, though he couldn’t be sure, he swore he saw at least one
person that looked exactly like him: a Shashi. This was the big lie of
Bassa’s myths, he realised: The Ihinyon weren’t all yellowskins, and
simply possessed a range of complexions like everyone else.
“Keeping us in the darkness like this has to be by design,” Danso
announced to Oke, who had so far spent all her time ensuring
Thema was comfortable. “I presume so we can’t see their faces—
that’s why they covered them in the forest and blindfolded us, right?
Or they just want to drive us mad, make us desperate to spill our
secrets.”
“Or prevent us from fomenting thoughts of escape,” Oke said,
rocking the baby, who, mostly faced with the dark, spent much time
sleeping. “They did this to us quite a bit back in prison.” There was a
bitter undertone to her words whenever she spoke about her time
there, if she even spoke of it at all.
The sentries came intermittently to offer water, cleaning cloths,
and some sort of mashed, starchy food for the baby. None for the
adults, except water. Like the times before, none of them spoke, just
offering the items and leaving. Hours passed this way. Danso
couldn’t be sure how long they had been there. Half a day? Two? His
stomach rumbled from hunger, but he had other things on his mind.
“You think Lilong is okay?” he asked no one in particular, placing
his ear to the door. “You think they are torturing her for
information?”
“Unlikely,” said Oke. “They don’t seem like the kind to attack their
own.”
The door opened suddenly, pushing Danso back, and the first ray
of light cut through the room.
Lilong walked in. Relief washed over Danso, but he tucked it away
quickly, remembering that both of them were not quite back to being
friends. Not yet.
“Are you harmed?” Lilong asked them both, though her eyes were
fixed on Oke and the sleeping baby. “Are you fine?”
“We are okay,” said Danso, observing her to confirm the same.
She looked unharmed, and they had returned her blade too, which
meant all was well. He noticed, however, that she did not have her
pouch containing the Diwi with her. That one must have remained
confiscated. He wondered if they’d retained that to keep him at bay.
He wondered if she’d told them about what he’d done, what he
could do.
“What is happening?” Danso peeked over her shoulder at the
sentries outside, who seemed to be paying little mind.
“I want you to meet someone,” said Lilong. She leaned through
the doorway and beckoned. A young man entered: muscular, yellow
like her, dressed and armed like the other sentries but with none of
their edgy demeanour. He wore a soft smile and had a boyish quality
to him, but his movements were just like Lilong’s: measured,
practiced, a warrior’s gait.
“This is Turay,” she said. Something tugged at the edge of her
lips, a softness Danso did not always witness resurfacing. But as she
was wont to do, Lilong hid it quickly.
Ah, thought Danso. That Turay.
Turay nodded at the group, then said in High Bassai just as crisp
as Lilong’s: “Welcome to Namge.”
Danso glanced at Oke, who looked just as perplexed. “Welcome?
We are not… prisoners?”
Turay cocked his head. “It is… not that simple.”
“You—we—are not prisoners,” said Lilong. “But we—you—are not
free. Not yet.”
“Ah,” said Oke. “So, like Bassa, then.”
“What does this mean for us?” Danso asked.
“We will be presented to the Abenai League, eventually,” said
Lilong. “But that will be delayed, because a storm is coming and
they are all the way over at Hoor.”
She said storm is coming with a pointed look at him and Oke.
Danso didn’t get it at first, but when he turned and saw
understanding in Oke’s eyes, he realised what she was referencing.
First, the Plague of Beasts. Now the Plague of Waters? He
shuddered. Something was definitely happening in the seventh
island of Ofen. Oh moons. Risisi might be real!
If Turay, standing next to her, knew anything about that, he did
not betray it. Danso realised what the other half of her look
signified: Turay did not know what they knew about Risisi. She
hadn’t told him. Yet.
“We have a bit of time to prepare some sort of argument before
sailing over to meet them,” Lilong was saying. “Preferably one
explaining what we’ve discovered about the Diwi and red ibor. But I
plan to delay that trip for as long as possible until we can make our
strongest argument. Because if we don’t…” She shrugged.
“That’s… comforting,” said Danso.
Turay placed a hand around Lilong’s shoulder in a way that
seemed quite affectionate to Danso. Even more noticeably, Lilong
did not growl or ask him to remove it.
“You will stay with Lilong’s family for now,” Turay said. “When it is
safe, you will join them in sailing to Hoor.”
“And you?” Oke asked Lilong.
“I have… other plans,” said Lilong.
Danso perked up at this.
“This plan,” he asked. “Is it to abandon us? Perhaps to go
somewhere and do something?”
Lilong winced at the word abandon, but her disposition did not
falter. Turay whispered something to her in Island Common, which
from his body language Danso gleaned meant something akin to
Why not just tell them?
“Is it… your daa?” asked Danso.
Lilong hesitated, then nodded. “He’s… gone.” Oke’s face fell, but
Lilong quickly assured her. “Not dead. He’s left for Ofen with Issouf,
my older brother.” She waved a hand, as if deciding it was all too
complicated to explain. “Listen, there’s no time. You need to get to
my family’s before they leave. They’ve been helping get people
across the channel to Hoor. They will find a way to help you cross
and keep you safe. Safer than the Elders will allow, at least.”
“And what will you do?” asked Oke.
“Wait until my daa and brother return. Then I’ll join you.”
“And probably be arrested alongside us.”
Lilong shrugged. “Probably.”
Silence fell between them all. Danso did not think, at all, that
Lilong wanted to simply rescue her family. She cared for them, yes,
but she had other plans. She wanted to find Risisi all by herself. Or
worse, do something with it long before anyone was the wiser.
“I will go make arrangements,” said Turay, and left.
Outside, it was late evening. Save for a few sentries milling about,
whose faces were still covered, there was no one around. Lilong had
quickly updated them about the storm and the ongoing evacuation
to Hoor, as well as other matters of interest, including what to
expect when they got to her home. Now she stood chatting with
Turay, who nodded and then passed on some instructions to his
sentries. He seemed to be some kind of leader, and Lilong seemed
to trust him without restraint. Danso had never seen her do that
with anyone else.
The island before him was not much different from Whudasha in
the way its sand and plants looked, the way the breeze moved, the
way the air smelled. He couldn’t quite make out the architecture, as
the building they stood in was set apart from what looked like most
of the settlement, far ahead in the distance. But what most struck
Danso was something else: an abandoned wooden structure in the
distance. It did not look like any of the abodes he had seen so far—
or ever. More like a travelwagon, but if three were stacked one on
the other, and if its sides were curved.
Is that…?
He stepped farther out on the veranda, squinting to make out the
structure. Three to four persons tall, curved like a cocoa pod if split
open in half. Ugly, hasty scaffolding barricaded it in, but did nothing
other than declare the structure as the real prize. Stilts propped it up
to ensure it balanced properly on a wooden raft of loose logs
beneath. From the layout, it looked like the raft was what allowed it
to be moved from place to place once the scaffolding was removed.
Danso had heard of seavessels and seen some drawings at the
university library, but he’d always thought of them as ancient
structures from another time, when people were foolhardy enough
to venture out to the Neverending Sea and its monster waves. Even
when Lilong had spoken of dhows, he’d imagined them to be like the
canoes he’d heard of from those who followed the Tombolo up to
the fishing hamlets on the coast or watched fishing happen on the
Gondola back when it had not dried up. But neither description nor
drawing had prepared him for what stood before him: the largeness
of it, the grandiosity, the beauty.
“One of many victims of the Great Waters,” said Turay, who had
returned from his conversation. Danso marvelled again at how crisp
his High Bassai was—although unlike Lilong, Turay seemed to speak
it with much reluctance. Whatever these Ihinyon scouts were doing
—bringing in pieces of the outside world, ensuring their people kept
aware even though they remained sequestered—what a fine job it
was.
“Don’t know how something so magnificent could be a victim,”
Danso replied, gesturing grandly at the structure. Oke, who had also
come forward to look, gasped in appreciation. Turay beamed, glad
that something so mundane could spark such joy and surprise.
“That one is under repair,” he said, almost disappointed. “Wait
until you see the fully functional ones at the beach. They’re
glorious.” Then, just as quickly, his smile vanished, as if he suddenly
realised he was not supposed to be friends with them.
“How will you get us to the house?” asked Danso. “I mean—we
are going to walk across the quarter, yes? And the sentries who
caught us—won’t they talk?”
“We do not speak of activities in the Forest of the Mist to regular
folk,” said Turay. “Don’t want to scare them with tales of intruders
and whatnot. As for being seen, don’t worry—hiding things is my
specialty.”
As he said this, his eyes flashed white, just like Lilong’s did with
amber. Danso felt a tingling in the air, like a breeze but without noise
or sound or movement—only the individual particles of air
responding to a Command.
A White Iborworker!
Oke did not seem to notice—perhaps she hadn’t seen. And unlike
the other ibors, nothing physical had changed or moved. But Danso
had the pertinent feeling of a sheen surrounding him, a cocoon of
protection—but also of imprisonment.
 He tapped his manuscript, tied fast to his body in his wrappers.
So many parts of this place the world deserved to see. Stories, but
also other kinds of knowledge. He just had to survive long enough to
make it happen.
If, of course, the plagues did not get them all first.
 Lilong

Namge
First Mooncycle, same day

THE ISLAND HAD CHANGED.

It was not just the emptiness that unsettled Lilong as she made
her way past a route that her feet had begun to remember. It was
the way the buildings themselves had changed. The way the coast
had edged much too close to the housing line, and how the
settlement seemed brighter, more light and breeze from the sea
weaving in.
It took Lilong a moment to realise why. Houses in Namge were
built in threes before a road, like the one they were on, separated
them from the next. The first, the house closest to the road, was the
tallest, a facade. Citizens of greater means—those who could afford
to pay powerful Amber Iborworkers to move heavy stones—built
theirs to contain more than one floor. This was farthest from the
coast and therefore would be least susceptible to the waves as they
edged closer and closer inland. The middle house was smaller, but
sometimes even better decorated, as it was where Namgeans
received guests. The last and final house was the smallest, built like
a hut, with the crudest material. Mostly used as storage or a
workspace, and often contained a household’s least precious items.
Things that could be sacrificed to the sea if need be.
When Lilong walked past, she saw only two rows of houses on
most sides, many of the storage huts missing. What would’ve been
the middle houses were precariously close to the sea. How could the
sea move so fast?
“Storm did this?”
Turay, walking beside her, said: “What? No. That’s just, you know,
normal creep.”
“Creep doesn’t happen that fast.”
He angled his head. “You’ve been gone a long time, Lilong.”
Turay had not been joking when he said the island was empty.
There was not a single soul in sight, and most of those they came
across were fellow warriors like him. Turay nodded at a few as they
went past. Thankfully, his Command of light was still in effect, so it
was impossible for them to see even the footprints of the group he
was leading, so long as they didn’t bump into anyone or anything.
“How many new recruits did you lot get while I was gone?”
“Many,” said Turay. “It became important to grow our numbers.
We didn’t know what was going to happen after you and your daa
had gone out there and, eh, showed yourselves.”
“You were preparing for… war?”
“We were just… preparing. We didn’t know what for. We still
don’t.”
“And somehow, they made you leader of them all.”
Turay snorted. “What shit leader? All of us warriors here right
now got stuck with the job of sentry or shepherding folks to the
beach because we did something or the other the league didn’t like.
Mine was for sticking my neck out for you—and I got assigned here
by my daa, no less!”
Lilong smiled wanly, a mix of guilt and appreciation. She
remembered how his daa, an Elder old enough to be her own daa
twice over, looked at her often. Like a cartwheel detached and run
off on its own. He wasn’t wrong, and he was likely glad he’d been
proven right. But she’d always thought of him as a thorn better to
avoid. He didn’t quite know about her past with his son, but he still
must have been incensed to hear him defend her leaving.
She observed the warriors some more. “Are they all from here?”
It occurred to her now that more of them were yellow-complexioned
than not, which suggested recruits from places like Ololo, where
almost the whole population was yellow, than, say, Namge or Hoor,
where each family had a majority of yellows but almost never all—
about three in four.
“Most of the new ones are from Ololo and Sibu-Sibu,” said Turay,
confirming her suspicions. “The Elders at Edana and Ufua were only
enthusiastic enough to lend a hand toward anything that would
improve commercial activities, which they say war does not. They
sent only a handful. Most are in Hoor right now. These ones are
likely here because they offended someone in the league.”
No wonder they had been so hostile even after she’d introduced
herself in the forest. Sure, the Ololo and Sibu-Sibu warriors were
renowned for such aggressiveness, but the others were likely only
rankled because they’d been assigned the most irritating league task
possible: herding wayward people.
They rounded one junction, then another, and soon arrived at
Lilong’s home.
Lilong stopped. Tears formed behind her eyes.
The front face of their house was beautified in the way only her
daa could have done—paintings, colours, swirls of the sea. Just like
all the others they had passed, emergency items in different stages
of packing were spread across the front yard—gourds of water and
wraps of non-perishable foods and herbs for medicine; a few tools
and weapons, likely for clearing debris after the storm. It all seemed
so alive, yet so dead.
“I swear I saw them out here not one moment ago,” said Turay.
“They’ll be in the backyard,” said Lilong, feet carrying her
forward, muscle memory doing its job. She swung the mat over the
doorway aside and walked into the house like it was not her first
time returning in three seasons. The roof felt too low, the house too
dark, too musty.
In the backyard were three people, their backs to her and Turay
as they entered. Ma Guosa was the first to turn around, before
Kyauta and Lumusi did the same.
It was her sister whose eyes widened the most, who screamed
and ran, flying into her embrace. Lilong caught her and they twirled.
Ma Guosa looked just as astonished, her eyes twinkling. Lilong
embraced her next, while Lumusi chattered, rotating questions like a
cartwheel.
“Welcome home, my daughter.” Ma Guosa pressed Lilong against
her soft body. “Great Forces have kept you safe. Oh, I wish your daa
were here to see this!”
Lilong embraced Kyauta. Her brother blinked and blinked and did
not do much else.
When they had sufficiently examined her, touched her new scars,
asked a basketful of questions she could not answer, and basked in
the euphoria of her return, Lilong opened her pack and presented
the gifts she’d brought back. Lumusi got one of the paintings Lilong
had made back in Chabo, while Kyauta got a pouch of interesting
pebbles and shells collected from the mainland and desertlands.
Lumusi held hers above her head and began to run about the
backyard. Lilong laughed. Kyauta received his wordlessly and blinked
and blinked.
“You get it, at least?” Ma Guosa was asking her about the Diwi.
Lilong nodded.
“Turay and the sentries took it,” she said. “To return to the Elders
for safekeeping, now that…” She trailed off. She did not quite yet
know how to talk about the current situation with her daa with Ma
Guosa. Though she was the only maa Lilong had ever known, and
she had been nothing but a good maa to Lilong, she was still not
hers. Not really. And they had never learned to talk about the hard
things because there had never been a hard thing to talk about.
“Turay tell you about the storm?” Ma Guosa asked. Lilong nodded
again. “Good,” said the woman. “Because we have waited long
enough. We may have to leave Jaoudou and Issouf and go to Hoor.
Then maybe… maybe he will meet us there.”
Lilong smiled. “It’s okay,” she said. “Let us worry about that
another time. But for now, come and meet my friends.”

Lilong brought her friends into the front house and introduced them
to her family. Ma Guosa immediately took to Oke, helping relieve her
of the child and ushering them inside for some rest. Danso and
Lumusi seemed to hit it off, Lumusi raising questions in High Bassai
that ended up in a conversation that looked like two scholars
arguing. Of the four children in the household, Lumusi was the one
who had picked up High Bassai the quickest, after Lilong had learned
it from her daa and begun to practice at home.
Out in the front yard, one of Turay’s warriors ran up to him and
whispered in his ear. Turay frowned, and Lilong caught him stealing
a glance or two back at the house. Then he dispersed the warrior
and came into the house.
“Some business to attend to,” he whispered to Lilong. “I will be
back.” He motioned toward Danso. “Make sure they stay here and
out of sight as agreed. No leaving this compound until we’re ready
to take them to Hoor.” He leaned in. “I mean it, Lilong.”
“I’ll keep them here,” she said. Then he was off.
While Danso and Lumusi continued to chat, Lilong noticed Kyauta
had disappeared. She distinctly recalled him not returning the
greetings from her comrades. She went into the back house, past
Ma Guosa and Oke trying to communicate as best they could via
hand gestures (Ma Guosa had no interest in learning High Bassai,
“the language of evil,” as she put it). Outside, in the backyard,
Kyauta was at his packing duties again.
“You’re angry,” she said.
He did not respond.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “For leaving without telling you. I didn’t
want you all to worry.”
Kyauta had not grown much taller in her absence. Only two and a
half seasons would bring him to around thirty seasons old now.
Young, still. But she could see the strain in his neck, the sinew of his
small biceps. He had not grown up in her absence, but sterner, and
she heard it in his voice when he spoke.
“And yet,” he said. “And yet.”
“I had to do it, you understand?” She edged closer. “I had to save
our family name, our legacy on these islands.”
“And yet,” he said, this time turning around, fury written all over
his face. “And yet you ended up throwing our name in the mud.”
“I—” Lilong stopped. “I’m sorry.”
“For which part?” His voice began to rise. “For leaving us to the
mercy of the league? For leaving daa when the pain and shame of
his attack and mistake was at the highest? For causing him to
continue to worry instead of healing? For causing him to convince
Issouf and take him to his death?”
Now that he said it like that, Lilong’s belly sank even farther. He
was right. What exactly was she apologising for?
“All okay?” Ma Guosa was standing at the backyard door. “Kyauta
—you disrespecting your sister after her long journey?”
“She is not my sister,” he said. “Not after what she has done.”
“What did you say?” Ma Guosa stepped into the backyard. “If you
have two heads, repeat what you just said.”
“It’s fine, maa.” To Kyauta, she said: “I’m sorry I disappointed
you.” She turned to Ma Guosa. “All of you.”
“Never mind him, my dear,” said her maa. “There is time yet for
redemption. But first: survival. And some food, to begin with.”
 Esheme

The Forest of the Mist

First Mooncycle, 1, same day

THE ROYAL PARTY STOOD at the edge of the Forest of the Mist.
They’d found the fugitives’ travelwagon after two days of travel
from the Weary Sojourner. Their trail had been easy to follow,
showing signs of struggle, an attack of sorts—predators, probably.
They’d found the abandoned travelwagon that finally confirmed their
postulations. The kwaga tracks had been easy to follow, leading
them to where the kwagas themselves had also been abandoned.
The mist had been visible from there.
Now that they stood here, Esheme saw why there was little
attempt to protect the location of this place. It was impenetrable,
mist winding tightly around trees that disappeared into what may
have been clouds descended too low. No sensible person would go
into this place unguided.
Which was why Esheme decided to go first.
 Not her, just her eyes: the Ninki Nanka. She would send it ahead,
clear a safe pathway for the caravan to go through, deal with any
predators in the way, or any traps set up by the yellow woman’s
people. She just needed to do so without hurting herself more than
the trip already had.
Esheme disembarked from the royal travelwagon and stepped
forward, held upright only by the force of sheer will. She was the
most fatigued she’d ever been in her forty-some seasons in this
world. But too much was at stake for her not to try.
Igan, beside her, remained silent and stone-faced. They had not
yet recovered from Esheme taking Kangala’s advice to split the
caravan, leave Ikobi and a squadron of civic guards at the Weary
Sojourner, and send half the Sahelian company in pursuit of the
escaped men.
But what Igan didn’t know was that Esheme had no intention of
doing anything here, whether crossing this forest or the land bridge
after it. Not in this state. Her time at the Weary Sojourner had finally
brought her to see sense: The savanna was a harsh foe, and
travelling through it had depleted her in more ways than one. Bodily,
and numbers-wise, she was in no place to lead her people into this
forest, where they could easily be swarmed by people with far
superior numbers.
So, no, she wasn’t planning to go into enemy territory
unprepared. In fact, she had all but given up on capturing these
fugitives, and instead began to think of them as her map, a pathway
to greater glory. Because on the other side of this forest and land
bridge was a land teeming with ibor that was more than just one
tiny piece. She only needed to find that land, and that was all that
mattered.
At some point in the future, she would return, replenished, and
get everything she wanted.
She stood near the treeline now, mist dropping low enough to
settle between the trees’ branches, wrap around their trunks, touch
their leaves. A truly mesmerizing sight. But beautiful things could be
dangerous too, which was why Igan and their posse continued to
scan for threats. None, so far. Not that there were many threats out
here that could easily get to Esheme before the Ninki Nanka
snapped them in half or spat them into a puddle of flesh. She might
be physically weak, but she was still the most powerful woman this
side of the continent.
She Drew, and called for her beast.
Her mind wandered as she did so, envisioning how she would
finally discover these Nameless Islands and return to her people with
knowledge that no other emperor had been able to gain. She would
claw back respect, not just for herself, but for the institution that
was the Bassai empire. Show them that she was more than just the
young woman who had spent most of this trip as a passenger. The
leadership she hoped to demonstrate, she could start now, show
that she was capable.
It took her a moment to realise the Ninki Nanka was not there, in
the place at the back of her consciousness where her connection to
it usually nestled. She had Drawn, but there was nothing on the
other side for the ibor to Possess. No sting in her belly that told her
the connection was complete, no waning consciousness or desire to
vomit. Simply… nothing.
She shut her eyes, strained, called again. Rise. No response.
“What is it?” Igan was asking, but then there was a moan of pain
and discomfort behind them.
The first civic guard dropped to the grass, scratching at his face—
his eyes—then at his body, clawing bits of flesh from his arms. Then
just as suddenly, his body began to jerk. Milky foam spurted from his
mouth, and his eyes seemed to lose their blackness, giving way to
whites alone, and the red from where he had clawed at them.
He stopped moving, dead.
The peace officer next to him, stepping forward to check on the
fallen man, had barely taken two steps before stooping to hold his
own belly. He fell to a knee and retched. Milky-white spew poured
from the edges of his mouth, bypassed the stitching holding his lips
shut, surged between threads. He fell, groaning, scratching his eyes,
then screamed, clawing at his skin, peeling off the brown to show
the whites underneath that quickly became blood-red.
One by one, the royal civic guards, peace officers, attendants—all
dropped to the ground, clawing at their bellies, their eyes, their skin.
Stricken, demented, dead.
“Protect the emperor!” Igan’s rallying cry came. Their posse, the
only ones who hadn’t fallen, stepped into a protective circle around
Esheme, readying their weapons. But there was no enemy to fight,
nothing beyond watching their comrades writhe in the grass, go
mad, and die.
My serpent, Esheme was still thinking, lost in her own
consciousness. Where are you?
The Sahelians, eyes wide, were the only others yet to fall. They
gathered to themselves, led by Oroe, Kangala nowhere in sight.
“A curse!” Oroe was saying, as they whispered to one another.
“We have been cursed! Retreat! We have been cursed by the Forest
of the Mist!”
It took Esheme a moment to realise he was speaking Savanna
Common, and not his native Sahelian, even though he was talking to
his own people. Igan, casting her a glance, realised this at the same
time. He wanted to be heard, to be absolved of whatever hand had
caused this. Because it was indeed a hand.
This was no curse. It was poison.
Igan, arriving at the same conclusions as Esheme did, wore a
rageful expression.
“The water!” they said. It clicked into place for Esheme, then.
That was why only the guards and peace officers and attendants
had died. They drank the common supply, separate from Esheme’s
own supply, and Igan and their posse had a separate supply. The
Sahelians drank from the common supply too, but had not been
affected. Which meant…
“Your beast, Sovereign,” Igan was saying, crouching, ready.
“Where is it?”
Esheme strained, pushed her consciousness. Nothing.
“Where is your leader?” Igan screamed at the Sahelians, now
clustered on the opposite side of the camp. “Where is the Man
Beyond the Lake?”
“Here,” said a voice, and Kangala stepped out from behind the
royal travelwagon.
 Head to toe, the man was covered in black blood. In one hand,
he held an axe, short-handled. Bits of flesh fell off its blade.
In his other hand, dragging along the ground because it was so
heavy, was the head of the Ninki Nanka.
Esheme’s chest sank inward. She took in a sharp breath. Her
knees wobbled.
“Interesting thing about death,” said Kangala. “Dying things do
not know they already dead. They want to live, hold to things of
old.” He tossed the head of the Ninki Nanka forward, letting it roll
into the grass that separated both groups. “Sometimes, you remind
them. You tell them the bad news: You already nothing. This is your
fate. Accept it.”
Esheme stared at the crux of her power lying in the grass before
them. She had never envisioned it, that such great power—her great
power—could be so easily defanged. Now she saw that she had
been foolish, naive. The beast was already dead. Of course it could
be killed again, while it was in stasis, asleep, unable to wake or alert
anyone while its head was being cut off.
She took a tentative step forward, anger brewing into a
monstrosity of its own. She Drew, filled herself with power that was
useless. The head in the grass called to her, and she had a mind to
run to it now, touch it, reawaken it. Deal out justice on this savage
man.
But even from here, the coldness on the other end, the lack of a
response, told her it was a pointless venture. Heads did not walk on
their own, and headless bodies did not have eyes. Separation of
undead head from undead body meant one thing, and one thing
alone: The Ninki Nanka was gone forever, and Esheme had nothing.
Oroe and his group had stopped their acting. They gathered
behind Kangala, Oroe smirking at Igan, who huddled with their
posse, surrounding the emperor.
“Snake,” Igan hissed. “I knew it from the day you set foot in
Chugoko.”
Kangala cocked his head. “Then why you keep snakes close? Is
common sense not to, yes?”
This only enraged Igan more. “You poisoned the emperor’s
people! Good people!”
Kangala snorted. “There are no good people here. Only
opportunists. Me, you, all of us. Even your fugitives. You know why
they here, yes? Looking for power. Myth city in this myth islands, big
and small stones with power, make impossible things possible.” He
chuckled. “You look for power, I look for power, they look for power.
Maybe they have cross already, who knows? But us, only one of us
will cross.”
He reached into his garment and pulled out a piece of greenery—
part cactus, part leaf. The naboom. He sniffed it, broke it in two.
Milky-white sap dripped from its insides.
The two groups faced off. Six Sahelians, eight counting Oroe and
Kangala. Igan and five members of the posse, not counting the
emperor.
Esheme swallowed, found her voice.
“Is that what you want, Sahelian?” she asked. “The power of
ibor?”
Kangala grinned. On his blood-splattered face, it was a crazed
smile.
“No,” he said. “I am waiting.”
“Why?”
“Kill your guards, take you prisoner.”
“Try,” Igan growled. “Six of us, eight of you. I dare you to try.”
“No, not eight,” he said. “Thirteen.”
As he said this, there was a clatter of hooves. From the lonely
roads, a cloud of dust rose, giving way to more Sahelians on
kwagaback. Six, to be exact. The same Sahelians meant to be in
pursuit of the Weary Sojourner escapees, now headed for them,
coming from the general direction of the fringe settlements they’d
passed by earlier.
Igan’s face darkened as Esheme’s spirit sank. She had been
completely fooled, outsmarted by a former fisherman and canoe
paddler. A nobody.
Without warning, Igan plucked a spear from a posse member and
hurled it at Kangala. But Oroe, who had been watching Igan all this
time, relishing a fight, shoved a spare champion into Kangala.
Kangala bundled over, and the champion collected the brunt of the
spear in his shoulder. Then Oroe was charging at Igan.
“Get to the treeline!” Igan screamed, pushing Esheme backward
before flying out to meet Oroe. Esheme fell on her buttocks, pain
shooting up her tailbone. Feet charged past her, and the screams of
battle and clatter of weapons began.
Esheme, dazed, lost somewhere between helplessness and
despair, crawled forward, toward the only thing she could recognise
in this chaos: the head of her animal. She ran her hand over the
beast’s scaly head, its now finally shut eyes, its exposed dead
tongue. But then she was suddenly yanked up, dragged over ragged
ground. She looked up and saw it was Igan, hauling her with one
arm, swinging their axe with the other, blade finding flesh. Bits and
pieces of someone flew all over Esheme. A Sahelian crumpled and
bled a foot away from her.
“Get up!” Igan was screaming at her. “Run for the forest!”
Esheme rose, but her feet buckled. She fell and vomited in the
sand.
Igan suddenly let go. Esheme rose to her hands and knees and
began to crawl toward the treeline, dodging swinging weapons, dirt
kicked up, blood, brains, spittle. The treeline seemed to grow
smaller, farther, the more she gained ground—if she was gaining
ground at all.
I don’t want to die, she kept thinking. I don’t want to die.
As if in answer to her prayer, a strong arm grabbed at her and
picked her up, onto their shoulder—Igan. And then they were
running.
The royal travelwagon grew distant in Esheme’s sight. Kangala
stood there, hands tucked forward, nodding. A lizard, a snake.
Around him, a battle raged, Igan’s posse getting overrun, falling one
after the other, but Kangala remained unmoved, eyes holding
Esheme’s, inviting her, over and over, to witness the destruction of
everything she had built.
Oroe, fresh from pummelling down one of Igan’s posse, turned
and spotted them. He shouted an order in a Sahelian tongue, then
began to give chase.
 Igan did not stop running, did not stop to put Esheme down, not
even once they’d crossed the treeline and ventured into the
suddenly cool air of the Forest of the Mist. Esheme’s joints and teeth
and fingernails rang in her ears, ibor screaming too loud, mourning
the severed connection, protesting her weakening body. But then
the mists swallowed them, every last trace of their enemies
snatched from sight, and Esheme was left with nothing but the
darkness ahead.
 Esheme

The Forest of the Mist

First Mooncycle, same day

TIME IN THE FOREST was an imperceptible, immeasurable quantity. No

light, no warmth, nothing but grey and green and brown, stifling
them. They went on and on until the green seemed too far-flung for
any direction to hold any promise. Only once they couldn’t tell where
or when they were, and that Igan had decided their pursuers were
no longer nearby, did they finally stop running.
Esheme lay down, listening to Igan’s heavy breathing. The
hastiness of it contrasted the stillness of the forest, the pause of
everything. The quiet before a pot began to boil.
“Why did you do that?” Igan was asking. “When I tell you to run,
you run.”
Esheme touched the armlet that held the ibor piece strapped to
her arm. Still there, but now useless. It struck her, now, how little
she knew about anything—about ibor, about what lay on the other
side of this mist. Were there beasts in here too, that could become
undead under her touch? Could she fight them and win? Was she
now prey?
“I told you,” Igan was saying, half to themself, half to the forest.
“I told you he would try whenever he got the chance. I told you we
had to act first or he would.”
Esheme knew Igan was right. In her physical weakness, she had
let her mind succumb to laxity and had ignored every part of it,
denounced it as constant bother over nothing. She was the Red
Emperor of Great Bassa, the Scion of Moons. Surely he wouldn’t?
She’d believed so much in might—the might of the beast at her
back, the might of ibor, the might of her loyal and ferocious peace
officers, the might of the greatest city on the continent awaiting her
return. She was too mighty to be conquered.
Not once had she ever spared a thought for who she was without
these things. But Kangala had, and he had waited for that sliver of a
moment when none of it mattered, and slipped through the crack.
He had won, because here she was, nothing but a lost woman in a
strange forest, directionless. The only thing standing between her
and death was her lover-advisor-Second. And the only thing keeping
her sane was the life that still thrummed within her belly.
“I’m scared,” said Esheme, words she had not said or thought in
a long time. “And I’m sorry.” It was a declaration: to the world, to
Igan, but mostly to herself.
Igan frowned and shook their head.
“I’m sorry,” Esheme repeated, a little louder.
“No, that’s—” They shook their head again, as if to clear their
eyes. “Something is wrong.”
“What?”
“I can’t see,” said Igan, blinking profusely. “I can’t—”
“You’re bleeding,” Esheme said, the wet metallic smell hitting her
now. She lifted the edge of Igan’s garment, and there it was: the
blade of a spear, embedded just to the back of their right ribcage.
The handle had broken all the way off, and the blade itself was
completely in, so that there was no purchase left, just a living,
gaping wound with a faint glimpse of black metal, blood pouring all
over it.
“Oh,” said Igan, then their eyes rolled back, and they dropped
into the understory.

Esheme did the best she could to stem Igan’s bleeding, which
included padding the wound with her own wrappers, then ripping
what was left of the cloth and tying it tightly across their stomach.
Afterward, she lay with Igan in the understory, her head over her
lover’s chest, listening to their distant heartbeats and praying to
whatever god was listening that the faint rises and falls never
stopped, and that those who sought them never found them like
this: alone and helpless.
Nothing in the Forest of the Mist was what it seemed. Light, like
time, moved independent of the demands of day and night. Every
stream that pierced the canopy and cut through the mist took the
shape of whatever lay in its way—tree or person or animal. Esheme
had not seen any of the latter two in—hours, days?—save for a few
lizards, a lone frog, and a few birds and small tree animals above.
When there was any perceptible movement, she envisioned it was
the Ninki Nanka, her big obedient child, returned from the dead to
save her. Once, she saw its head, floating in the mist, but when she
flexed her consciousness, tapped into the stone-bone in her arm,
there was nothing. Just mist.
Sometimes, it was the Sahelians, their feet crunching in the
understory as they bounded over to recapture her. But then she
would wake up and realise that aside from the continued rise and
fall of Igan’s chest—a rise and fall that grew weaker by the moment
—there was little else of harm or merit within the vicinity.
Stirrings in her belly were the other thing that kept waking her up
whenever she drifted into troubled sleep, fatigued by the latent
pressures of iborworking and escape. She couldn’t tell if it was
hunger or ibor or something else—someone else. She kept having
short, fitful visions—dreams?—of things being taken from her: her
power, her empire, her… child? Each dream was awash with despair
and impotence, an overwhelming sense of having things happen to
her over and over again, and being unable to do anything about it.
In her mistdreams, the faces of her tormentors were warped,
unrecognisable, but they all said the same thing. Look at you, they
crooned. Emperor of nothing. They reached out to touch her, first in
supplication, but when their fingers met her skin, they were rough,
hardened by squalor and seasons in the dirt. She recoiled from
them, folded into herself, drowning in the despair of her loss. When
she looked up, the tree was so tall, so far away, and she was but a
tiny being who had fallen to its roots, a long fall from grace.
What is left to live for? they taunted, the voices. What is there?
She tried to remember. People who cared about her, back in a
faraway place called home. But she couldn’t picture it, couldn’t
remember their names. Everything swirled in the mist.
Igan’s chest had stopped rising and falling. Or perhaps not.
Esheme leaned forward and put a finger underneath their nose. A
hint of air exhaled. But was that a sign of life, or a sign of the
coastal winds?
“Help,” she whispered, the word getting caught in her throat, a
housefly stuck. Igan’s motionless body stared back at her in
response.
There is nothing, said the voices in her head, in the mist.
Nothing.
She was so tired. Hunger clawed at her belly. Her will to resist
had vanished.
She nodded. “Nothing.”
Perhaps it is time to go. She nodded again. “Perhaps.” She
reached for Igan’s axe.
Then, she remembered a name. Someone who wasn’t far away,
someone who was with her, right now. Not Igan—Igan was dead (or
were they?). This person was here, but not yet in the world, not yet
privy to its sufferings.
Little Esheme. The one to whom she gave life, and who had given
her power in return. She might no longer have power, and therefore
had nothing to give in return, but moons help her, she had life to
give, and she would give it.
She would live. She would live, if it killed her.
She put down the axe, rose, and began walking.
How long and how far she walked, she would never know. Her
feet and hands bled, cut by thorny and snapping things in the
understory. Her clothes, damp from the mist, clung to her body. She
shivered, but pressed on. Mosquitoes bit into her once-immaculate
skin and drew blood, leaving red welts behind, but she did not slap
at them. Signs of life flashed by, but she did not turn around.
Little Esheme was all she kept thinking. Little Esheme.
When the sentries found her, her vision had blurred so much that
she could not tell what they were. Faces covered, giving them a
fearsome and ghostly quality. Some yellow from head to toe, like the
spirits-of-the-forest stories she had grown up with. Others: black,
high or low, ordinary. When they ordered her to stop in a language
she did not recognise, she did not stop, because the stories said that
when a spirit in the forest ordered you to stop, you did so to your
detriment.
But they had Igan.
Igan lay in a hastily made stretcher, hauled between two of the
sentries. They lay motionless, but their face looked peaceful.
Esheme stopped then, faced the carriers. Perhaps these were no
malevolent spirits at all, no—these were saviours. These were sent
by the moon gods, who would never forsake their scion.
Then she saw the ropes, the bindings, Igan’s wrists, elbows, and
ankles fused to each other. This was the thing that broke her, the
sight of someone she loved now a captive. But what broke her even
more, drained all will left in her body, was the thought of the other
body, the one within her, still yet to meet this cruel world, yet
already doomed to captivity as she would now be.
Knees weak, she sank into the understory.
“Why?” she asked, but they did not answer because they did not
understand. Rather, they took her by the arms, bound her wrists,
and led her away.
 Lilong

Namge
First Mooncycle, 1, midnight

LILONG WAS MIDWAY THROUGH a snack of fried plantain balls and regaling
Ma Guosa and Lumusi with tales from her sojourn when Turay
returned, a deep frown plastered over his face. They all stood in the
kitchen, warming up pepper soup and boiled cocoyams for the new
arrivals. Turay took Lilong away from the stinging peppers to the
backyard.
“Something has come up.” He sounded angry, as if at her.
“What?”
“I can’t say,” he said. “I have to show you.”
He led her back past the house and outside, then cloaked them in
darkness and set off quickly, not bothering with an explanation.
Lilong, perplexed, wanted to inquire some more, but decided Turay
had trusted her judgement so far. It was best to repay the favour.
Half an hour later, they were back at the place of their prior
imprisonment—the house of assembly. Seeing as it was now near
midnight, there was no one here but a handful of sentries scattered
within distance.
“Okay, Turay, you’re scaring me,” she said once they were outside
the door. “Time to explain.”
“I have to show you something,” he said. “Well… someone.”
Lilong pricked up.
“You did not come through the mists alone.”
Even before Turay filled the inner room with unnatural light,
Lilong knew what she expected to see. From the moment the
blacksmith who fixed their travelwagon had mentioned the emperor
collecting peace officers, Lilong surmised it could be for only one
reason: The emperor had figured out who the prison escapee was,
or worse, who had helped her escape, and had come in pursuit. The
blacksmith’s warnings had lingered with them for the whole trip,
which was why she had insisted that their stay at the Weary
Sojourner be limited to one night, and had not been quite in favour
of Oke’s lovers remaining there.
Despite that, nothing prepared her for what she saw. Instead of a
young woman in a crown and flowing wrappers, the person in the
dirt looked like a vagrant thrown up to the rocks by the sea. Her
hands and feet, bleeding and bruised, were bound to a chair.
There she was: the Twenty-Fourth Emperor of Great Bassa, the
Red Emperor, fallen from grace. Weak, unconscious, and at her
mercy.
Without warning, Lilong Drew and Commanded her blade. It flew,
heading straight for Esheme’s heart. It was only a moment away
when Turay’s eyes flashed white. A quick, sharp gust cut across,
flurrying Esheme’s wrappers. It blew the blade off-course, causing it
to stab the chair’s backrest, a knife’s edge from Esheme’s head.
“Are you mad?” said Turay. “You can’t kill her!”
“What do you mean?” Lilong said. “You know who she is, yes?”
“Maybe? But we don’t know for sure! She hasn’t spoken or
awoken, so we wait until then before jumping to conclusions.” He
cocked his head. “And look… she’s pregnant.”
Lilong squinted, saw the slight bulge of her belly, recognised now
the tenor of her skin, bearing both shine and pallor. It was easy to
mistake the effects of one for the other, iborworking and pregnancy.
They both took from the body in ways that gave something back.
But for Esheme, it was obvious to Lilong that the weight of both
coincided to leave behind the husk of a woman sprawled before her.
“And so what if she is?” Lilong snarled.
Turay’s face clouded. “What do you mean and so what? You’re
willing to murder an innocent child?”
“What do you mean, innocent? Nothing coming out of that can be
innocent.”
Turay shook his head. “What happened to you out there, Lilong?”
Lilong thought of Thema, of Oke’s confidence that her child’s
presence would easily get her out of trouble. Had Esheme thought
the same, brought her unborn child here knowing most would be
reluctant to attack her in this state? Because what else would
possess someone to sacrifice so much and travel so far in this
condition? All for what—even more power than being the leader of
the only empire on the continent?
This is why Risisi cannot be allowed to fall into the wrong hands,
she told herself. Or any hands at all. Look at the lengths they will go!
The gust of wind and their elevated voices seemed to have
woken Esheme up. She groaned, head lolling. Lilong walked forward
and slapped her hard across the cheek.
“Tell us how you got here! Tell us who came with you!”
“Enough, Lilong.” Turay pulled her back. “We found two others,
but we’re not sure if they were with her. One was a hunthand-type
desertlander, armed, like a warrior. Fought the sentries, so they
killed him in defence. The other was already unconscious, wounded
by a spear.”
The slap, apparently, had not been enough to fully wake Esheme
up—she looked spare, like she had been working ibor and had not
taken the time to replenish.
“Red ibor,” said Lilong. “Did you find any on her?”
Turay retrieved an armlet from within his wrappers. It was Bassai
design, bronze hoop, gold centrepiece, with space to hold a precious
material, often coral or other gems. But in the middle of this one
stood something she recognised: a shattered piece of the Diwi.
“You know, the scouts have been bringing back stories,” said
Turay. “Undead soldiers, undead armies, undead beasts. We knew
she was doing things, but we weren’t sure how. All this time, she’d
found a way to awaken red ibor, something we’ve been trying to do
here with no success.” He shivered at the thought of its power.
“Maybe Ololo and Sibu-Sibu were right after all. Maybe we should
not be escaping a storm, but planning for war.” He juggled the
armlet in his hand. “Maybe this is a blessing in disguise. How else
would we have learned about the powers of red ibor? The elders will
be pleased—maybe even pleased enough to forgive you for leading
her here!”
Lilong had been contemplating telling him about Danso’s power,
but suddenly realised there was opportunity here: Esheme could
bear the brunt of this development.
“How did she end up alone in the Forest of the Mist?”
Turay shrugged. “That’s what I want to know. Hopefully she
awakens soon and tells us, because those sentries out there are
getting impatient. Two sets of intruders, both with pieces of an
Ihinyon heirloom—it’s unprecedented. We waste too much time, and
the word will be out on the next dhowload to Hoor, and the league
will know. Then we’ll be in real trouble.”
“So, we wake her,” said Lilong, and set about it.

When the Red Emperor of Bassa awoke, she did not seem surprised
to see the two islanders before her. She did not even seem panicked
or angry or fearful. Instead, she looked inquisitive, peeking at her
belly, as if to check that her child was still there.
Once she could speak, she asked only one question.
“Igan?”
Lilong and Turay regarded one another.
 “What is that, High Bassai?” Turay asked Lilong in Island Common
so Esheme wouldn’t understand.
“I don’t know what an Igan is, and I don’t care,” she said,
stepping forward to face Esheme. “Listen, Sovereign. We have
questions. Either you give us answers, or you die. Choose.”
Esheme’s sunken, dark eyes met hers. For someone so bent on
pursuing her, Lilong realised she had met this woman up close only
twice: at Danso’s barn, and in the Dead Mines. Now that she looked
at her, she was just a scared child, unlucky enough for the moons to
align and place power in her hands. Sure, she had bartered and
murdered her way there—she was the daughter of a fixer after all—
but once she’d had it, she did not know what to do with it. So she
had reached for the next best thing all with power always did:
asking for more. But more always led to disaster. More was how a
whole emperor ended up on a hidden island alone, captive and
defenceless.
“Igan,” Esheme said. “Then I talk.”
“We don’t know no Igan,” said Lilong. “Everything here is what
we have found.”
“We killed a warrior man,” said Turay in High Bassai. “I don’t
know if he was yours, but if this is who you are asking about, he is
dead. He fought the sentries and did not win. The other person we
rescued is with a healer. We cannot say at this time if they will
survive or not.”
Relief seemed to settle in her, though she retained some disquiet.
Then she said: “Water.”
Turay fetched it, and she drank something close to a bucketful.
She asked to be released from her binds. Turay was soft to it, Lilong
violently opposed. So they met in the middle and loosened the ankle
binds only.
Then Esheme began to speak.
Lilong had never heard the woman speak at such length, but as
she listened, she began to see what Bassa saw in her. This was an
extraordinary woman who was like the face of the Neverending Sea,
each wave reflecting something different when the sun shone on a
new side. She spoke of her learnings in Chugoko with pride, triumph
in her voice when she spoke of her recruitment of a Sahelian called
the Man Beyond the Lake. Lilong took in a sharp breath when she
told of their time at the Weary Sojourner, then calmed when she
learned of the escapees.
Esheme’s shoulders began to slouch as she narrated the events of
a battle at the edge of the Forest of the Mist. This explained not just
where the murdered warrior in the forest had come from, but the
tales of her undead beast, and why it wasn’t here now.
“This Kangala,” asked Turay. “He is still out there? On the edge of
the forest?”
“I don’t know,” said Esheme. “I assume he’ll try to find the
isthmus. It’s what I would do.”
“Because he believes there is ibor here, like you do.”
Esheme shook her head. “Not like me, no. He spoke of something
else—a city underground, filled with ibor. I reckon that is what he
might seek.” She held Lilong’s eyes. “He knew things about you and
your island, things even I did not know.”
“Underground city?” Turay chuckled. “There is no such thing. Only
children’s rhymes and old people’s tales.”
But Esheme had caught Lilong’s expression, the discomfort in her
posture when the buried city was mentioned.
“Is it, now?” said Esheme, smirking. “Perhaps you want to have a
chat with your comrade here.”
Turay glanced at Lilong, and it was too late for her to hide her
expression of intense concern. His eyes widened.
“What is this, Lilong?” he asked in Island Common. “What have
you done?”
Lilong was shaking her head. “Listen, Turay, it’s a long story. I
didn’t—”
“I knew it!” Turay clapped his hands, frustrated. “I knew you
didn’t just come back because you cared—for your family, or your
people, or me. You came because, like always, you desired
something. And as usual, you hid it from me.”
“I did not hide—”
“You’re always saying my daa this and my daa that, but you are
just the same. You say you want to help, but you just make things
worse for all of us.”
The accusation stung Lilong more than she’d expected. Anyone
else could believe this about her, but not Turay. Not the one person
who was not her family that she might actually care about, whose
well-being she was now concerned about—not just because he had
put himself on the line for her, but because he made her want to put
herself on the line for her family, for her people, for him.
It was for him that she wanted to do something about Risisi.
Destroy it if she had to. That life he dreamed of, the one free of
imprisonment on an island and tenets of the league and invasion by
Bassa—they could have that. But only if Risisi was never there,
never accessible by people like Esheme or this Kangala man, or even
the Abenai League.
Turay could see his words had had an effect. He cooled down.
“I did not mean to—”
“You are right,” she said. “I have made hasty decisions, and they
have cost me, cost others. But I can do better, and I want to do
better. So just give me a chance and listen, will you?”
Esheme, who had been watching their back and forth, chimed in.
“Might I say,” she said, her tone brightened by the chaos her
words had sparked, “now is a good time to speak of how you may
return me to my people?”
Turay frowned. “Return?”
“For a reward, of course,” said Esheme. “It is in your own best
interest. Once the whole continent hears their Red Emperor is
missing, and the news spreads—and it will spread—that Kangala has
found the Forest of the Mist that leads to ibor, your sentries will not
be able to hold the barrage of power-hungry people soon to appear
on your doorstep.” She smirked again. “But if I return, only I have
that secret. And your reward, among other things, is that your secret
remains safe with me. Perhaps, even, somewhere along the line, we
can come to an agreement, your people and mine. We can make
Oon the greatest it has ever been.”
Lilong stared at the woman, befuddled. Then she laughed dryly,
long and hard.
“Foolishness must run in the waters at Bassa,” she said, once
done, “because that is the only explanation for why you believe
yourself to be in a position to bargain.”
“I am still alive,” said Esheme. “If you were going to kill me, you
would have done so already. So, as long as I have life and can
speak, I will bargain.”
Lilong shook her head slowly, then crouched to Esheme’s level.
“Make no mistake,” she said. “You will die. It’s a matter of when
and how, and whether it is by my hand or others, but you will die.
Just like the many lives you have taken from this world, you will
never see your land or your people again. That, I promise you.”
Lilong rose and beckoned Turay outside. Once on the veranda,
Turay paced, near frantic. Lilong, however, had already decided what
she was going to do.
“We must go to Ofen,” she said.
Turay stopped. “Say what?”
She told him the story of Risisi—the true one—and the story of
her daa’s plans with Oke. She told him of the league’s lies and secret
society, the truth of where her daa had taken Issouf to. She told him
everything.
When it was over, Turay was as still as the morning. He gazed up,
into the sky, as if trying to find his place in all this mess, trying to
answer the same questions Lilong had been trying to answer all this
time. He had no response, just like Lilong had had none, just like it
had left her deflated and lacking in will.
But now, she had a will, a plan, something to put an end to all of
this. Something to give them both the freedom they sought.
“It’s all the answers we want and need,” said Lilong. “We find my
daa and Issouf, find Risisi, find out why the league lied to us.”
“And then what?”
Then we destroy it, she wanted to say, but decided against telling
him this part. Disillusioned as Turay was, the thought of destroying a
treasure trove of ibor would hit too close to home for him. He would
try to talk her out of it, and he’d never help her get there if he knew
her true plan.
“Then we see,” she lied. “But at least we will know all the truth of
what really exists.”
 He thought about it. Honestly too, Lilong could see, because then
he said: “Maybe being out there so long, you’ve forgotten that Ofen
is the last island in the archipelago. We’ll never make it back before
the storm hits.”
“Storm has been threatening for what, half a fortnight now? You
said it yourself—even the cloud watchers don’t know when it’ll
arrive. Plus, we have you, right? You can get us there safely. Oke
can help you—you’ll show her how to work the waters. And when we
find my daa, he’ll help her too.” She grabbed Turay by the shoulders.
“We can do this.”
Turay shook his head. “I—I can’t, Lilong.” He gestured toward the
house of assembly. “What am I going to do with… that? What am I
going to tell the Elders? They’ve already been looking at me with
side-eyes—I can’t give them more reason.”
“That?” Lilong waved her hand at the house. “We leave her
there.”
Turay’s jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious.”
Lilong was dead serious.
“You said it yourself—we should not lay a hand on a woman with
child. But you of all people know that we cannot let her leave that
room, let her mingle in this population, or in any population
whatsoever. That woman in there might be no danger to us now that
she is without red ibor, but make no mistake—she will poison
anything she gets the chance to. We leave her here, lock her in the
lower levels. Let the storm get her.”
Turay shook his head. “I don’t know about that. I was thinking
she might be a good bargain, especially in our inevitable audience
with the Elders. We can pretend you returned with her as your
prisoner!”
“Maybe,” said Lilong. “Or we can ensure, here and now, that no
one ever gets harmed again.”
“I don’t know…” said Turay. “She might be cruel, but that is not
who we are.”
He was right—they weren’t cruel people. And because of that, the
emperor had thought she could come here and take their ibor. Her
Sahelian friend thought he could do the same too. Even the Elders
had taken them for granted, lied to them for ages about Risisi.
Cruelty was awful, yes. But it was the cost of freedom.
“How about this?” said Lilong. “We leave her in the lower levels,
locked in with nothing but food and water. Let the Great Forces
choose her fate. She survives, and upon our return, we take her to
the Elders, to trial by the league. But if not, then the Great Forces
have decided, and not us.”
Lilong knew the argument would work because she knew Turay
well. When she went in, Esheme noted her upbeat temperament,
and knew it meant nothing good for her.
They did not speak as Lilong carefully removed the ankle binds
and ushered her into the lower levels, blade on her back the whole
time. Once in a locked room, she laid down the bowl of food Turay
had packed—fruits, roasted cocoyams, bread—then snuffed out the
only lantern left. Esheme sat, unmoving, watching her, and she in
turn gazed at the emperor in the scant light that made it into the
level.
“I once promised your maa I would kill her,” said Lilong. “This will
suffice.”
She swung the door shut and bolted it.
 Danso

Namge
First Mooncycle, 1, midnight

AFTER BEING INTRODUCED TO Lilong’s family, Danso had a lot of

questions. Like, what was the history behind Lilong and Issouf being
of the same daa but different maas? And Ma Guosa was Lumusi and
Kyauta’s maa, but not Lilong’s or Issouf’s? By his calculation, that
involved some kind of rejoining of people previously joined to other
partners—or who simply had children of their own—and making a
new household out of that. A fascinating concept, which he noted
for his codex. Was this kind of free-range approach to family an
islander thing, a Namge thing, or just a thing with this family? But
his attempt to get an explanation only earned him blank stares.
To take his mind off the oddities and other matters swarming
him, Danso followed Lilong’s younger sister, Lumusi, to the backyard,
so he could help them pack and prepare for transportation to Hoor.
But between the dagger stares he received from Kyauta and Ma
Guosa’s constant intimations in the two High Bassai words she was
good with—Go rest!—he abandoned them and wandered to the
beach at the edge of the compound, looking out to the darkness
beyond the shore.
So much was familiar about this moment. The last time he had
stared out at the horizon, the waters of the Neverending Sea leaving
behind a wet wasteland of castaway things, Lilong had been there
too, though lying injured in Biemwensé’s hut. There had been the
euphoric sounds of children at play, just like there were those of
people at work now. The breeze felt the same, the night just as thick
and pressing. Ihinyon, just like Whudasha, felt like home if he closed
his eyes and believed.
But Danso did not close his eyes. He had been a fool once. No
longer.
He was not welcome in Bassa, he was not welcome in Whudasha,
and he definitely was not welcome here. If he was ever to be
welcome somewhere, he would have to make that place home, to
make that place free. And the only way to do that was to make
every place free, to provide the power needed to stand up against
the bullies of the world.
He had tried to give them truth. Now, he would try to give them
power. And with each in either hand, maybe they could finally be
free.
It was a dream, yes. A big one. But dreaming came with risks,
and Danso, unfortunately, was doomed to be a dreamer.
“What are you thinking?”
Danso swung around to find Lumusi standing behind him. She
had somehow peeled away from her packing duties and now stood
curious from a distance, looking every bit the child of twenty-two
seasons that she was. Now that Danso found some time to look at
the girl clearly, he marvelled again at how much darker than Lilong
she was—yellow, still, but not in the same shade. She had let her
hair grow into a large brush atop her head. Eyes larger and neck
longer than Lilong’s. And despite all this difference, they were more
family than any other family he’d ever seen.
“You are missing home?” Lumusi stepped forward, sensing his
disquiet.
So far, he had never had cause to engage with anyone outside of
his age group. Staring at Lumusi right now, he realised he was yet to
find proper ways to respond to her and her questions. Partly
because he didn’t really know the answer himself.
He smiled wanly. “Somewhat. Maybe. Not really.”
She frowned. “That makes no sense.”
Danso chuckled, disarmed, then tried on the bit of Island
Common Lilong had taught him back in Chabo: “No, it not.”
“No, you say: It does not.” Lumusi stepped forward again, then
proceeded to sit by him.
“It does not.” Danso repeated her Island Common and sat by her
too.
“You like it here?” she asked, indicating the sea bed before them,
now vacated by low tide.
“Somehow, yes,” he said, then hesitated before trying Island
Common again: “But here no want me.”
“Here does not want me,” she said. “Maybe we speak High Bassai
so you don’t cut your tongue and spoil our language at the same
time.”
Danso chuckled. “Fine, okay.”
“You say here doesn’t want you. Who here?”
He gestured around. “Sentries, your Elders, the Abenai League.”
He paused. “Maybe even Lilong.”
“You don’t know that,” she said. “You have not even spent half a
moment here. Maybe think again when we get to Hoor?”
“Nobody here wants mainlanders.”
“Nobody here wants mainlanders who want to destroy us,” she
said. “But you are not that.”
He smiled. Cute of her to think the world was simply this way.
He’d once been like this too. He ached to tell her now that their Diwi
had chosen him, a foreigner, but another piece of this very same
stone had also chosen someone else—the vicious emperor who was
the very reason he was here in the first place. But that would be too
complex for her young mind, he thought, so he just nodded.
“Abenai does not choose who stays or who goes.” She picked up
a rock and tossed it over the sloping edge, into the sea bed below. It
didn’t tumble far before getting caught in the sand. “The Great
Forces do.”
Danso gazed at the girl for a moment, then chuckled. “Okay.”
She frowned, and in that moment, she did not look like twenty-
two seasons anymore. He could see all of Lilong in her mannerisms:
perceptive, quick to challenge, slow to retreat.
“You mock our belief?” she asked.
“No, no, not at all. I just—”
“Don’t believe them?”
He shrugged. “I am not one of you. You can understand that I
don’t understand?”
“Why? Sister Lilong says you are a storyteller of a kind.”
“I am.”
“Storytellers always understand,” said Lumusi. “We see the stories
in everything, and in telling them, we learn to understand even if we
do not believe. That is what my daa says.”
“You are a storyteller?”
She shook her head. “But I want to be. I will join the League of
Chroniclers once I become of age.”
“You can tell me?” said Danso. “A story?” He pulled out his codex
and a stylus.
Lumusi smiled a wry smile, then told him the tale of the Crab-God
and the Gourd of Wisdom.

After Lumusi’s tale was done, and Danso had written everything he
needed, he gazed out to the waters. The sounds of the tide
returning to shore had begun.
“Now you see?” asked Lumusi.
He couldn’t say for sure that he did see. But he understood. He
understood that there were things in this world bigger than them all,
forces and connections too incomprehensible to contend with. Ibor—
how it became, where it was found, how it worked—this was one of
such things.
“You know the tale of Risisi?” he asked, going out on a limb.
Lumusi frowned. “The playground song?”
Danso shrugged. “That is all it is, yes?”
There was a twinkle in her eye as she regarded him, as if she was
onto his plan.
“I told you, I believe things,” she said. “Maybe even things sister
Lilong does not believe.”
“So you believe your daa and brother are out there trying to get
to this mythical city of ibor?”
“My daa says, Myths are simply truths woven with lies to hide
their verity,” she said. “I don’t know if a city of ibor is true or not.
But I believe my daa is trying to do something good.”
This warmed his heart. If she believed it, then yes, he, too, was
doing the right thing, regardless of the twisty, backyard manner in
which he was going about achieving it.
“Do you think the islands will ever let you leave?” he asked. “Do
you ever want to leave—like your sister and your daa and the
scouts?”
She thought about it and shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I know I
don’t have to leave to tell my stories. The stories are enough for
now. Maybe when they stop being enough, I will want to leave.”
A bundle of contradictions, wasn’t she? This turned over the last
thing she’d just said, reminded him that his stories, whether he liked
it or not, were just as powerful all on their own. A sliver of doubt
crept into him then. Maybe he didn’t need to go to Risisi after all.
The tracts had not worked in Chabo, but maybe they would work if
they came from somewhere else, from someone else?
But Lumusi believed in her daa, and Danso wanted to tell her,
Yes, I believe him too, and I believe in what he’s doing. I want to
achieve the same dream he has, but your sister will not let me. But
that would be putting too much on her young shoulders. She didn’t
deserve that.
“Lu,” a voice called behind them. They turned around, and Kyauta
stood there.
Now that gaze, Danso found familiar. It was the same one he got
in Bassa, the one that screamed outsider without words. Kyauta’s
shoulders hung square and locked. He was but a boy, only a few
seasons older than Lumusi, but looked like someone who had
hardened too fast, been shuffled toward manhood too soon.
“Maa wants you,” he said in Island Common. He kept his eyes on
his sister, refusing to even acknowledge Danso’s presence. But in
High Bassai, clearly directed at Danso, he said: “Sister Lilong is back.
She has news.”
“What does maa want me for?” asked Lumusi.
“Why not go and find out?” Kyauta hissed.
Lumusi reluctantly gathered herself, dusted off her clothing, and
was about to leave when Danso called to her. He gathered up the
sheaf of papers that made up his codex and handed it over.
“Fill it with all the good stories you know,” he said. “I don’t know
what will happen to us on this island, but I want to know this is in
good hands.” He paused. “And if anything happens, you have my
permission to share it as far and wide as you can.”
“Are you sure?” She beamed, but Danso could also see she
looked concerned.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I think I’ve found a better way to make
change.” He chuckled. “Plus, do you know I can remember
everything I read? Same with what I write.”
Lumusi smiled. “Sister Lilong has always known good people.
Maybe now you just need to believe, too, that you are good.”
The only sounds after she left were those that marked the final
return of tide—waves and wind that snatched words, and the birds
that called after them. In the time between, Kyauta stared at Danso
with nothing but the sounds of the sea between them.
“She is mistaken.” A whisper, but firm, the anger behind it hard
and flat. Kyauta said the words in High Bassai because, Danso
believed, he wanted him to know.
“She is mistaken,” Kyauta repeated, “because you are no good.
You are just a mistake.”
 Kangala

The Forest of the Mist

First Mooncycle, 1–2

OROE WAS LOST IN the Forest of the Mist through the night and for the
most part of the next day. There were times when Kangala feared
the worst: his most formidable son killed by the emperor, or her
quite able Second. Or worse: that Oroe had killed her, and that they
would have to return to Chugoko, by way of the Weary Sojourner,
without the emperor as leverage.
As the day wore on and he sat alone at the treeline, surrounded
by the stink of blood and bodies and rotting parts, he began to
wonder what would come next. How was he to be welcomed in the
emperor’s absence? What satisfactory tale could he tell to her
devotees? What would be their response?
There was more killing to be done, he decided. Not because he
wanted to, but because it simply had to happen. Which was why he
needed Oroe to return. Because he, too, knew that his power only
came from something else, not from a thing he himself possessed.
His children, his well-pumping secrets, his wealth—these were all
things that could be taken, like he had taken the emperor’s.
It was a tight corner he was stuck in, but Kangala was very good
at shaking out of tight corners. He was going to win, eventually. But
he needed everything at his disposal.
After emptying the royal travelwagon of its resources, he set fire
to it. The flames blazed high into the evening, casting light over the
blood on his clothes. He wrapped a blanket around himself, sat
beside the fire for warmth, and waited in the smoke.

It was night when Oroe did indeed emerge from the Forest of the
Mist, without the emperor or her Second in tow. Instead, they had
lost at least one champion to the forest. Not to attacks of any sort,
but simply because he had lost his way. The rest of them had to
string their garments together and form a train in order not to get
lost, a situation that made it very difficult to move adequately
through the thick forest, delaying their return. Only after hours of
wandering aimlessly in the general direction in which they’d entered
did they finally spot the treeline ahead of them.
Once they had caught up, Kangala ordered the champions to
gather the bodies—the Ninki Nanka’s included—and add them to the
great fire. He stood by the smouldering flames with his son,
watching them rise into the night sky, the smells of blood and burnt
meat washing over them.
“What now?” asked Oroe.
Kangala pinched his teeth with a stick until his gums hurt and
bled. He was a man of opportunity. Impossible situations were his
cocoyam and oil.
“My guess is you did not find the land bridge?” he asked.
Oroe shook his head. “Who knows if it even exists?”
 “You think they travelled all this way for a lie?”
Oroe shrugged noncommittally. “From the notices, I can’t say
these fugitives are known for rational pursuits. Much like the
emperor herself.”
“Maybe,” said Kangala. He pointed to the burning royal
travelwagon. “What do you see, when you look at that?”
Oroe frowned, confused.
“Empty,” said Kangala. “An empty travelwagon, an empty crown,
an empty throne. And where there is emptiness, there is
opportunity.”
Oroe gasped. “You want to sit on the elephant throne?”
He had thought about it carefully in the time since. He was a
Sahelian, and therefore not a man that would be accepted as
emperor of Bassa. But he did not need that acceptance.
“Not quite,” said Kangala. “We cannot find this island or its buried
city of power. Not on our own and without direction. So we find the
next best thing: an empty throne. Then we make sure no one sits on
it, even if we don’t plan to.”
All Kangala wanted was the exact thing he wanted before leaving
the Sahel: freedom to build his ventures, expand and trade without
oversight or intrusion. Where and how he did it—mainland,
desertlands, the Lake Vezha—it did not matter. All that mattered was
that he got what he wanted.
“What do we tell them happened to their emperor, when we
return?” Oroe asked.
Kangala swung his arm around. “Lost in the Forest of the Mist?
Drowned after slipping at the land bridge? Attacked by strange
people wielding strange powers? Attacked by a pack of vicious
beasts? Take your pick.”
“No one will believe any of that.”
“The Bassai will not, yes,” he said. “But they are not who we have
to convince.”
He had thought deeply, since, about why the Red Emperor had
accepted his proposal. Even he had expected it to be thrown out,
and the Second, Igan, had rightfully thought the same. Only when
he realised the emperor had not selected a single desertlander to
follow on the trip did he realise why: because they hated her, and
she knew it.
She did not trust them, and rightfully so, because they did not
trust her either. All Kangala needed was a seed to plant in that
already fertile soil. He was from the same side of the border as
them, after all. He was no more foreign to them than the emperor
was.
“What about those stationed at the Weary Sojourner?” Oroe
asked. “How do we go past them?”
Kangala shrugged. “If we have to raze the Weary Sojourner to
the ground again, so be it. Otherwise, we can simply avoid its path.”
“And when we get to Chugoko?”
“An army,” said Kangala. “Isn’t that what they already think us?
Perhaps it is time to live up to that expectation.”
“And fight who?”
“Anyone who stands in our way. Or—” Kangala held a finger in
the air. “Maybe we do not need to fight at all. At least not in the
beginning. Maybe what we must do is weed the farm, purge it of the
binders that prevent everything else from thriving. Then, we may
open the eyes of those who wish to see, who will follow us into
conquest.” He jammed a fist into his palm. “And then—we conquer.”
His son sighed. “I don’t know. This sounds… risky.”
Kangala clamped a hand on his son’s shoulder. “This is the path
we have been gifted, Oroe, and at its end is an opportunity for gain.
If we wish to survive this harsh existence, then we do what we
must: We make way through the Soke Pass, through the Great
Dome, and into the mainland and the riches it contains, and take
what we need for our future generations to flourish.”
Oroe nodded, then left to prepare the party for the return
journey.
Kangala leaned back and looked at the sky. It was a post-
mooncrossing night, and the stars were invisible, obscured by the
overwhelming shine of the combined moons.
A good story is what I need, he thought. Ngipa can help with
that. Then, he would do what he did best: put on a good
performance.
 Lilong

Namge
First Mooncycle, 2, dawn

LILONG GATHERED EVERYONE AND broke the news slowly: She was no
longer waiting for Jaoudou and Issouf to return. She was going to
Ofen now. And she wanted them to decide if they were going to
come along.
First, she would need a dhow, which Turay had grudgingly
volunteered to steal from his daa. He would captain it, navigate,
wield the wind, and help them remain invisible so they could not be
spotted when they passed by each island. And though Oke was no
Grey Iborworker, if she decided to come, she could help gentle the
violent waters and make them easier to cross—under Turay’s
guidance, of course. And Danso…
To Lilong, his coming wasn’t really an option. First, she had sworn
Turay to secrecy—they would tell neither Danso nor Oke about the
emperor they had just imprisoned below ground. Not until they’d
returned from Ofen. But Lilong knew that leaving Danso here would
run the risk of him finding this out. And seeing as the Diwi was
currently being stored in her house—though hidden away by Ma
Guosa as soon as Turay handed it over—it was too risky to have
Danso there. Who knew what he would do if he laid his hands on it?
Especially if he found out about Esheme’s presence?
No, he was coming with. He had to be where she could see him.
Oke, at first perplexed, took little time in coming around and
accepting the invitation. Danso was slower to this, suspicious that
things had changed so swiftly only after Lilong and Turay had gone
off somewhere alone. He grudgingly accepted.
Ma Guosa, in typical fashion, did not oppose, but did not give her
blessing either. She was glad, however, to take Thema in Oke’s
absence. Her biggest concern, it seemed, was that if they did not
return, Thema would have to grow up without a maa. She made
sure not to say this in front of Oke.
Lumusi, nose buried in Danso’s codex, did not even acknowledge
the news. Kyauta, on the other hand, did not say much during the
announcement, but once the family had dispersed, he came up to
Lilong, and in a surprising move, held her tight. His arms were
skinny against her midriff, and his breath came in short gasps.
“Thank you for going to help them,” he said. “And thank your
friends too.”
He was about to leave when Lilong asked: “Did you, by chance,
hear anything of their plans? Anything that may help us?”
He wrinkled his brow, thinking. “Yes. I wanted to tell you.” He
paused. “You know how we say risisi when we mean stone, but also
when we mean statue? Those rocks with the faces carved into them,
the ones the ancestors made?”
Lilong did indeed remember the songs. It was the reason the
story never made sense to her in the first place. A buried city of ibor
named after stone statues? she’d thought. Really? There were such
risisi all over the islands, sculpted by ancestral hands, going back
generations, many seasons before even the current Elders were
born.
“That’s how Issouf kept saying it, when he and daa were talking,
whispering,” said Kyauta. “When I heard Ofen, I kept wondering how
the two connect. After they left, that’s when I remembered.” He
wore an intense expression she’d learned to take seriously. “Ofen
has only one risisi. The oldest statue in all of Ihinyon, and the only
one on that island.”
He was right. Lilong remembered being taught that the statue
had survived all of Ofen’s storms and quakes because it was carved
out of the very stone that formed after the mountains erupted.
Ihinyon ancestors on that island had figured out a way to carve it. It
was easily the most recognisable thing about the small island, its
black, polished body glinting in the sun and reflecting the sea, the
only non-greenery visible from a distance.
“That’s where they went,” said Kyauta. “I’m sure of it.”
Lilong hugged her brother.
Turay soon returned with good news: His family’s dhow was still
in its shed. He could cloak it and ride it out to the outer beach (“Best
to go around the far side of the island, avoid the packed Hoor
beach,” he’d said). All he needed was a Grey Iborworker to help get
it into the water.
“Take Oke,” said Lilong. “I trust her.” Only after he’d left did she
realise how flawed that statement was. She was, after all, planning
to betray the woman.

Turay’s dhow was a thing of beauty. A lightly sailed vessel built from
felled iroko, the most gigantic and scarcest tree this side of the
island. Two huge triangular sailcloths, still wrapped, cast a long
shadow on the beach. Lilong had seen fine vessels in her time, but
she had never seen this before. There was no way Turay’s daa would
ever forgive him taking this to Ofen under a storm warning. It made
her heart even warmer, the risk he was taking on her behalf.
Together, he and Oke lowered the dhow from its carrier into the
waterline. Turay helped them onto the dhow, then drove the carrier
and its team of ten mixed animals—kwaga, ox, ass—back to the
settlement, to tuck it into safety. On deck, the dhow bobbed, even
though it had not yet hit full water.
Lilong took off her footwear to feel the wood underneath her
feet. She had never sailed much—never liked sailing, in fact. Too
windy for her liking, the way the White Iborworkers pushed into the
sails while controlling the gusts around the vessel. She preferred
those who used oars. Slower, much more manageable.
There did not seem to be oars here, though. A crossbar in the
middle held the sails, extending to the aft and secured to the deck.
Sandsacks, scattered around, were for balancing. Danso and Oke
went around, observing everything, while Lilong kept watch for
Turay’s return. When he arrived, she asked him about oars.
“Full iborworking on this one,” he said. “If we must make it to
and fro before storm hits, we need something much faster than
oars.”
Under Turay’s guidance, Oke’s eyes flashed grey, and water pulled
onto the beach, gently shepherding the dhow into the sea. Once the
bottom of the boat had left the sand, a white glaze settled over
Turay’s eyes. Lilong felt a cocoon of light surround her and the whole
boat, an ethereal mix of fog and light and wind. Then Turay turned
his attention to the sails, unknotting the ropes that held them down.
The sails rose free, majestic, billowing, trapping the wind. The dhow
rocked to its movements.
“Brace,” said Turay, and Commanded a blast into the sails.
The dhow shot forward like an arrow.
 Lilong

The Neverending Sea

First Mooncycle, 2–3

CIRCLING THE LONG SIDE of Namge was a surreal experience. Most of

Lilong’s dhow trips had happened in smaller dhows on the channel
crossing to Hoor. The open Neverending Sea had always been a
distant thing she could see from the beach or from the edge of her
daa’s compound. Now, the Great Waters opened before them,
spreading in every direction, wrapped over the horizon, truly never-
ending.
Storm warning signs persisted, clearer now that they were on the
waters. With night approaching, the two moons peeked just over the
horizon, but were obscured by the towering clouds spread out like
cotton. Lilong was no cloud reader, but the angry, menacing clouds
that now filled the sky worried her. The others seemed unperturbed
and occupied by other things: Turay and Oke keeping the dhow
steady and moving; Danso on the bow, his hands out to catch the
spray, cheeks in the wind, eyes shut, taking everything into sensory
memory.
The temperature had also dropped considerably, which made
sense since they were headed southeast, into the northwest winds
that brought storms to the seven islands. Even the wind had picked
up, though Turay was doing the good work of redirecting it toward
the sails, where it was useful.
Watching him work was exciting, causing Lilong’s throat to dry
up. Perhaps because her lips had parted and let air rush in, as she
was most occupied by the way his muscles moved as he wielded
power, pushing air and light around. Moonlight fell on his features
and gave them each outlines, spelled them out for whoever was
looking: broad shoulders, sharp jawline, soft eyes. Lilong gulped,
licked her lips.
The soft eyes turned and saw her watching. Turay winked,
smiled. Lilong swivelled, facing the sea. A cat-and-mouse game with
Turay sounded exciting, but she couldn’t quite enjoy it now, could
she? Not when she was so busy thinking about her daa and Issouf.
Now that she was beyond the harry of running and hiding, and the
overwhelming emotions of returning home under dubious
circumstances, doubt had begun to flood her mind. Was it wise, this
trip? Were her daa and Issouf still there? Were they even still alive?
Calm yourself, Lilong. Seated cross-legged near the stern, she
took deep breaths, unsure what she needed more calming from—
Turay or her daa and Issouf.

Not long after they hit the open waters, they come upon the twin
islands—Edana and Ufua. Though Turay explained that there was no
need to hide—he had sufficient ibor on him to obscure the whole
dhow to and fro—there was so much movement on the shore that
Lilong only felt safe when she ducked behind the hull board. She
even suggested they all go below deck, but that would mean Turay
and Oke being unable to pilot the dhow, so they stayed.
They shot past the twin islands quickly, as both were much
smaller than Namge. Lilong regretted not being able to show Danso
the green fields and rice plantations she had so eloquently described
for him to write in his codex. Perhaps another time.
Not long after, in quick succession, they came upon the next set
of near-twin islands: Ololo and Sibu-Sibu.
Turay slowed the dhow down to an easy float, and all stood on
the board side to watch the towering mountains. It was noticeably
colder here, though Lilong could not tell if it was due to the
forthcoming storm or the coming of the cold season. From here,
they could see the white tips of the mountains, where water had
begun to freeze and solidify. No wonder the inhabitants left the
mountains and moved into the valleys in the cold season—it had to
be furiously cold up there.
“We learned about those at the university,” Danso said, pointing
to the frozen mountaintops. “The jalis say we used to have those on
the tips of the Soke mountains too, but it stopped hundreds of
seasons ago. They think that’s when the weather began to turn.”
Though each didn’t say it, they were looking for signs of life and
movement like they’d seen at Edana and Ufua, but luckily, there was
none to be seen here. Not from this distance.
“Is that why they’re all yellow, its inhabitants?” Danso asked.
“Because they never, like, come out into the sunlight?”
“Ha, no, no,” said Turay, chuckling. “Us being yellow has nothing
to do with anything, and does not need a reason—just like you don’t
need a reason to be…” He mulled over the word, then opted for
“You.”
Danso nodded, pensive. “The caverns—can we see them from
here?”
“Sadly not,” said Turay. “This whole side is blocked by mountains
—you need to be on the southwest side for that. But you know the
caverns are not natural, right? They carve homes into the mountains
to keep cool in the hot season, and likewise heat up in the colder
season.”
 Danso’s expression was one of captivation. Turay chuckled. “I
know it must be surprising, but everything we do, no matter how
strange it seems to you, is simply to survive. Just like everyone else.”
Night fell completely, but thanks to Turay’s work, they could see
their path just as well, even while being shrouded in darkness. Other
than the few times Turay and Oke stopped to rest—and more
importantly, replenish via food (packed by Ma Guosa) and water—
the dhow continued to shoot forward at great speed. Lilong
calculated they would be at the tiny island by dawn.
Signs of the storm continued to persist throughout the night.
Lightning flashed in the distance. The winds escalated, whistling
through the sailcloth, creaking the wood. Lilong could only manage
fitful sleep, so she took most of the night watch, to give Oke and
Turay some time to rest after their work. With Turay’s light gone, the
night was pitch dark, both moons nowhere to be seen. Eventually,
Lilong herself drifted off.
The sharp smell of petrichor woke her up just as the sun
prepared to peek over the horizon. As she rose and looked over the
bow, the shape of land came into view.
“We’re here,” she announced.
Everyone else rose, and they began preparations to moor the
vessel. The lightning from the night before was gone, but thunder
had replaced it, rumbling overhead as Turay and Oke worked to sidle
the dhow onto the nonexistent beach. Instead, all they met was a
bay with a thick clump of forest close to the water. Finding a place to
moor the dhow seemed impossible. Oke pushed the vessel around
the bay with short twists of water, while Turay searched for a safe
spot.
That was how they came upon the wreck.
Lilong did not recognise the dhow at first. Perhaps because it was
foolhardy to attempt to moor a vessel like that—it had been planted
head first into the bay. But there was little sand to cushion it, so
instead it had rushed into rocks and roots. Now it lay there,
damaged bow stuck, stern bashed violently by the water. This dhow
was not going anywhere anytime soon.
“It’s daa’s,” she said to no one in particular, over the increasing
roar of thunder.
Danso, Turay, and Oke crowded around her. It was his dhow, all
right: the shape of the keel, the pattern of the beam assembly, the
cut of the timber sections—she would recognise those anywhere,
even though the sailcloths looked new.
“They’re here,” she announced.
Turay and Oke set about mooring the dhow in the same spot as
the wreck, though doing it better—this was a good mooring spot,
still. Lilong was unsure if she should be proud for being right, or
worried if her daa and brother were still alive. Surely daa knows how
to moor a dhow? If not him, then Issouf at least. But Jaoudou was
old—going on a hundred and how many seasons now?—and his
body had recently taken damage. Perhaps he had run out of ibor.
Perhaps ibor had run him out.
The dhow was moored. They gathered everything they needed—
weapons, food, water—and disembarked from the vessel.
As soon as their feet touched the sand, the first patter of
raindrops began.

Ofen was an island of green. Trees tall and short, shrubs large and
small, grass welcoming and cruel—the island had it all. Together,
they did not quite constitute a forest, but neither did they constitute
brushes or grassland—just clump after clump of overgrowth that
obscured vision wherever Lilong and her group turned. Rain,
drumming on the broad leaves, drenched them quickly and did not
help their cause. Cover was impossible, and so was open land of any
sort. These conditions combined to delay Lilong finding any opening
in the overgrowth that allowed for long-range sight, but soon she
found one, and could finally spot the risisi they were looking for.
Even from this distance, the risisi shone in the rain, tall and
proud. The statue was mostly head—elongated crown, small eyes,
stretched nose, wide lips. Large enough to hold up to ten people at
once, if there truly was a way to enter the statue. A good refuge
from this storm, too, and any other kind of danger.
Once they set their new direction, they cut through the
vegetation quicker than before. Not long after, they came upon the
first sighting of open wetland. They waded through it, Lilong
watching out for snakes and other creeping predators. Luckily for
them, only frogs croaked back, aggrieved at their abodes being
disturbed.
They did not have to upset the fauna much longer, as soon, they
stood before the risisi. It towered above them—almost as tall as the
dhow was when beached. They walked around it, seeking an
entryway. Nothing.
Thunder grumbled overhead.
“Great,” said Turay, frustrated, wiping rain from his eyes. “We sail
all the way over here, and the thing that defeats us is a fucking
door.”
Lilong saw Danso with his head tilted, pondering, as rain dripped
into his hair and face. She went up to him.
“Find anything?”
“No,” he said, but squatted, hand on the black stone on the
ground. “Do you feel that?”
Lilong squatted and did the same. A low thrum, the stone
underneath trembling.
“Remember when we climbed into the Dead Mines?” he said. “It
felt like this—like open space.”
“There’s something down there,” Lilong said, then rose and
announced to the group over the wind and rain: “Look for an
opening—any opening! Not a door, but anything like a crawl space.”
They circled the statue again. Soon, there was a shout from Oke.
They ran to her.
The space she had found was not easily visible, but thanks to her
powers of grey, she had managed to use the water to wash away a
heap of mud, and suddenly there it was: a door. Or, not really a door
—an opening, like a sinkhole shut off with stone, which Lilong
quickly set aside with the help of her blade. A dark, long tunnel
stared back at them. Warm air rushed out.
Turay went in first, pulling light from outside alongside him.
Lilong went next, and Danso after. Oke came in last.
The tunnel went forward, then dove sharply, inclined at an angle
sufficient for walking, but only if one held on to the walls. Turay lit
the way. It was stone all the way through: top, bottom, and walls.
Not a trace of sand or any kind of growth.
As they went forward, Lilong thought she smelled smoke. Then
light. Without thinking, she jumped forward, past Turay.
“Daa?” she called, running. “Issouf? Daa?”
“Lilong, wait.” Turay ran after her.
“Issouf! Daa!”
The darkness stretched forward, never-ending, but Lilong did not
need light. She knew what she felt. Almost there.
“Issouf! Daa!”
Silence. Nothing but Turay’s feet behind her.
Then, suddenly, as if from nothing, a figure appeared, weapon
forward: a blade, catching the light.
“Who’s there?” the figure said in a fear-stricken voice. “Show
yourself.”
Lilong stopped, her ibor responding, asking her to Draw, to pull
the blade, defend herself. But Lilong held back, pushed down the
desire, and instead, said: “Issouf?”
Turay came up behind her, the yellow of the figure’s face lighting
up with his approach. But Lilong did not need it to know who stood
before her.
“Sister?” said Issouf, and lowered his weapon.
 Lilong

Ofen
First Mooncycle, 3, same day

PLEASANTRIES WERE SHORT-LIVED, RELEGATED to an embrace and rapid-fire

questions from Issouf about how they got here, how they had
known where to find them, did they know a storm was coming?
Lilong’s only answer was the same one each time: Where is he?
Issouf led the group down the tunnel, toward the light Lilong now
knew she had truly seen. Her brother looked spent, eyes bloodshot,
on edge. He kept glancing over his shoulder at the others—Danso,
Oke, Turay—as if they were going to jump and attack him the next
moment. Turay, who it turned out had formed a good relationship
with Issouf after Lilong had left, managed to calm him down.
They came to the end of the tunnel and into a round, open space
with light.
Elder Warrior Jaoudou lay in a swaddle of wrappers, sweating like
an infant, shivering despite the incredible warmth of the space. Frail,
dehydrated, hair dry and frizzy, yellow skin stretched over his
collarbones like a tent in the desert. He breathed in long drags, each
inhale a creak, each exhale a whistle, like a drained cow in the field.
Lilong fell to her knees beside Jaoudou, the warrior once
renowned in Namge, hailing from a long line of equally fierce Abenai
warriors—there he was, now reduced to nothing. Between old age,
the attack at the Weary Sojourner, and the ibor he must have
expended to make his way here, Lilong could not tell which had
eaten at him the most. Whatever the combination, it had all colluded
to ensure he would not be breathing much longer.
“Daa,” she found herself saying. The tears that had not left her
eyes all this time began to roll down her cheeks. She forgot
everything—the lies, the questions, the blame. All she wanted, in
this moment, was for him to be alive.
His eyes, glazed, did not recognise her at first. Then he squinted,
opened his mouth, and let out a raspy breath.
“Li-long?”
“Daa,” she said. “I came back. I promised, and I came back.”
“Lilong.”
“I’m here, daa,” she said. “I’m here.”
The sounds of thunder outside and overhead continued to boom,
even this far underground. Lilong sat next to her daa, dripping over
him, holding on to his bony fingers. The others, unsure of what next
to do, sat around and waited.
“You should never have left,” said Issouf, out of nowhere.
“Issouf,” Turay chided. They spoke Island Common, so the others
did not understand.
“No!” Issouf rose, his face twisting in anguish. “You should never
have left and put us in this situation. Now look at him—look at him!”
“You should not have brought him here,” said Lilong quietly. “You
of all people know this—you should have stayed and protected him
from the league.”
“Like you did?”
“You don’t have to make the same mistakes I did, Issouf.” Lilong
rubbed the ashy yellow skin on the back of her daa’s hand. “They
need you. He needs you.”
 “And I did what he asked me to.” Her brother’s cheeks were wet.
“I helped him see his dream through—repaired the dhow, helped
him sail here. It’s not my fault the dhow wrecked—I’m not an
Iborworker, I’ve never sailed before!”
“No one is blaming you,” said Turay.
“But it’s my fault we’re here,” Issouf pressed. “I brought him here
—I brought you here. And now we’re all going to die.”
“We’re not going to die,” said Lilong. “We’ll ride out the storm
here, then we’ll go home on our own dhow.”
Issouf was shaking his head. “He’s too far gone. Our food’s been
finished for days. We can’t go out to hunt or anything, and the storm
is never going to end unless we leave here.”
Lilong’s ears pricked. “Are you talking about… the plagues?”
“Li-long.”
Jaoudou’s arm reached out for her now, to her face, touching her
cheek. She leaned closer to catch the words escaping his lips.
“Come,” he was saying. “Come.” His other arm pointed toward
Issouf.
“He wants us,” Lilong said to her brother. Issouf drew forward and
knelt on the opposite side of their daa.
Jaoudou, weak as he was, reached forward and took her hand in
his, then Issouf’s with his other hand. He put them together.
“Forgive me,” he said.
“We do, daa,” said Issouf, glancing at Lilong, as if to say Don’t
we?
Jaoudou was reaching over and tapping something—a sack by his
side. Issouf gave it to him. He pulled out something rolled up and
unwound it. A message, scribbled on cloth.
Forgive me, it read. For bringing you into this dangerous journey,
one that will cost you more than you deserve. Forgive me for
sacrificing your childhood, your dreams, your desires. Forgive me for
keeping secrets, for not trusting you enough. All I ever wanted was
a better world for everyone. But along the way, I forgot that
everyone includes you.
No more secrets. No more sacrifices you do not ask for. So, take
this, but do with it what you will. I will not impress on you anything,
except one thing: Protect home, if you can. It is all we have.
Lilong flipped the cloth. On the other side was a hastily hand-
drawn map.
“Risisi,” Lilong whispered.
It was what the city might have looked like in its heyday. There
were built areas, roads, rivers, forests, the coast. Nothing was
named. Instead, there were simply three markings: a circle, a route,
and certain spots cross-marked. Nothing about an entrance, though,
or where to find the city itself.
“Protect,” Jaoudou was saying, tightening his grip on his
children’s hands.
Lilong put away the cloth and turned to him. “We will never leave
your side,” she said, offering Issouf a softer glance. “We will get you
home.”
“Protect home,” said Jaoudou, adamant.
The siblings glanced at one another.
“We are doing everything we can, daa,” said Issouf. “I will do
everything in my power to enter Risisi. I will complete your quest. I
promise.”
Jaoudou was still shaking his head. “Pro-tect—home.”
His words grew slower, weaker, repetitive. The two leaned closer.
But Jaoudou said no more. Lilong felt a long rush of warm air on her
cheek, a finality to its egress. Then everything went cold.

Lilong and Issouf cried—first apart, then together. Issouf shook in

her arms, head in her shoulder, unable to look at their daa lying
there. Lilong watched Jaoudou’s face, wishing he would somehow
open his eyes and everything would be different. But the more she
looked, the more she saw that he was finally at peace, that he had
finally found rest.
They wrapped the body in his own wrappers and covered him in
the darkest part of the cavern, where they would not need to look
upon him anymore. Once the storm died—if it did—they would take
him back to Namge and send him off with an honourable funeral.
Turay, Danso, and Oke took time to offer their condolences with
silent pats, arms encircling them in embrace. Afterward, all sat in
silence, nothing between them but the continuous rumble of thunder
in the distance, the howling of the wind through the trees, and the
muffled drumming of rain on the rock above.
Lilong finally opened up the map again, staring at the hasty
drawing, the incomprehensibility of it all. This is it? she kept
thinking. After everything—it all boiled down to this?
“Tell me what happened,” Lilong said softly, to Issouf. “Tell me
everything.”
He told her of how, upon his recovery, Jaoudou had asked for
Lilong. Once it became clear she was gone in pursuit of the Diwi, he
became despondent. But not for long. Soon, his mind was taken up
by something else—a voyage south, to Ofen. He turned his attention
to Issouf, convinced him that he had found the source of ibor,
conscripted him into his plans to escape here and harvest as much
ibor as they could before it was all lost.
“Source?” asked Turay, looking to Lilong. “Your story did not say
this is the source.”
“What story?” asked Issouf.
Lilong told him Oke’s tale. Issouf shrank, feeling the same
betrayal Lilong did of this secret being kept from him. But when she
got to the plagues, his eyes widened.
“Oh no,” he said, face going pallid.
“What is it?”
He gazed at them all. “We did it. We started the plagues.”

Jaoudou did not tell Issouf about the plagues. But Issouf had begun
to sense something was wrong when, the moment they set foot on
the dhow, the storm clouds began to gather.
Despite his failing health, Jaoudou had done most of the sailing,
helping keep their course by curtailing the violent sea. This sapped
his energy so much that, upon arrival at Ofen, he couldn’t even
bring the dhow to a rest, crashing it into the rocks instead. Issouf
had dragged him onto the island, following his directions until they
arrived at this risisi, this statue.
That was when he saw the first beast: a massive sea monster—
one-eyed, wet-furred, a large hole for a mouth—heading straight for
the rocks. As he stood there, at the entrance, he heard more of
them—large, small, chittering, roaring, swimming, bounding, leaping
—all headed here, as if seeking something. He knew he had to get
Jaoudou safe, so he crawled into the tunnel, found the cavern at its
end, and tended to his daa there.
But Jaoudou wasn’t in good shape, and the storm had begun to
intensify. Issouf had been too scared to go out, for fear of the
beasts. He was unable to leave too—he had no ibor, no powers, no
dhow. So he put his best efforts into nursing Jaoudou, hoping that
once he recovered, and the storm cleared, his daa could use his
powers to steer their patched dhow back home.
But Jaoudou never got better. He knew he was dying. So, he told
Issouf the truth: He knew why the beasts would be here. The
moment the storm winds began, the air currents carried with them
the stirrings of ibor. And the beasts, no matter where they were
located in Oon—they rose and followed the scent, leading them
here.
Which was why he then gave Issouf one last thing: directions to
the buried city.

“You found it already?” Lilong asked.

 Issouf nodded.
“Where?”
“Here.”
“On the island?”
“No, here.” Issouf gestured with his chin. “We’re sitting on it.”
Turay translated to High Bassai for Oke and Danso. The energy in
the cavern changed, became galvanized.
“Are you sure?” Danso whispered.
“It is there,” Issouf said, his High Bassai halting. “I show you, but
we not enter.”
“Why?”
“You will see,” he said, then grabbed a torch and beckoned to
them to follow.
They went back into the tunnel, but this time, took a detour that
went even farther downward. So far down that they had to descend
with their hands. After a series of such downward climbs, Issouf
stopped, then knocked on what seemed like a wall.
“There,” he announced.
Lilong felt the wall. It thrummed, like a cat enjoying itself.
Perhaps it was just the vibrations of the storm raging out there. But
this felt like something else—like something inside there was alive.
“Behind there is where the beasts go,” said Issouf. “That is Risisi.”
Lilong stared at the stone door, trepidation suddenly washing over
her. She had thought it would simply be easy to come here, witness
the city, then walk away and wait for it to destroy itself via the
plagues, like the tale said it would. Now, she realised that if she
wanted it destroyed, she might have to use her own hands to do so.
And as she stood here, she realised she did not want to do that at
all.
Protect home, her daa had said. No longer angry, her mind was
clear, and she knew that destroying this place would not only be
more impossible with so many beasts standing guard, but it would
be doing the opposite of protecting home. It would be leaving home
with nothing to protect itself with.
“Is it, truly?” Lilong asked Issouf. “The source of ibor?”
Issouf shrugged, then pointed to the marked circle on the map.
“Here—he said this is a whirlpond. According to him, ibor enters
here, goes into the Neverending Sea, appears on the coast.”
Turay’s eyes widened. “That is how we get ibor?”
He nodded. “And these—” He pointed to the cross-marks.
“Enclaves, where the dangerous beasts are.” His finger traced the
marked route. “He said if I take this route, it leads to a deposit we
can retrieve ibor from without alerting the beasts.”
Oke had been right—the Plague of Beasts and Plague of Wind
and Water had indeed been triggered by her daa and brother’s
journey here. They, too, had arrived, causing the storm to intensify,
to draw nearer. Soon, the Plague of Fire and Dirt would follow.
All of Risisi could be buried and lost if they stayed.
It dawned on her, now: This was what her daa had meant by
before all is lost. He knew that someday, somehow, someone would
take this tale seriously and make their way here, trigger these
plagues. So he wanted to come here before anyone did, retrieve as
much ibor as he could. But he knew he could no longer take
whatever he collected to the league, or trust them to make the right
choices with it, just as Lilong could not trust them now, not after all
their secrets and lies.
This was why he had told Oke the story, why he had brought
Issouf along, why he was trusting her now. This was his mission.
And maybe it wasn’t a bad mission after all.
Lilong stared at the map, then at her comrades.
“Back to the cavern,” she said. “I have a confession to make.”
 Lilong

Risisi
First Mooncycle, same day

“I NEVER WANTED TOsave Risisi,” she said. “I wanted to destroy it.”

They were on their way back up, in the darkness of the tunnel,
headed for the lit cavern ahead.
Turay’s mouth was agape. “You what?”
“It wasn’t—” She turned to Turay. “I swear to you, I did not
deceive you to make you come along. I just… I just thought it would
be better to rid Ihinyon of this burden. I just thought that—”
“No one should have this much power,” Oke completed.
“Yes.” Lilong eyed Danso. He refused to look at her. She turned to
Oke instead.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to lie to any of you.”
Oke nodded slowly and sighed, waving a hand. “We have all
sacrificed much to be here. Not a single one of us standing here
does not want salvation—for ourselves, for our people, for all of Oon
—from the hands of Bassa. It is human nature, I guess, that we all
have different ways of thinking about that solution.” She paused to
hold Lilong’s eyes. “The most important thing is not what intentions
you came here with. It’s what you intend to do now.”
Lilong looked to her brother. “Issouf, daa trusted you enough to
bring you here. He wanted you to find this city. What would you say
he wanted you to do when you found it?”
Issouf bit his lip, shook his head. “I don’t know. But I would not
have destroyed it, even if I could. And I don’t think he would have
wanted me to.”
Lilong nodded. “Then I will honour our daa’s intentions.”
She inhaled deeply with relief, glad to have finally made that
proclamation. Perhaps they truly needed to protect themselves—the
seven islands, for a start, then perhaps the rest of the continent
beyond it. This, she understood now, was what their daa really
wanted. To get here first and ensure that. She had done that first
part. Now to complete it.
Lilong turned to Oke. “Our daa trusted you more than he trusted
the league. And when he couldn’t give you what he wanted, he
settled for me, then for Issouf. But he wanted it all for us—to protect
us.” She nodded at Oke, at Turay, at Issouf. “So, you are right. We
finish what he started.”
“Well, too late, is it not?” said Turay. “The plagues are already
happening.”
“Maybe there is more than one way to finish it,” said Lilong. She
held out one hand. “Perhaps we do as you wanted, Oke. We go in,
collect as much ibor as we wish, sail off to the desertlands or
mainland, distribute it among worthy champions, ensure we never
have one power too big to conquer anymore.” She held up another
hand. “Or we leave? Turn around and don’t return?”
“And then what will happen?” asked Oke. “You think the plagues
will… reverse?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” said Lilong. “No way is guaranteed. But if
you are willing to try, so am I.”
“And if it doesn’t work?” asked Issouf. “Then the plagues arrive
anyway, and then we’re left with nothing—not even a source of ibor
anymore. Even we will be unable to protect ourselves from the
mainland. If we go in now, at least we return home with something.”
They had reached the light of the cavern. Lilong wanted to tell
Issouf that the mainland was already here, and that the emperor of
Bassa was the least of their problems, but she had not yet divulged
that information to Danso and Oke.
This choice, however, was indeed a tough one to make. But she
was done making decisions for others. She did not want to end up
like her daa, regretting pulling others into her own sacrifices.
“We put it to a vote,” she said, finally. “All in favour of leaving.”
She raised a hand. Turay, beside her, reluctantly raised his, casting
her a glance that said, We will talk about this later, but for now, I
support you. She smiled her thanks at him, grateful.
Oke, hand partially up, paused midway, looking around.
“Is that a vote or nay, Oke?”
The Bassai woman turned back to them, frowning. “Where’s
Danso?”

The door to Risisi was open.

It wasn’t really a door, but something akin to a sinkhole, as if
made by an earthworm burrowing underground—if said earthworm
was a hundred times the size of a regular one. But the wall once
there was gone, and in its place, darkness rushed out to meet them.
There was no point asking how Danso had managed to push the
rock aside. The only thing that mattered was that he had slipped
inside somehow. Worse, he must already have known his way
around, having taken a look at the map and probably memorised it.
And worst of all, if he so much as touched one single piece of ibor in
there, or woke up any of those beasts meant to be gathered in
there, disaster was sure to follow.
Turay led the way with his cloaked light. Issouf offered some
more of Jaoudou’s directions, making it clear that it was impossible
to go in with a torch of any sort. Apparently, the beasts, most of
whom lay there in slumber, reacted to such light. Therefore, it was a
matter of Turay working his ibor so they could see, but the beasts
could not. Which was useful, because even from this distance, there
were telltale sounds of life down there—slithering, huffing, sniffing.
None of it welcoming.
The way inside had something akin to crude steps carved on its
face, and did not go down for very long. Soon, the suffocating dust-
air of rock gave way to something cooler, sharper, much more
expansive.
They stepped into a cavern, and there was a collective gasp.
The cave that opened up before them went on forever. Its black
walls dripped with every kind of colour, caked with mould and
moisture and seasons of abandonment.
Statues lined the walls.
At first glance, it was easy to mistake them for a burial grove of
sorts. But a closer look revealed that it was indeed not, but instead
the remnants of the people of a once-prosperous city, immortalized
by stone-ash on the very day the city was destroyed. There they
stood, captured mid-act—tilling fields, working iron, weaving cloth.
Noble enterprises preserved in black stone.
Where the walls were not black and graced by ossified people,
ibor stones arose, jutting out in a haphazard array like a collection of
crooked teeth. All four colours—white, grey, amber, red—were
represented, dispersed in a manner that would cast rainbows if light
penetrated this place. And the sizes—large as boulders, small as
pebbles. There was more ibor here than the seven islands had ever
needed—than generations of islanders would ever need.
From here, they could see, a distance into the cave, a deep pond
with a black hollow, water whirling without sound, its centre leading
somewhere that was clearly not this cave. But even from this
distance, Lilong spotted something else twirling in the pond that
gave her worry. Large scales, iridescent, rippling underneath.
“I can’t see him,” Turay was saying, a hand out to hold the group
back. “We should stop—we don’t want to alert anything.”
 “Do—not—move,” said Lilong. “Everyone—stand still.”
Twirling scales aside, something else was flying above in the
dark. Something black and near invisible, even with Turay’s light. It
sounded like it was hunting, preparing to pounce.
Then Lilong saw what had its attention. Danso, sidling along one
of the black walls. He was making his way along the length of it,
toward a nearby teeth-like deposit of ibor. His eyes were fixated on
the mineral, almost entranced.
No, thought Lilong, breaking from the group.
Turay spotted Danso the same moment Lilong did, and stepped
out as well, followed by Oke, Issouf bringing up the rear. They went
over broken, slippery rock as silently as they could, but it wasn’t long
before something rolled down and splashed in the water.
The whirlpond gurgled, as if hungry. The fallen rock whirled with
the motion, fast, faster, and was soon sucked into the gut of the
pond.
The invisible flying beast above bellowed, a sound like a dry
grinding stone. In response, a chorus of other voices followed,
reverberating in the cave. It was impossible to know how many were
there, camouflaged, hiding in crevices. Eyes—lights?—opened up in
various corners, awoken, alert, angry.
Danso, who was now standing next to the teeth-like mound of
ibor, heard the commotion and turned.
“Stop!” Lilong was saying. “What are you doing, Danso—stop!”
She felt a tickle of air on her arms, raising goose bumps. Turay,
next to her, was extending the cloak to cover Danso. She could tell
from the way his eyes shone white. Now it was not just invisibility,
but he was using the air to cloak sound too, so they could hear each
other but not be heard by anything else. Unfortunately, the ibor use
was also being recognised by the beasts, agitating them even
further.
“It’s okay,” Danso was saying, now that they could hear him. “I’m
following the safe route the map said. You stop, you’re waking them
up!”
“Don’t touch it!” Lilong spat. “You will destroy everything!”
“But that’s what you wanted!” he shot back. “You wanted to
destroy everything. And now you want us to just leave? Guess what,
Lilong? I have people to protect too. I have dreams of making
change, of bringing freedom to my people. So, no, you don’t get to
choose for me.”
Lilong went cold. His rebuke shocked her so much that all the
sounds around—the water, Turay and Oke and Issouf calling at her
not to take another step forward—faded.
“People like me, people without power—we always die,” he was
saying. “Zaq, my daa, Kubra too. Even your daa. People like us need
power like this to survive in this world, don’t you understand? You
don’t know what it’s like to be truly powerless, Lilong—you’ve always
had power. So you make choices on our behalf and think you’re
doing better for us. But no. We deserve a say. We, too, want to do
something. And this is me—doing something.”
Lilong had never realised that Danso felt this way. A part of her
felt proud, glad that he had finally found his voice. But the other
part was scared for her friend, scared that his desire to change
things was going to lead to his—and their—destruction.
She had to convince him.
“You are not powerless, Danso,” she said. “And you are not going
to die. I promise you, on my life.”
“Let me guess,” he said. “Because you’ll always be there to
protect me?”
“No. Because I have made sure your greatest enemy is dead.”
Danso looked puzzled. “Who, Esheme?”
Lilong held his gaze and nodded.
His brow furrowed. “How?”
“She followed us here, Danso,” said Lilong. “And they caught her,
the sentries. She did not have the snake beast the blacksmith talked
about. She was alone, and they captured her and we put her to
rest.”
Murmurs arose behind her, likely Oke registering her
astonishment, but Lilong tuned that out for now.
“We won, Danso,” she said. “You can stop fighting now. There’s
no one to fight against anymore.” It was a lie, but she had to tell it.
She stretched forth her hand. “Come back to us. Let us leave this
city for now and find a way to save ourselves and our people without
destroying everything.”
Danso was shaking his head.
“We must look to the future now, Danso. But if you destroy this,
there will be no future left. Or whatever future is left will be worse
without ibor in it.” She took a step forward, arm outstretched. “Just
—step away from there, and we can plan this future together.”
Danso stopped shaking his head, became silent. Then slowly,
ever so slowly, he sighed and began to move forward.
Lilong breathed a sigh of relief, watching him follow the same
path he had advanced by. The beasts, earlier agitated, began to
quiet down.
When Danso was only a few feet away, he stopped again. His
face was stricken with pain.
“You lied to me,” he said in a low voice. “All of you. You knew she
was here, and you lied. You deprived me of the satisfaction of seeing
her fall. And now you want me to believe you.” He took a step back.
“Danso,” said Lilong, and behind her, Oke and Turay began to call
to him too. Their calls fell on deafened ears.
“She is gone, moons be thanked,” Danso continued. “But more
will arise, will they not? Who will we depend on to fight for us then—
you? You, in whom I can no longer place my trust?” He took another
step back.
“Danso,” Lilong was saying. “Please.”
“It is as the Elders say: Power concedes nothing without a
demand.” He took two steps back. “I’m sorry, Lilong, I really am—
but I cannot go back to resisting with words alone. This Esheme
may be gone, but for the next Esheme the world will bring forth, and
the next, and the next, people like me—powerless, at the mercy of
the world—must be equipped with more than just words. So I must
take this chance, for all like me. Because if I do not, we perish
anyway.”
And with that, he turned and grabbed the nearest mound of
stone-bone and pulled. A large chunk of ibor—red—came into his
hands.
All the beastly cries went dead at once. Risisi dipped into sudden
silence.
The cave rumbled, and the ground shook.
“What have you done, Danso?” Lilong whispered. “What have you
done?”
A boom. The beasts screeched as one, splitting the former
silence. Pieces of the cavern began to fall.
“To the opening!” Turay screamed, forgoing the cloaking
Command.
They turned and ran as much as the black, slippery rock would
allow. Lilong cast a glance at Danso, who was doing his best to keep
up with them. He looked just as surprised by the suddenness of the
cave’s reaction, perhaps expecting it to have been delayed like in the
stories. He’d tossed the stone-bone altogether—survival was all that
mattered now.
“Come on!” Lilong slowed just enough for him to catch up. When
he was within arm’s reach, she grabbed him by the clothes and
pulled him forward.
Then, out of nowhere, a tail, a tentacle, a limb, long and
purposeful. It emerged from the whirlpond and whipped at them.
Lilong, trying to avoid it, let go of Danso’s clothes, and Danso,
standing awkwardly, slipped.
Danso tumbled toward the pool, into the force of the bottomless
pond’s whirl. He screamed, scrambling to get back up, but the force
was too great, pulling everything into that sucking hole.
Go, Lilong ordered her blade, and it flew, hilt-first, toward Danso.
“Grab it!” she screamed, but the tentacle was coming around
again. She ducked, at the same time her comrades saw it. Turay
turned around and whipped the tentacle away with a blast of air.
Oke tried to Command water, but the water here moved of its own
accord, as if against her Command.
Danso had caught the edge of the blade with one hand and was
holding on to it for dear life, but the current pulled him away still,
too strong.
Lilong strained her mind, expending the last of her ibor. She could
feel it wither, get ready to dissipate. But she shoved everything she
could into the blade, Commanded it further. Pull, pull, pull!
 Another tentacle. She dodged. The second one, she didn’t see,
and it swept her away. She fell, hit her head, broke her
concentration.
She turned to see the beast begin to crawl out of the hole. It was
something between an octopus and a spider, with more eyes than
either of those animals were allowed. Danso, she couldn’t see
anymore, now swallowed by the whirl.
Ahead, Turay and Oke and Issouf were pulling back, calling to
her. We need to go!
But Lilong called for her blade again, finding it, finding Danso.
She Commanded, and the blade stuck into a rock, pinning Danso in
place, preventing him from drowning in the whirl.
“I’m coming!” she shouted.
There was another explosion, this one louder, bigger than any
they had felt so far. It rocked the cavern’s very foundations, so that
the beasts screeched louder, and more of the cavern crashed around
her.
Danso’s hold began to slip, slowly.
No.
He was adamant, holding on with all he had. But he was not
strong enough.
One of the tentacles grabbed Danso and pulled. The rock
cracked, and the blade, nestled within, slipped. Both Danso and
blade were swept into the whirlpond hollow—first in half, then in full
—and then his screams were gone.
The cavern continued to rumble. Ibor fell from the walls, from the
ceiling, and shattered on the ground. The beasts bellowed and
growled, frantic. But all Lilong saw was Danso drowning, tentacles
swinging to pull him in. She stared at the space for a long time,
calling her blade, willing it to come forth with Danso attached to its
other end.
But when the blade flew back to her, it was alone.
Turay was suddenly there with his light, pulling her out of the
reach of the flailing tentacles, leading her toward the entrance. She
let herself be guided, feet slipping over rock, until she was through
the opening, back into the tunnel.
 Another explosion erupted in the cavern.
She looked back. The pond was not a pond any longer, but a
mouth, spitting salt water—water from the Neverending Sea—back
into the cavern.
“Run!” Turay shouted.
Lilong jumped out and rolled the door back over, but it was only a
temporary reprieve. Water began to gush out the sides. The rock
trembled.
She looked left—toward the lit cavern, where her daa’s body still
lay. To the right—the opening to the outside of the rock, to safety.
She froze there, undecided.
“Lilong!” It was Turay, running back into the tunnel to get her.
“We have to go!”
Daa… she thought.
“Now!” Turay stretched his arm forward. “Take my hand!”
She took Turay’s hand.
They crawled forward together for what seemed like eternity.
Behind them, the sounds of something pushing against another
intensified, and then a tumble. Water began to rush into the tunnel,
flowing quickly downslope, luckily away from them but unluckily
toward the opening where Jaoudou’s body lay.
Rest well, daa, Lilong thought. I’m sorry.
The rock’s opening lay ahead, Oke and Issouf already outside,
urging them on. Lilong pushed her limbs to do the work. Go on,
Lilong. Go on.
They were pulled out of the tunnel in time. As soon as her legs
had cleared the entrance, water filled it to the brim, bubbling out like
an underground spring.
“Hah!” said Turay, running a hand through his hair. “That was
close.” He chuckled nervously, then stopped. “Danso?”
Lilong bowed her head and said nothing. But something else
struck her. She turned around, listening.
“There’s no noise,” she said. It was still raining, and there was
still wind, but all was mild, like the storm had passed. Too mild, like
the silence that had dropped in on them in Risisi right before
everything caved in.
 She looked up. In the skies above there was no sun, no cloud,
just… nothing.
“There’s no noise,” she repeated, louder, getting their attention.
Then, as if in response, a great roar came, and darkness began
to spread over the island.
They turned, as one, to look.
The wave was mighty—over a hundred persons tall. It was all the
waves of the Neverending Sea put together, the Great Waters in final
form, at her most vengeful. She rose and rose and rose, a shadow
over the island. She snarled down at them, roaring in her greatest
voice, tips shiny with foam, body grey and consuming. Before her
came the Great Winds in warning, billowing through their hair,
clothes, eyelids, announcing her intent: damage, decimation, death.
Lilong’s heart sank. She turned around to face the people who
stood with her and looked into their eyes, each stricken with fear,
sorrow, and surrender.
“We tried everything,” she said, her final words. “Let that count.”
When the Great Waters descended and took them away, Lilong
did not feel pain. She knew she was being swallowed, washed down
the gullet of a monster more malicious than any beast she had ever
met. Who could fight a vindictive god? Not even her. So she let the
feeling guide her, transport her somewhere more important than
here, holding on to nothing but the warm feeling that, in the end,
she had at least done the right thing.
 Kangala

Chugoko
First Mooncycle, 17–19

THE MAN BEYOND THE Lake stood before an assembled crowd in the
Chugoko city centre and looked them over, row to row.
“Only a few fortnights ago, we were still a peaceful people,” he
began. “Maybe not content, but peaceful. We crafted, sold, and
traded in peace. These borders were still open to us. We—you, and
even I in my place of privilege farther north—were living the best
way our dear old imperfect lives would allow.” He paused. “And then
came the Red Emperor.”
Ngipa had spent her time back in Chugoko well. So well, that she
dug deep into the jali tales of the Red Emperor’s triumph over Bassa,
pored over every record available of the event, and from it, pieced
together the speech the emperor had used to convince the Coalition
for New Bassa to rise against the Great Dome. A speech Ngipa had
now taken, and from it, spun a new one for Kangala in clean, clear
Savanna Common, which she helped him practice the night before.
“A usurper from Fourth Ward, hailing from a line that is anything
but noble, wielding a power that is foreign to us,” Kangala
continued. “But what did she do with this power, my people? Did she
employ it in service of our—your—betterment?”
He didn’t expect them to answer, and was not disappointed when
they did not, simply blinking at him, confused about where this was
going. But he waited. Patience, his eyes said to his children and their
siblings behind him, all gathered with their companies.
“No, she did not,” he answered the question himself. “Instead,
she has opted to murder her own people and yours, set her peace
officers, her Soldiers of Red, her swamp beast upon anyone she
pleases.” He jabbed a finger at them. “For seasons upon seasons,
you have done nothing but obey Bassa, live according to her decrees
even when there is no reward in it. You have remained steadfast,
paid the taxes demanded of you because you are a loyal, loving
people. But your loyalty has been met with nothing but disdain,
disrespect, and violence.” He paused for effect. “Today, I am here to
dare you to say—no more.”
He watched the mention of taxes slice the crowd like a blade
through sand, sowing the seed of division he needed. Desertlander
or otherwise, from oppressor advocate to the oppressed themselves
to parties that pretended to be neutral—this was the one thing that
united them all. There, in the far corner—the vigilante leader and
the warrant chief he took orders from. There, in the shadows—a
former mouthpiece of the Red Emperor’s peacekeepers. There—civic
guards from Bassa who were still waiting upon the emperor’s return.
There—merchants from Bassa, paused on their way to or from the
northern trading route.
But Kangala was not foolish. He did not expect a sudden change
of heart from anyone here. Not a single Chugoki or Bassai looked
kindly upon him. Not when he’d arrived a day ago with news of the
emperor’s demise, and surely not now. He didn’t blame them. After
all, he was a Sahelian who had gone on a quest with their emperor
and returned without her. Who would believe such a story—that the
emperor had somehow succumbed to the wiles of the road and
forest alongside the rest of her contingent?
They might not have attacked him yet, but they were definitely
waiting for a moment to do so. Today, he would give them this
opportunity. But first, he would open the ordinary Chugoki’s eyes. He
would move from liar to saviour, so the Four Winds help him.
“I dare you to dream of a life that does not centre Bassa and
their ways,” he said. “I dare you to think for yourself, to wonder if
who you are is enough. I dare you to not require Bassa’s approval,
but yours and yours alone.” He began to pace. “And I will go a step
further and dare you to reclaim what has been taken from you. I
dare you to follow me to Bassa and reclaim your land and your
wealth.”
It had been Ngipa’s idea to have the full force of the company
present. Not just for protection, she’d said, but so that they can see
you at the ready. She was right. Because as soon as he said these
words, all eyes swept to his children and their company of hundreds,
as if asking You and what army? and immediately getting that
answer.
But more importantly, Ngipa had gathered enough information to
leave them confident of palpable dissent against the emperor,
especially fueled by her visit. The Chugoki cup of obeisance was full,
and they had thrown it out, ready to fill new buckets with a
willingness for an end to tyranny. Which was why Kangala knew this
next part would be particularly important.
“I am but a Sahelian of lowly beginnings,” he said, “yet I stand
before you, willing to take my own stand, and wishing you would
join me.” He clicked his fingers.
Oroe stepped forward, stopping next to a tall figure over which a
large cloak was draped. He pulled it down.
A gasp cascaded through the crowd as the statue of the Red
Emperor, in all its red glory, came into view behind him. Kangala
seized this moment of stupefaction.
“Your emperor is no scion of moons!” he declared. “She is nothing
but a usurper, a poser, a trickster.” He jabbed his finger toward the
statue to press home his words. “Every single deadly power she has
wielded was not ordained by your gods, but mere evil sorcery. She is
but an ordinary human, just like me, just like you. And if I, an
ordinary man from Lake Vezha, blessed neither by the moon gods
nor the Four Winds, can defeat her and her ferocious beast despite
the power of this ibor sorcery”—he swung the finger around to point
to the people—“then you can do anything.”
Another click of his fingers. Oroe stepped forward with a heavy
sledgehammer, leaned back, and swung it against the statue.
The Red Emperor came down in a shower of terracotta and
bronze.
Shock and confusion rolled across the crowd like a bedsheet in
wind. Kangala’s eyes scanned quickly, seeking those who had since
been giving him dagger looks—civic guards, vigilantes, mouthpieces.
Not a single one was in the position they’d last been, all already
moving.
Kangala turned to his son Oroe and nodded. Oroe nodded back
and, with a sharp command to his company, melded with the crowd.
The remainder of his children pressed tightly around him, limiting
the circle.
“Do not fear, Chugoko!” Kangala said, hands in the air. “You are
the great city on the shoulder of the mountains, the gateway to the
mainland. You have always been great. But you can be even greater,
if you open your mind to it.” He made a show of turning his head left
to right. “If you fear the Red Emperor’s wrath, look around. Do you
see her here? Where is the Red Emperor you fear?”
From somewhere in the crowd, a cry of anguish, a scattering. A
Bassai civic guard lay in the dust, fresh blood pooling around him.
Another cry, and another. And each time the crowd parted,
someone was lifeless, painted in red.
“Where is your Red Emperor, defenders of Bassa?” Kangala
announced, as cries of agony sprung up everywhere. “Where is your
Red Emperor to defend you?”
Then, as soon as they had begun, the cries ceased. Bodies of
civic guards, vigilantes, at least one warrant chief—all lay on the
ground. A few members of the crowd who attempted to retaliate
were quickly held at blade point. Kangala put up a hand in a show of
control, as if stopping things from descending into chaos.
 “People of Chugoko,” he said, as every eye turned back to him in
a mix of fear and reverence. “I dare you. I dare you to come with
me to Bassa.”
This part, he could say with the most confidence. Ngipa’s
research had also uncovered information about the Soke border.
News of civic guards being withdrawn to be reassigned for some
unrest in Bassa. Gossip about portions of the border left in half
repair. Unfinished construction and fewer numbers meant only one
thing: vulnerability.
Kangala spoke faster now, returning to his pacing.
“I dare you to come with me as I head out to the Soke Pass, to
tear down the walls they have put up to keep us divided, to keep us
from the good fruit of the land. We are as worthy children of this
continent as any Bassai, and we deserve just as much access to
good water, good rivers. We deserve to dig wells that never go dry
and reap of the humus. We deserve to mine the mountains and
beautify our homes with the precious minerals that come forth. We
deserve access to these stones of power, to the possibilities they
bring. We deserve everything.”
The crowd looked to one another, and somewhere within them,
disagreement faded. Each look to a neighbour was to confirm that
they were thinking the same thing. A gaze at the bodies in the dust,
the crown and statue in pieces, the company behind Moy Kangala. It
was hope. It was confirmation.
Kangala filled his chest with air and delivered the finale of his
performance.
“Go home,” he announced, a command rather than a plea.
“Gather your households. Gather your friends. Gather your
neighbours. Tell them that Moy Kangala, the Sahelian, the Man
Beyond the Lake, says the day of reckoning has arrived. Today, we
take back what is rightfully ours. Today, we march to the Soke
border and tear it down. Today, you and your children walk into the
mainland.”
“Yes!” came a smattering of voices from the still stricken crowd.
“Yes.”
“I hear voices!” said Kangala, smiling. “I hear those who are not
afraid to join me in this noble quest to throw open the gates of the
Soke Pass for all desertlanders. And for you who have dared to
speak, who have dared to march with me, I will open the gates of
Bassa and beyond to you and your descendants forever. Never again
will you ever lack.”
“Yes!”
“Chugoko, I ask again—will you follow me? Will you take back
what is yours?”
“Yes, yes, yes!”
Kangala opened his arms to the crowd, and an energetic cheer
went around.
He looked at Ngipa, standing nearby. To Oroe, who had returned
from the crowd, bloodied from the silent assassinations. To the rest
of his children whose names he couldn’t always remember. He
nodded at them, and they nodded back, then began to chant.
Kan-ga-la. Kan-ga-la. Kan-ga-la.
The crowd followed, voices rising. Soon, they commandeered the
chant and gave it new, full life.
Kan-ga-la! Kan-ga-la! Kan-ga-la!
Kangala lifted his arms to the sky, and the ruckus was the loudest
the continent had ever heard since the taking of the Great Dome by
the woman from Fourth Ward.

Capturing the Soke border was not an easy task, but Kangala set
about it methodically. The first points of attack only required a
handful of Oroe’s best champions in the outposts where the wall was
most vulnerable structurally and otherwise. Then, it was a matter of
ambushing the civic guard reinforcements that arrived to recover
them. That, of course, left other outposts open for taking, which did
not even require well-trained champions to do so. When the
reinforcements were pushed back, they did not have a place to
return to, pinned in the narrow spaces of the border walls and caves
by forces on both ends. A few fought to the death. Many opted to
jump into the moats.
Kangala directed the desertlanders who had given up everything
to follow him to the least taxing part of the attacks. Most of their
work required taking down an outpost’s pigeon coop, prevent them
from lighting any signal fires, and in general ensuring word of these
attacks did not get out until they were completed. Once each
outpost was captured, Kangala gave the desertlanders who had
survived the freedom to commandeer each outpost as they wished,
including allowing whomever they pleased into the mainland. But
many of the outposts were in the scraggier and less desirous parts
of the mountains. Any immigrants who wanted to cross would have
to brave treacherous climbs or go underneath the mountains and
dare to face the moats.
So Kangala offered a third option, which the most sensible of
them opted for: Convince more people to join the fight in liberating
the Pass itself, and everyone could walk in unhindered.
Many opted for the latter. It earned significant returns, and
Kangala’s forces were boosted within hours.
Before the first day was over, Kangala had captured most of the
eastern and western walls, where the moats inside the mountains
were thinnest and most unguarded. The skirmishes were often not
lengthy, though they were fierce. But the biggest battle was the final
one—over the Soke Pass itself, where the moat was widest, the wall
was tallest, and the gates most fortified.
Kangala arrived after a long day of capturing most lookout posts,
set up his army of children behind the moats, and waited. There was
no dialogue, no discussion, no demands. Whoever led the defence of
the border ordered arrows to be fired whenever his people came too
close, so they remained well out of reach.
All they needed was one drawbridge.
It took the rest of the night. Oroe, who had remained behind in
the captured outposts, led the ambush from within. Kangala did not
know how it went, but he knew when it began, because the arrows
stopped, even when his children ventured forward and stood at the
edge of the moat.
The first drawbridge dropped at dawn, and Kangala marched his
army through.
The Bassai fought hard. The civic guards feared the Red
Emperor’s long hand more than they feared for their lives—perhaps
even feared she could reach them in death if they did not do their
utmost best to protect her empire. The thought of remaining soldiers
even after death, yanked from eternal rest back into the empire’s
service, struck such fear into their hearts that they fought like crazed
men. And like crazed men they also died, resisting the inevitability of
Kangala’s advancing forces and the losing battle of defending an
empire that did not once consider them worthy enough to buttress
their ranks and offer sufficient protection.
By dusk, the battle was over. When the iron gates of the Soke
Pass were raised, blood dripped from them onto the sand that
connected desertland to mainland. Kangala walked through, took off
his sandals, and stepped onto mainland sand. It glued to his blood-
slicked feet, nested between his toes, grainy when he rubbed them
together.
The sand did not feel any different. He breathed in the air, and it
did not feel any different. Save for these gates, these mountains,
these moats, the land on that side and the land on this side were
very much one and the same.
And he was just as entitled to it as anyone else.
 Nem

Bassa: The Great Dome

First Mooncycle, 20

“WAKE UP. WAKE UP!”

Nem felt a tug—several, in fact—and woke into blinding light. It
was morning, or afternoon—she couldn’t be sure. Whatever the
time, it was clear from the look of her Second staring into her face
that something had happened yet again. Sounds of chaos filtered
from outside the chamber, dampened by the shut doors. Satti’s
expression was taut, her movements jerky and anxious, a sculpture
of consternation.
“You have to decide,” said Satti, rummaging through a chest of
wrappers. “Now.”
Nem sat up. The small woman was never stern with her unless
something was considerably wrong. And though there was always
some ruckus in the Great Dome lately, Nem discerned that whatever
was wrong was very immediate.
 “Decide what? What’s happening?”
Satti pulled a couple of wrappers from the bottom of a nearby
chest, examining them. They were the oldest wrappers available.
“We are under attack.” Satti said it calmly, as if relaying the
available options for a meal. “The Soke Pass has been breached.”
Nem felt all the moisture disappear from her throat. She couldn’t
swallow spit if she wanted to.
“Who?” was all she could ask. It came out in a squeak.
“Some desertlander,” said Satti. “Not that it matters who.” She
began to undress, selected wrappers draped over her shoulders.
“What are you doing?” Nem asked. “Quick, help me get in my
chair. I need—”
“You do not need to do anything,” said Satti, continuing to take
off and put on clothes as if the whole empire was not about to come
crashing down on their heads, as if a Third Great War was not on
their heels.
“MaaNem,” said Satti, when she was finally done. “How long have
you known me?”
“What is this, the local government office?” Nem began to pull
herself over the edge of the bed. “If you won’t get me my chair, then
I will do it myself. But know that you will be sanctioned for this.”
“You are going to lose,” said Satti.
That stopped Nem in her tracks. “Excuse me?”
“No matter how you fight this, how you push back against it,
Bassa is going to lose,” she said. “And you, First Consul, having
acted in the emperor’s absence—you will be the scapegoat. You will
never survive being the scapegoat.”
Nem went quiet.
“Our attacker—they are calling him the Man Beyond the Lake. A
Sahelian,” said Satti. “Pigeon reports are scarce, but we hear of an
army of hundreds, the full weight of the desertland behind him and
his children-champions. Our civic guards have been outnumbered at
every instance, taken by surprise. No squadron is complete because
the Great Dome has plucked civic guards and spread them across
the city—by the forest, near the blockade, in the emperor’s caravan.
The gates of the Soke Pass have been thrown open, and there is no
one to defend it, to defend us, because we spent all this time
pursuing other things.”
Nem’s palms sweated from this update. Satti wasn’t pointing
fingers, but Nem could see it already—the lack of preparation being
blamed on her, on Esheme, even if they proceeded to battle now
and won. The desertland army was already here. Even if she tried to
summon every civic guard from across the mainland and mount a
defence of the seat of the empire, it would be too little, too late. By
Satti’s estimation, the army was expected to be upon them within
hours. The result of that battle was a foregone conclusion.
Satti was right. She had a decision to make.
“I told you, once, that I had a plan,” Satti was saying. “The time
has come. You can stay and stand commander over a war you will
not win—not as First Consul, not from that chair you sit in—or you
can come with me.”
But, Esheme… was Nem’s first thought, and Satti saw it flit across
her face.
“She created this,” said Satti. “You and I know it. I know you love
and care for her because she is your flesh and blood. You feel guilty
that you made her into who she has become. Or at least kindled the
fire that now burns in her. But you have to agree—she made her
choices, and her choices made way for this monster that now
threatens to consume you.”
The noise from outside dwindled into echoes, then into
nonexistence. It felt like they were the only two people left in the
Great Dome.
“Everyone has done the sensible thing and run away,” said Satti,
as if reading Nem’s mind. “Even Yao—he never gave the last few
orders you asked, and he is not here to give you this update either.
He and the rest of the court have disappeared. The civic guard
captains are out there, tired of waiting for orders. They’re
congregating on their own to decide on a next course of action.”
Satti leaned in. “They have chosen to forget you exist. This is a gift.
Take it.”
“Why are you doing this?” asked Nem, suddenly realising the
question she should have asked all this time. “When I almost died,
when my household almost crumbled—even now, when everything
might just crumble again—why have you stayed?”
Satti shifted her weight from foot to foot, sombre, pensive.
“My family is safe,” she said at last. “For now, at least. And you
are the reason for that, so I will complete my duty to you. When you
are safe, I will leave.”
This was not the answer Nem expected, but she realised it was
the answer to the question she did not ask. This was clearly not the
first time the woman had thought about leaving. But this time, she
had made up her mind. This would be her last act of service.
Nem took a long sigh, then nodded for Satti to help her to her
chair. Once in, Satti began dressing her in the old clothes.
“I wonder what happens to the blockade now,” said Nem.
“Perhaps it depends on what side of it one is on,” said Satti. “If
this Sahelian does end up taking over this Great Dome, then the
Nameless Republic will become his problem too, and no longer
yours.”
Nem wanted to say Bassa would always be her problem, but was
it, really? Here she was, being given an opportunity to leave the
burden of all this behind, start afresh somewhere she was
unrecognisable, a thought she had entertained many a time. But
there was still the small matter of Esheme. Though Nem was against
much of what her daughter did, she did not simply want to leave her
behind.
“Where will we go?” Nem asked, as Satti pushed Nem through
the empty hallways of the Great Dome. “Not too far, though? I want
to be able to reach my daughter easily when she returns.”
Satti wore a look that said she did not think Nem would be seeing
her daughter for a while. But all she said was: “I hear there is a
caravan of refugees headed to Whudasha.”
Nem settled back in her chair. Whudasha was far, but it was close
enough. When the dust of all this settled, she would find her way
back to Esheme.
Satti swung her to the Great Dome’s kitchen, which was also
empty, as most of the domehands had fled. The Second quickly
gathered some resources for their travel and stuffed them in a
clothsack she slung over her shoulder. Then she shepherded Nem
out through the domehand entryways and passages, stopping to
pilfer a container of oil for protection from the sun.
Soon, they were outside, in a part of the Great Dome Nem had
never seen. Satti wrapped a cloak over her nose and mouth, so that
only her eyes were visible. She helped Nem do the same. They
looked like different women, except for Nem’s chair, which,
thankfully, was a type commonly used in Bassa.
The two women turned and squinted west, shading their eyes
from the sun.

The refugee caravan to Whudasha was well underway when Satti

and Nem arrived. From every corner of the city came people of all
caste and kind. Former Idu nobles now walked alongside
immigrants. Despite the disguises of rags, hairstyle, and lack of
jewellery, Nem was still able to distinguish between them simply by
looking at their skin: polished, untouched by work or weather. And
yet, pockmarked skin or not, all were headed for the safety of the
Peace Fence, once a symbol of separation and subjugation, now a
symbol of safety and—surprisingly—peace.
This fact did not pass Nem by, and she told Satti so. The woman
scoffed.
“I’ve always thought peace was not the absence of war or
violence, but the presence of one so silent it makes no sound,” said
Satti. “So, if you think about it, the Peace Fence has always been
aptly named.”
When they had melded with the caravan proper, the crowd
swallowed them with alarming quickness. Stifling bodies aside, they
soon realised that the Emperor’s Road West, now well-travelled, was
no longer the smooth and paved route it once was. Nem’s chair was
not built for such undulation. They had a long way to go, and
continuing this way was sure to ruin it. Satti made it clear that under
no circumstances was she carrying Nem.
They stopped by the roadside and waited for someone with a
travelwagon whom they could ask for help. But with so many being
immigrants and Emuru—and Idu who did not want to be recognised
as such—they stood there for a while without spotting a single
travelwagon.
Until, that is, one pulled away from the crowd and parked by the
roadside. The driver, an elderly woman, got down with the help of
her daughter—granddaughter?—and went off on foot into one of the
nearby bushes, likely to relieve herself.
Satti and Nem went up to the travelwagon.
“Dehje, maa,” the girl greeted, surprisingly upbeat for someone
escaping the possibility of war. “Are you going to Whudasha like us?”
“Indeed we are,” said Nem, pulling down her veil to reveal more
of her face. “I am Adodo, and this is my cousin, Olaye.” She pointed.
“This your maa’s travelwagon?”
“Of a sort,” said the girl, then pointed to Nem’s chair. “You look
like you could use some help.”
“Indeed we do,” said Nem, smiling. “Will you be opposed to
helping a stranded elderly woman and her cousin reach the
promised land?”
The girl laughed at promised land as if Nem had said something
funny, then said: “Maa will make that choice. When she returns?”
The three waited together. Nem soon wondered if they had made
the wrong choice, as the girl could not stop talking. She hoped the
elderly woman was not as chatty. Could they last this journey with
two such people?
“You know the Supreme Magnanimous of Whudasha is now back
in Fifteenth Ward?” the girl was saying to Satti, who for some reason
was giving all her attention. “Staying to join the Nameless Republic.”
“You have been behind the blockade?” Nem asked. It struck her,
now, that both the girl and the older woman bore distinctly Whudan
features.
The girl nodded. “That is where the emperor put us.”
Nem tried hard not to gulp. “You know what’s happening back
there?”
The girl shook her head. “We left very early, before they decided
the outer wards are now independent of Bassa. Maa says there will
be a war with the emperor soon, and we should not be there when it
happens. That’s why we’re going back to Whudasha.”
Nem almost chuckled at the idea. If only they knew all the fault
lines underneath Bassa. Carnivorous forests, emergent beasts, an
army from the north. The blockade was the least of their problems.
The girl was still speaking. “I think it’s Whudasha we should be
worried about, though.”
“Why?” asked Nem, perking up. “What’s there?”
The girl frowned. “You don’t know?” Then she leaned in
conspiratorially, whispering: “Ibor.”
Nem’s chest locked up. Everywhere she went, it seemed this word
just could not stop following her.
“There is nothing like ibor,” said Satti, repeating the Great Dome’s
practiced answers. “Only people blessed by the moon sisters, like
the Red Emperor is.”
“Not what I hear,” said the girl, smacking her lips. For some
reason, chaos seemed to excite her.
“What do you hear?” asked Nem.
“Survivors,” said the girl. “Ajabo. In Whudasha.”
Cold washed over Nem. She glanced at Satti, who looked just as
stricken. They were both thinking the same thing—that was not
good news.
“Where did you hear this?” Nem asked.
“Everyone is talking about it,” the girl said, waving her hand
toward the road where more and more refugees poured toward the
coast. “Gossip, but maybe true? The last Whudans who came to
Bassa brought the news. They say people who can do strange things
suddenly showed up there after it became empty. They think it’s
Ajabos—they say maybe not all of them drowned or returned to the
islands and sank with them. They think a few survived and went to
the southeast hinterland protectorates. Maybe their descendants
kept their ibor. Now, people say they’ve returned to reclaim the place
of their ancestors’ first landing.”
 “It’s not possible,” said Satti. “Ajabos cannot be alive.”
The girl shrugged. “I don’t know—maybe we will see when we
get there?”
Nem thought about how, only a few seasons ago, her biggest
problem was wondering which First Elder’s favour to curry. Now a
revolutionary faction might be the last stand between the Empire of
Bassa and its fall to the desertlands. And if this was true about
Whudasha, then the lowly protectorate was about to be bestowed
with great power, and therefore great influence. Worse yet, if
Esheme’s quest ended up being successful—if she wasn’t dead and
did indeed gain access to more red ibor—then that was what, four
different groups holding power and all laying claim to the mainland?
Oon did not know it yet, but no matter what happened next,
nothing would ever be the same on the continent again.
“Maa is back,” the girl announced, as the elderly woman re-
emerged from the trees. She was only a few seasons older than
Nem, but seemed more weathered. She seemed too old to be this
girl’s maa, but also too young to be her grandmaa. Nem realised
they might not even be related at all.
The woman’s eyes caught Nem’s, and her gait slowed in
response, her expression stiffening. Nem realised she had left her
face open. Too late.
“Dehje,” Nem greeted warmly. “I am Adodo, and this is my
cousin, Olaye.”
The woman frowned and leaned on her walking stick, but said
nothing.
“I am Rudo,” the girl offered. To the woman, she said: “They
want to ride with us because MaaAdodo’s chair cannot go the whole
road.”
The older woman did not look convinced.
“We will offer all the food and resources we have,” said Satti. “As
payment.”
After what seemed like an eternity of consideration, the woman
angled her head, prodded the ground with her stick, then looked
them squarely in their eyes and said:
“Those are not your true names, but I do not care. As long as
you do not intend to harm us, you are welcome to travel with us and
share in our goods, as we are to yours. But I swear to you, if you
attempt to harm anyone, either here or when we get to Whudasha
—” She lifted her stick and pointed it at Nem.
“We are simply concerned with seeking safety in Whudasha, like
everyone else,” said Nem, then gestured to herself. “Besides, who
am I capable of harming in this state?”
The woman scoffed. “I have witnessed unspeakable harm come
from less. Besides, I am not helping you because of your inability to
walk—I simply am never one to abandon a fellow in need.” The
woman tapped her stick again. “My name is Biemwensé.”
“Adodo is my real name,” Nem lied, then pointed to Satti. “This is
not really my cousin. She is my Second. But her name is truly
Olaye.”
The older woman nodded. “Fair enough. I must warn you,
though: If it is safety you seek, perhaps you are on the wrong road.
This one has a boiling pot at one end and a fire at the other. When
we arrive at our destination, we hope to be alive long enough to
discover which is which.”
With that, she beckoned to her daughter—or whatever she was—
to help her into the driving seat of the travelwagon. Satti opted to
drive instead, and the woman surprisingly acquiesced, pulling herself
inside the vehicle. Nem went in after her, and the girl shut the door
after them.
The travelwagon pulled into the Emperor’s Road and became one
with the refugee caravan.
 Epilogue

Tombolo Hamlets
First Mooncycle, 9

FATOI LIKED TO THINK himself an able fisherman. He was the first in his
compound to rise every morning, first to pull his daa’s old nets and
head out before the sun rose fully. He wanted to be the first to catch
something, anything, from the Neverending Sea before its tides went
out too far and took all the fish with it. After, he would take his
dugout canoe and row onto the Tombolo River and lay his newer
nets there. Then he would wait for Memba, his rival from the next
compound, the only fellow fisherman in their small hamlet of eight
compounds, to arrive. By noon, when they would compare their
catches, Fatoi would surely have room to gloat.
But as Fatoi marched with his nets on this morning, through the
forest path and toward the beach, he studied the eerie orange sky,
the settlement all but obscured in thick haze. Morning mistdew
mixed with the remnants of yesternight’s smoked fish fires.
What new evil could be coming this time? he mused.
Deep-coloured skies, thick haze—these were never good omens.
The Tombolo hamlets had already seen more events within the last
season than in their last ten: the new emperor’s visit; new tax
enforcement delegations from the Great Dome; lower and lower
catch yields; lower and lower crop yields; wild, foreign beasts
emerging from the Tombolo forests; the Neverending Sea eating
farther into the coast, drawing closer and closer to their compounds.
Only recently, the monsoon winds had blown heavy rainfall toward
them for days, all but aborting their fishing plans. What more could
the moon gods have in store?
 He broke forest cover, the wind and waves still temperamental
from the monsoon. That was when he saw the objects that littered
the beach.
They did not glitter, but in the growing light of dawn, they
seemed to in Fatoi’s eyes. Gems—no, stones. Or bones, maybe?
Different sizes, from chunks as thick as his head to some as tiny as
his little toe. Different colours too—red, amber, grey, white. And they
had coloured the water, the foam and wash of the beach imprinting
rainbows in the sand.
But what Fatoi’s eyes stopped and fixed on were the bodies.
This far away, he couldn’t tell how many, but he was sure there
was more than one. None of them were moving.
From deep within the Neverending Sea came a thunderous,
monstrous roar that reverberated in his bones, shuddered every
stem, trembled every branch.
The fishing nets dropped in the sand. Fatoi started running.
 The story continues in…

Book THREE of The

Nameless Republic
Keep reading for a sneak peek!
 Author’s Note

THE FICTIONAL CONTINENT OF Oon and its characters are inspired by

cultures, events, myths, legends, and cosmologies from various West
African ethnic groups (and other such proximate ethnic groups
within the African continent). They are in no way intended to be
accurate portrayals or representations of any nation, group, or
community at any point in real-world history.
In the same vein, the mainland’s hierarchy of darkness and
lightness is not intended to be representative of real-world racism,
especially not “reverse racism” or “inverted oppression.” Rather, it is
a demonstration of how a matter of genetic randomness such as
skin shade (even when—especially when—it occurs within the same
racial group) may generate illogical and groundless reasoning for the
purposes of compartmentalizing power. Bassa’s hierarchy of
darkness and lightness is a product of the fictional city’s own
storytelling, born of tales rooted in its relationship to the land, the
humus that forms the source of the nation’s agricultural prosperity.
While there may be analogues and analogies to draw from Bassa to
the social, cultural, and political landscapes of today, Bassa’s caste
system is not a commentary on a particular system or place, but an
examination of all caste systems—both visible and invisible—and a
demonstration of how they take hold.
If a reader may draw any analogues from this series at all, they
may do so in one instance. The people of the Ihinyon islands
deemed “yellowskins” by the Bassai are a representation of the
stigmatization and discrimination against persons with albinism
across the African continent. The rare genetic condition (affecting
about 1 in 5,000 to 15,000 people in Sub-Saharan Africa, sometimes
as high as 1 in 1,000)1 results in a deficiency of the melanin pigment
distinctive to Africans and their descendants, preventing it from
colouring their skin, hair, and eyes in the same manner as their
fellow darker-skinned compatriots. Early depictions of Lilong from
the Bassai point of view mirror typical attitudes of many
inadequately educated darker-skinned Africans and Afrodescendants
toward fellow (otherwise Black) Africans and Afrodescendants with
albinism. A discerning reader will realise that not only is said Bassai
point of view false and damaging, it is also quickly overruled by
various counter-portrayals of “yellow-skinned” islanders (“yellow,” in
this context, is the sometimes-neutral-sometimes-pejorative term
Black Africans and Afrodescendants often employ in describing those
with this melanin deficiency).
As a reader, I have long wanted to see more Africans and
Afrodescendants with albinism be presented as their whole, ordinary
selves on the page. As an author, it is a privilege to have Lilong, a
character with albinism, be the full gamut of her human self on the
page—the hero of her own tale, melanin or not. Long may it
continue.

Footnote
1 United Nations, General Assembly, Persons with albinism: Report of the Office of
the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights, A/HRC/24/57 (12
September 2023), available from https://undocs.org/en/A/HRC/24/57
 Persons of Interest

(Stresses—upward intonations—are on uppercase letters. Flat

intonations on lowercase.)

IN THIS TALE, in order of interest

Lilong (lee-LONG): Abenai warrior from Namge, one of seven
islands in the Ihinyon archipelago. Fugitive of the empire.
Danso (DAN-soh): Formerly Bassa’s brightest jali, now a fugitive of
the empire.
Esheme (ay-SHEH-mee): The Red Emperor of Bassa, and
daughter of Nem. Formerly Danso’s intended.
Nem (nehm): Esheme’s maa, and First Consul to the emperor.
Formerly Bassa’s foremost fixer.
Biemwensé (BEE-EH-mwen-SAY): Whudan potter and former
Supreme Magnanimous of the Whudasha Youth. Also a fugitive.
Kakutan (kah-koo-TAN): Previously Supreme Magnanimous of
the Whudasha Youth, now a fugitive of the empire.
Oke (oh-keh): Escaped daughter of the former Bassai Speaker.
Now in league with the fugitives.
Igan (EE-gan): Second, advisor, lover, and confidant of Esheme.
Once a general of the Coalition for New Bassa.
Pa Gaddo and Ma Gaddo (GAH-DOH): Leaders of the Gaddo
Company.
Alaba (ah-LAH-bah): The Gaddos’ son, partner to Oke and Ugo.
Kangala (kan-GAH-lah): A shrewd Sahelian businessman.
Oroe (oh-ROW) and Ngipa (nn-GEE-pah): Kangala’s children
and trusted hands.
Kubra (koo-brah): A general of the Gaddo Company.
Ifiot (EE-feeawt): Leader of the Nameless faction, a splinter group
from the Coalition for New Bassa.
Hakuoo (hah-KOO-OH): A stealthy swamplander warrior and
leader.
Turay (too-RAY): Abenai warrior, and Lilong’s love interest.
Ugo (ooh-goh): Partner to Oke and Alaba.
Basuaye (BAH-soo-ah-YAY): Former leader of the Coalition for
New Bassa, also known as the Cockroach.
Ikobi (ee-KOH-bee): Advisor to the Red Emperor. Previously
Esheme’s mentor at counsel guild.
Satti (sah-TEE): Nem’s Second. Once caretaker of the MaaNem
household.
Jaoudou (jah-OO-doo): Lilong’s father and Elder Warrior of the
Abenai League.
Issouf (ee-SOOF), Kyauta (kee-AW-tah), Lumusi (LOO-MOO-
see): Lilong’s [step]siblings.
Ma Guosa (GWO-sah): Lilong’s [step]mother.
Afanfan (ah-FAN-fan), Owude (oh-WOO-day), Rudo (roo-
DOH): Biemwensé’s adopted children.
Thema (TEH-mah): Oke’s infant daughter.
Pikoyo (pee-KOH-yoh): New owner, caretaker, and housekeep at
the Weary Sojourner.
Gevah (GEH-vah) and Manemena (mah-nay-MEH-nah): Clan
leaders from the hinterlands.
Mpewa (m-PEH-wah): A mainland immigrant in Fifteenth Ward.
Butue (boo-TOO-ay): A former Second Councilhand of Bassa.
Anuli (AH-noo-LEE): Chief physician at the Great Dome.
Jhobon (jaw-BAWN): False name for Danso used while in
Chugoko.
Awa (AH-wah): Chief Warden of the Chugoko Central Prison (and
his daughter, Abunni, ah-boo-NEE).
Sileya (see-LAY-YAH): One of Ifiot’s advisors in the Nameless
faction.
FROM PREVIOUS TALES, in no particular order
Abuso (ah-boo-SOH): Speaker of the Upper Council of the nation
of Bassa, and Oke’s father.
Abulele (ah-BOO-lay-LAY): A friend of Danso’s, sometimes called
Abu for short.
Aifu (aee-foo): A First Elder of Bassa.
Ariase (ah-REEAH-say): Dọta’s Second.
Dọta (DAW-tah): First Elder and First Merchant of the Upper
Council of Bassa.
Ebose (ay-BOH-seh): A priest of the moon temple in Bassa.
Habba (HAH-ba): Danso’s father, formerly of the jali guild and
later a private healer.
Idiado (ee-DEEAH-doh): Leopard Emperor, the Sixteenth Emperor
of Great Bassa.
Ilobi (ee-LOH-bee): A priest of the moon temple in Bassa.
Indina (een-DEE-nah): A Whudasha Youth.
Isago (EE-sah-GOH): A First Elder of Bassa.
Mokhiri (moh-KHEE-ree): Zaq’s lover.
Nogowu (noh-GOH-woo): Manic Emperor, the Twenty-Third
Emperor of Great Bassa.
Nowssu (now-SOO): A friend of Danso’s.
Oboda (oh-boh-DAH): Nem’s Second, and later Esheme’s Second.
Oduvie (oh-DOO-veeay): Danso’s mentor at scholar guild.
Pochuwe (poh-CHOO-way), Uduuwe (ooh-DOO-way),
Kachuwe (kah-CHOO-way): Danso’s triplet uncles and Habba’s
brothers.
Sankofa (SAHN-koh-fah): A Whudasha Youth.
Tamino (tah-MEE-no): A general of the Coalition for New Bassa.
Tumwenke (toom-WEHN-kay): Emperor of Enlightenment, the
Fifteenth Emperor of Great Bassa.
Ulobana (oo-LOH-bah-NAH): A general of the Coalition for New
Bassa.
Uria (ooh-REE-ah): A friend of Danso’s.
Usi (OOH-see): The DaaHabba household’s kwaga.
Viasi (vee-AH-see): Oboda’s leopard.
Zaq (zak): Danso’s Second and only househand to the DaaHabba
household.
 Glossary

(Stresses—upward intonations—are on uppercase letters. Flat

intonations on lowercase.)

TERMS
Abenai (ah-beh-NAI) League [of Warriors]: A league of sworn
protectors of the secrets of ibor and the existence of the eastern
archipelago of the Nameless Islands.
Ashu (ah-SHOO): The white moon, the smaller of the two moons
of Oon’s world. Represented as a hen in Bassai moon worship.
Bassai (bah-SAI): Of Bassa.
Bassai Ideal, the: An embodiment of the epitome of Bassai
existence, which includes purity of lineage and devotion to the
nation’s protection, prosperity, religion, guilds, and social
contracts. Sometimes colloquially referred to as Prime Bassai.
bushroad: Any minor road leading outside of the city of Bassa.
Named for the bush paths that they often have to cut through.
cheto (cheh-TOH): A hair and skin dye used in beautifying the
self.
Chugoki (choo-GOH-kee): Of Chugoko.
civic guard: A member of law enforcement in Bassa, mostly of
Emuru caste.
Command: The third stage of iborworking: to mentally order an
object, element, or inanimate being Possessed by ibor to carry out
a task.
daa: Refers to (1) father; (2) mister, a formal form of address for
any male household head (when used before name, e.g.
 DaaHabba); (3) a diminutive form of formal address for any man
(when used after name, e.g. Danso-daa).
dehje (DEH-jeh): A formal greeting in Bassa.
Diwi (DEE-wee): A household heirloom of red ibor, belonging to
Lilong’s house.
Draw: The first stage of iborworking: to mentally absorb the power
from an ibor piece by touch.
Elder: An honorific term used to refer to a leading member of
Bassai society, especially in a guild or vocation. Sometimes
preceded by qualifiers for members of the Upper Council; Second
Elder for members of the Lower Council.
Emperor’s Road: Any major road that leads out of the city of
Bassa. Named for Bassa’s first emperors, who built them to travel
and establish trade with other parts of the mainland.
Emuru (eh-MOO-roo): The worker caste of Bassa and second in
the hierarchy of all five mainland castes. Default caste for all
mainland pureborns—mainlanders without any outlander blood—
who are not Idu.
Gaddo (GAH-DOH) Company: A desertland group of semi-legal
operatives.
High Bassai: The exclusive, highbrow dialect spoken mostly among
the Idu caste of Bassa. It is the only language with a clear written
form.
high-black: Bassai denotation of the darkest skin complexion of all
mainlanders. The darkest and most desirable skin tone on the
continent of Oon. Usually affiliated with humus, the Idu caste,
affluence and well-being, and mainland pureborns.
high-brown: Bassai denotation of the darkest skin complexion of
all desertlanders. Darker than low-brown but lighter than low-
black. Usually affiliated with the Potokin caste and people of the
Savanna Belt.
hunthand: A private bounty hunter.
ibor (EE-bor): A fossil-like magical mineral with the consistency of
both stone and bone. Found washed up on the shores of island
nations. Many believe it originates from the beds of the great
seas, but it is unclear and unproven. Naturally occurs in four
 states: white, grey, amber, and red.
Iborworker: A manipulator of ibor who possesses the innate talent
and training to wield each kind of ibor for their own use. White
Iborworkers wield air and light, Grey Iborworkers wield fire and
water, Amber Iborworkers wield objects with which they have
established an existing connection, and Red Iborworkers wield
dead entities that have once lived.
iborworking: The act of manipulating ibor.
Idu (ee-DOO): The noble caste of Bassa and highest in the
hierarchy of all five mainland castes. Highly selective, only
accessible through vocational inheritance (priests), economic
accomplishment and guild leadership (First and Second Elders),
politics (ward leaders), and scholarly merit (jalis, scholars).
islander: An indigene of any of the islands surrounding Oon.
Island Common: The crossover, easily understood dialect spoken
all over the seven islands of the Ihinyon archipelago.
jali (JAH-lee): A trained oral historian, storyteller, musician,
scholar, and information repository of the Idu caste. Exclusively
trained at the University of Bassa (called novitiates while in
training), the jali guild is highly selective.
landfowl (sometimes fowl): Any bird incapable of flight and
restricted to land. Fowl may refer to birds in general.
low-black: Bassai denotation of the lighter skin complexion of all
mainlanders. Lighter than high-black but darker than high-brown.
Usually affiliated with the Emuru caste and poverty or less
affluence.
low-brown: Bassai denotation of the lighter skin complexion of all
desertlanders. The lightest and least desirable skin tone on the
mainland, only darker than islanders and yellowskins. Usually
affiliated with the Yelekuté caste and people of the Idjama desert.
Lower Council: Second-highest ruling council of the nation of
Bassa with thirty members. Also doubles as government of the
capital city, with two selected members each representing one of
the city’s fifteen wards. Usually of ward leaders, civic guard
captains, high-ranking counsels, and local government officials,
etc.
maa: Refers to (1) mother; (2) missus, a formal form of address for
any female household head (when used before name, e.g.
MaaEsheme); (3) a diminutive form of formal address for any
woman (when used after name, e.g. Esheme-maa).
Mainland Common: The crossover, easily understood dialect
spoken all over the mainland.
Mainland Pidgin: The dialect spoken northward of the mainland,
closer to the Soke border. It contains limited vocabulary and is
interspersed with other languages from the Savanna Belt.
Sometimes referred to as border pidgin.
mainway: One of fifteen major roads that each divide and enclose
Bassa’s fifteen wards. May also refer to main roads or streets in
other regions.
Menai (meh-NAI): The red moon, the bigger of the two moons of
Oon’s world. Represented in Bassai moon worship as a leopard.
mooncrossing: The celestial event when the orbital paths of both
moons in the world of Oon, Menai and Ashu, cross over each
other. Usually accompanied by festivities.
mooncycle: A “month,” that is, the period of time between each
mooncrossing.
Ochela (oh-CHEH-lah): An annual festival held in Chugoko,
spanning many days and bringing together many communities in
the desertlands.
outlander: Someone who hails from the opposite side of the Soke
border or across the seas, especially relative to wherever the
speaker is from (e.g. a mainlander would refer to indigenes of the
deserts and islands as outlanders).
peace officers (and their mouthpieces): Empire-ordained
bounty hunters sent into the desertlands to seek the escaped
fugitives.
Possess: The second stage of iborworking: to mentally release
power Drawn from an ibor piece into a target object, element, or
inanimate being in order to Command it.
Potokin (poh-TOH-keen): The higher immigrant caste of Bassa
and third in the hierarchy of all five mainland castes. Reserved
only for immigrants who work directly for Idu caste members,
 including aides, pages, hunthands, and a select number of
Seconds.
raffia (RAH-FEE-ah): The collective name for the leaves of the
palm tree native to Bassa. Also refers to the fibre from the raffia
leaves, used for making woven items.
risisi (ree-SEE-see): A colloquial term for “rock” or “statue” or
“ancestor” in Island Common. Not to be confused with Risisi, the
name of a (mythical) place.
runku (ROON-koo): A wooden club with a heavy bulbous end,
usually carried by civic guards and Seconds.
Savanna Common: The commonly understood dialect spoken all
over the Savanna Belt.
Shashi (shah-shee): The outcast caste of Bassa and lowest of all
five in the hierarchy of mainland castes. Reserved for those of
mixed blood between a mainlander and outlander, whether
desertlander or islander. Also sometimes used to refer to the
mixed-complexion appearance of Shashi caste members.
Soldiers of Red: Undead enemies of the Red Emperor, resurrected
by Red Iborworking to become her personal protection unit.
stone-bone: A colloquial term for referring to ibor.
Upper Council: The highest ruling council representing the nation
of Bassa, made up of ten First Elders and an appointed Elder Jali
as a Speaker.
Yaya (yah-YAH): A Whudan title for an elderly maternal person.
Yelekuté (yay-lay-KOO-tay): The lower immigrant caste of Bassa
and fourth in the hierarchy of all five mainland castes. Default
caste for Seconds and all other desertlander immigrants that
constitute all the -hands: househands and all other workhands and
servicehands.
yellowskin: Describes the albinoid people of the Ihinyon islands of
the eastern archipelago (known to most on Oon as the Nameless
Islands). Expression comes from the yellowish appearance of their
skin, hair, and eyes.
ward: One of fifteen subdivisions of the city of Bassa, starting from
the innermost and most affluent closest to the Great Dome (First
Ward) to the outermost and least affluent farthest from the Great
 Dome (Fifteenth Ward).
weybo (WAY-boh): A highly intoxicating alcoholic spirit distilled
from fermented raffia wine.
Whudan (woo-DAHN): Of Whudasha. Also refers to the language
spoken by the people.

LOCALES
Ajabo (ah-JAH-boh): Refers to (1) the group of islands west of
the continent of Oon, whose people were the first to migrate to
the mainland; (2) the people of said islands.
Bassa (BAH-sah): Refers to (1) the nation of Bassa, formerly the
Empire of Bassa, which spans all of the mainland except for
Whudasha and a few hinterland protectorates; (2) the capital city
of Bassa from which the nation got its name; (3) the region of the
mainland over which the Bassai nation spans, one of the three
major regions on the continent of Oon next to the Savanna Belt
and the Idjama desert.
Breathing Forest, the: A forbidden forest on the western edge of
Bassa whose floor undulates during heavy winds. Rumoured to
possess supernatural creatures and is eschewed by the Bassai.
Chabo (CHAH-boh): A colony to the west of the Savanna Belt.
Chugoko (choo-GOH-koh): The biggest city in the Savanna Belt,
standing between Bassa’s Soke Pass and the Emperor’s Road to
the north.
Dead Mines, the: A cluster of abandoned mines of gold and other
ore at the foot of the Soke mountains, west of the border.
delta settlements (also known as deltalands, swamplands):
The southernmost part of the mainland, mostly uncharted, and
harbouring various uncontacted groups.
desertland(s): Anywhere north of the Soke border. Indigenes
referred to as desertlanders.
Enuka (EH-NOO-kah): A clan in the southwest hinterlands.
Gondola (gon-DOH-lah): A river on the mainland, intersecting
with the Tombolo at the Tombolo-Gondola confluence.
Gwagwamsi (gwah-GWAHM-see): A settlement along the
northern trade route.
Haruna (hah-ROO-nah): A small town in the Savanna Belt.
hinterlands: The internal regions of the mainland, often split into
the southwest and southeast.
Idjama (ee-jah-mah) (also Idjama desert): The desert regions
north of the Savanna Belt. Next to Bassa and the Savanna Belt,
the third major region of the continent of Oon.
Ihinyon (ee-HIN-yawn): Collective name for the seven islands
and the people of the archipelago east of Oon. A word that means
“seven” in Island Common. Known as the Nameless Islands to
mainlanders, for the seven islands it contains: Namge, Hoor, Ololo,
Edana, Ufua, Sibu-Sibu, Ofen.
Lonely Roads East/West, the: Roadways of the Savanna Belt
that lead east/west, respectively.
mainland: Anywhere south of the Soke border. Indigenes referred
to as mainlanders. Sometimes synonymous with Bassa.
Oon: The universal name for the one continental body, consisting of
three distinct landforms: the mainland to the south, the desertland
to the north, and islands to the east and west.
outer lands: The regions on the opposite side of the Soke border
or across the seas, especially relative to wherever the speaker is
from (e.g. a mainlander would refer to the deserts and islands as
outer lands).
Risisi (ree-SEE-see): Mythical buried city of ibor in the Ihinyon
islands.
Savanna Belt: The savanna region between the mainland and the
desert, north of the Soke mountains. Next to Bassa, the second
most prosperous of the three main regions that make up the
continent of Oon.
Sahel: The transition zone just north of the Savanna Belt. Its most
conspicuous landmark is the Lake Vezha.
Soke (SOH-kay): Refers to (1) the Soke mountains separating the
mainland from the desertlands; (2) the Soke border, the man-
made border of moats and drawbridges built along the Narrow
Pass (or Soke Pass) between the mountains to regulate southward
 immigration from the desertland into the mainland.
Tkithnuum (t-KEETH-noom): A port city on the northern trade
route.
Tombolo (tom-BOH-loh): A river on the mainland, intersecting
with the Gondola at the Tombolo-Gondola confluence.
Undati (oon-DAH-tee): A small mining location east of the Soke
Pass. Refers to the location or the mines themselves.
Vezha (VEH-zzah), Lake: A lake in the Sahel belt, separating the
Savanna Belt from the Idjama desert proper.
Wanneba (WAH-NEH-bah): A clan in the southwest hinterlands.
Whudasha (woo-DAH-shah): A western coastal protectorate on
the mainland, separated from Bassa by a Peace Fence. Known as
the land of the first landers—the Ajabo who first arrived on the
mainland through the bight, now known as the Bight of
Whudasha.

FLORA & FAUNA

genge (GEN-geh): An ancient desertland animal often found
roaming in packs in the desertlands. Name translates to monster
in a desertland dialect.
Ghost Ape: A gorilla-like animal with the camouflaging properties of
a chameleon, rumoured to be found in Bassa’s rainforests.
kwaga (KWAH-gah): A striped, hoofed equine with horns and a
sharp bark. Primary transport animal on the continent of Oon.
naboom (nah-BOOM): A desertland cacti-like plant (or tree) with
poisonous milky sap.
Ninki Nanka (NEEN-KEE nan-kah), or swamp dragon: A
ferocious dragon-serpent with corrosive spittle. Native to the
swamplands. Believed to be mythical.
Skopi (SKOH-pee), or lightning bat: A human-sized bat with the
ability to call down lightning.
tepe (TAY-pay): A carnivorous tree that masquerades as other
trees in the rainforest (often ubiquitous trees like plantains).
Contains teeth and tentacle-like material within, ensnaring
whatever living animal comes too close (humans included) and
consuming their flesh but rejecting the bones, which can often be
found at the foot of the tree. It is also capable of moving by
“shuffling” its way through the forest.
 The Written Codex of Danso
DaaHabba, First Jali of Bassa to
Journey over the Soke Borders

Hereafter lie his personal accounts of travels and

travails through the desertlands, from the western
vagabond colony of Chabo, to the fabled eastern Forest
of the Mist.

The First Account: The Codex of the Twenty-Third Emperor of

Bassa, the Manic Emperor Nogowu, as recounted from memory
The Second Account: The Unravelling of Great Bassa: A recount of
events leading to the fall of the Bassai parliament, the rise of the
Red Emperor, our escape from the mainland, and how we became
fugitives
The Third Account: The salt-taste of triumph
The Fourth Account: An account of our journey to Chabo
The Fifth Account: Notes from my time as a jali novitiate
The Sixth Account: Notes on companies, the Gaddos, the Second
Great War, and maps
The Seventh Account: The heist of Chugoko Central Prison
The Eighth Account: The Cautionary Tale of the Stone City of
Risisi, as recounted by Oke, daughter of Abuso, Speaker of the
Upper Council of Bassa; as told to her by Warrior Jaoudou of
Namge and the Abenai League
The Ninth Account: A recount of our journey across the Savanna
Belt, through the Lonely Roads East and the Weary Sojourner
Caravansary
The Tenth Account: Why the Wind Howls: A Desertland Tale, as
told by Ugo, also known as Journeyman, once of Bassa, now of
the desertlands
The Eleventh Account: How the World Came to Be: An Ihinyon
Tale, as told by Lilong of Namge and the Abenai League (of the
seven islands of the Ihinyon archipelago, known to some,
inaccurately, as the Nameless Islands)
The Twelfth Account: The Crab-God and the Gourd of Wisdom:
An Ihinyon Tale, as told by Lumusi of Namge, a tale which she
has always known and in which she firmly believes
 Acknowledgments

All my thanks to the village that made this book possible:

—My agents, Tamara Kawar and Alexander Cochran, for being
stable beacons in the stormy waters of publishing.
—The good folks at Orbit: my superstar editor, Nivia Evans, who
continues to champion this series and my work in general—I
appreciate you; her able assistant, Angelica Chong, for ensuring this
book got where it needed to on time; production editor Rachel
Goldstein and copyeditor Vivian Kirklin, for ensuring series continuity
—you are literally my series world bible; art team wrangler Lauren
Panepinto for the awesome cover design (and Dan dos Santos for
yet another badass cover art, and Tim Paul for the map); publicity
wrangler Ellen B. Wright and able deputy Angela Man; Alex Lencicki
and Paola Crespo in marketing (I’ll always remember the Son of the
Storm book trailer you made happen!); James Long and Nazia
Khatun at Orbit UK—I salute your energy, always.
—My family: Dami and Dot, from whom I often snuck away to
write this. Thank you for putting up with me.
—Writing colleagues and constant cheerleaders: Those who’ve
blurbed this series so far: S. A. Chakraborty, Fonda Lee, P. Djèlí
Clark, Shelley Parker-Chan, Andrea Stewart, Anthony Ryan, James
Islington, Jenn Lyons, A. K. Larkwood; those who’ve been sounding
boards: Rebecca Roanhorse, Tasha Suri, Evan Winter, Malka Older, S.
L. Huang.
—Friends in Ottawa who helped me settle into a snowy new city:
Amal El-Mohtar, Kate Heartfield; the good folks at CanCon: Marie
Bilodeau, Brandon Crilly, and Derek Kunsken; colleagues Vicki Burke,
Kim Andrews and Alex Bowles, James Brooke-Smith and Sara
Landreth, Tom Allen, the Jenns—Panek, Blair, and Baker.
—Bookstores and libraries who’ve supported this series so far:
Long may your coffers fill.
—Newsletter readers at SuyiAfterFive.com: thank you, thank you,
thank you.
—Anyone else who deserves a mention but whom I forgot to
include: Forgive me. I wrote this at two AM.
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extras
 meet the author

Manuel Ruiz

SUYI DAVIES OKUNGBOWA is a Nigerian author of fantasy, science fiction,

and general speculative work. He is the author of the epic fantasy
trilogy The Nameless Republic (including Son of the Storm and
Warrior of the Wind). His debut godpunk fantasy novel, David Mogo,
Godhunter (Abaddon, 2019), won the 2020 Nommo Award for Best
Novel. His shorter works have appeared in various periodicals and
anthologies and have been nominated for various awards. He earned
his MFA in creative writing from the University of Arizona and lives in
Ontario, where he teaches at the University of Ottawa. Follow him
on social media (as @suyidavies everywhere), or via his newsletter,
SuyiAfterFive.com.

Find out more about Suyi Davies Okungbowa and other Orbit
authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at
orbitbooks.net.
 if you enjoyed
WARRIOR OF THE WIND
look out for

THE NAMELESS REPUBLIC:

BOOK THREE
by

Suyi Davies Okungbowa

The sweeping saga of forgotten magic and violent conquests
continues in the third novel of award-winning author Suyi
Davies Okungbowa’s epic fantasy trilogy.…

Kakutan

The Nameless Republic

First Season of the Five States

First, tongue: seeking, tickling, finding. Petals, Kakutan thought, as

small joys blossomed in her lower belly. Beads of perspiration
gathered above her lip. She licked at them, an invitation.
 Ifiot removed her head from between Kakutan’s thighs, slipped
fingers into her, and began to move. Her opposite fingers found
Kakutan’s lips, and motions above mimicked those below. Sharp
fingernails, filled with slick, dug into her tongue, releasing flavours of
salt and steel.
Kakutan turned over and let Ifiot enter deep inside her. Every
movement a sensual brush, the tingling of a bell fingers could never
reach. Moons. Satisfaction escaped Kakutan’s throat, wisps of hair
matted to her temples. Ifiot responded, stroking slower, deeper, all
lean muscle and suffocating musk.
Sweat gathered in their armpits, charted rivulets down their
backs. Kakutan bit her lip, fell to her elbows, arched herself.
Thoughts melted away, replaced by an insatiable hunger for more,
and more, and more.
Soon, she was atop a hill, then cresting. She opened her lips and
let go, limbs quivering. Everything went white and empty and
nothing existed. Then she was back to the wet, soaked present,
after which it was time to return the favour.

Ifiot always dressed first, which Kakutan did not mind because she’d
always preferred to lie in bed, smoke, and watch. There was
something mesmerizing about that body, the way Ifiot’s angular
shoulders tapered into a back that was sturdy yet tender, and fed
into buttock muscles that tensed on themselves whenever she
moved. In the near-darkness of the room, Kakutan had trained her
eyes to see and memorise every inch of her lover’s body.
They were in one of the small abodes the Nameless faction once
used as safe houses, before the blockade went up and they became
an independent state. This one was tucked into an outskirt of
Twelfth, with an entry level accessible only via a corridor. Which was
why even though the light of late morning shone outside, their room
remained shaded in shadow, like much of the Nameless faction had
once been.
Kakutan took a drag of her pipe and watched Ifiot’s tense
buttocks disappear into a pair of pantaloons. She did not think it was
fair that she was the warrior here, yet Ifiot was the one blessed with
a warrior’s angles. A body that was yet to feel the pressures of aging
like hers. She did not hate her body, of course—curves and softness
had their uses. It made people underestimate her, which was good.
She was smaller, older, rounder—often invisible. They would not see
her coming.
Especially at the meeting today.
“Nameless, eh?” Kakutan said as Ifiot put on her tunic.
“Nameless,” Ifiot repeated, a wry smile tugging at her lips. The
woman never dressed in Bassai wrappers, despite being Bassai
herself, but preferred to wear desertlander clothing, often gifted to
her by immigrant friends and comrades. It was part of her resistance
—to never put on the fashion of the oppressor, as she would say—as
well as a demonstration of her allyship with the now-free
immigrants.
Kakutan blew a plume of smoke from her pipe. “They will want a
name. And a leader.”
“And I will tell them the same thing I have said many times over.
It is not a nameless or leaderless revolution. It is—”
“—all our names, and we are all its leaders,” Kakutan finished.
“I’m aware.”
“You can’t cut the head off a snake if it has no head.”
“Also aware.”
“Then that settles it.”
“For you, maybe. But this is war. Truth and reason don’t apply
here. War is politics, and sadly, politics is emotion.”
Ifiot turned to regard Kakutan, who was still naked in bed. She
gave her lover an endearing once-over and chuckled.
“Is that from the Supreme Magnanimous education you
received?”
“Don’t start.”
Ifiot held up her hands. “I’m just saying…” She angled her head.
“Our people say that if you wrestle another into the mud, you must
stay there to keep them down. We got here by wrestling in the mud.
We’re not going to win now by trying to get out of it.”
“This isn’t about winning. These are our allies.”
“Everything is about winning, Kaku.”
“Maybe. But for this meeting, at least, we should be most focused
on getting a good bargain.”
Ifiot scoffed. “Bargaining is the tool of one who has already lost.
You once tried to bargain for your people. Look how that ended.”
Kakutan sucked deep on her pipe, biting down on the wood,
trying not to show how much that stung. But the red of her pipe
burned bright for too long, and Ifiot knew she had overstepped. She
sighed and sat on the bed.
“I’m sorry. I should not have said that.”
“Yes, you should not have,” said Kakutan. “You young people
have no respect for elders.”
Ifiot burst into laughter. It was big and throatful, with a whinny
buried within that made her sound like a little child and a mature
adult all at once. Kakutan had no choice but to chuckle alongside
her.
“You’re not even twenty seasons older than me!”
“Fourteen seasons is enough.”
“Let me guess, your friend Biemwensé used to say things like
that.”
Friend. Kakutan tossed the word in her mouth, savoured the
taste. Once, she would not have thought that woman her friend. But
after the places they’d been together, the things they’d seen and
experienced, the truths about themselves and each other they’d
come to recognise, friend was too inadequate a descriptor.
Sister, maybe. Kin.
“My tribe sister, Biemwensé,” Kakutan corrected. “And yes, she’s
a big advocate of the elder argument.”
Silence came after the laughter, as the weight of all that had
been lost since the blockade settled on them. Aside from the loss of
friends now trapped on the Bassai side of the blockade, times had
become much harder for those living on the Nameless side too.
Bassai or immigrant or Whudan—they all felt it equally. Even with
support from the hinterlanders and swamplanders, who were now
arriving in the outer wards no longer in trickles but in droves, there
was still much to be desired.
For once, we should stop thinking about ourselves and start
thinking about what they want. This was what Kakutan had
promised Biemwensé she would do, that she would look out for her
boys, that she would look out for their people here as Biemwensé
would do back in the protectorate. The hinterlander and
swamplander leaders were coming to the table to negotiate an
allyship in what was surely a forthcoming war with the Sahelian who
now led New Bassa. If their queries and demands did not serve the
people’s needs, it surely was an unwise time to play such politics.
Perhaps Ifiot was right: It was time to be rooted, firm and
unyielding.
Ifiot, as if listening to her thoughts, rose then. Something shifted
in her expression, and the jovial, laughing woman was no more.
Instead, she went to the corner of the room where she often leaned
her spear and grabbed it, then turned to Kakutan.
“The time for bargaining is over.” Her tone was that of a soldier.
“Now is the time for battle.”
Then she angled her head and cracked a smile, and the tension
dissipated.
“Get dressed,” she said. “I’ll check with my people to see if
they’ve arrived.”
After she left, Kakutan finished her pipe and went to the
bathroom. As she scrubbed with a bath stone, she went over the
plans she’d made with Ifiot to tackle the delegations. Somewhere
within this, she remembered something Biemwensé once told her.
One former Supreme Magnanimous to another, your plans are
often shit. Kakutan found herself laughing alone in the bathroom.
That woman had a coconut head, but she was not wrong. Kakutan
was really no good at planning. Thank moons she had Ifiot, who was
more of a mastermind.
Together, they were going to be an unstoppable force. Starting
today.
 if you enjoyed
WARRIOR OF THE WIND
look out for

THE JASAD HEIR

The Scorched Throne: Book One
by

Sara Hashem
Ten years ago, the kingdom of Jasad burned. Its magic was
outlawed, its royal family murdered down to the last child. At
least, that’s what Sylvia wants people to believe.

The lost Heir of Jasad, Sylvia never wants to be found. She

can’t think about how Nizahl’s armies laid waste to her
kingdom and continue to hunt its people—not if she wants to
stay alive. But when Arin, the Nizahl Heir, tracks a group of
Jasadi rebels to her village, staying one step ahead of death
gets trickier.

In a moment of anger, Sylvia’s magic is exposed, capturing

Arin’s attention. Now, to save her life, Sylvia will have to make
a deal with her greatest enemy: If she helps him lure the
rebels, she’ll escape persecution.
 A deadly game begins. Sylvia can’t let Arin discover her
identity, even as hatred shifts into something more. Soon,
Sylvia will have to choose between the life she wants and the
one she left behind. The scorched kingdom is rising, and it
needs a queen.
 Chapter One

Two things stood between me and a good night’s sleep, and I was
allowed to kill only one of them.
I tromped through Hirun River’s mossy banks, squinting for
movement. The grime, the late hours—I had expected those. Every
apprentice in the village dealt with them. I just hadn’t expected the
frogs.
“Say your farewells, you pointless pests,” I called. The frogs had
developed a defensive strategy they put into action any time I came
close. First, the watch guard belched an alarm. The others would
fling themselves into the river. Finally, the brave watch guard hopped
for his life. An effort as admirable as it was futile.
Dirt was caked deep beneath my fingernails. Moonlight filtered
through a canopy of skeletal trees, and for a moment, my hand
looked like a different one. A hand much more manicured, a little
weaker. Niphran’s hands. Hands that could wield an axe alongside
the burliest woodcutter, weave a storm of curls into delicate braids,
drive spears into the maws of monsters. For the first few years of
my life, before grief over my father’s assassination spread through
Niphran like rot, before her sanity collapsed on itself, there wasn’t
anything my mother’s hands could not do.
Oh, if she could see me now. Covered in filth and outwitted by
croaking river roaches.
Hirun exhaled its opaque mist, breathing life into the winter
bones of Essam Woods. I cleaned my hands in the river and firmly
cast aside thoughts of the dead.
A frenzied croak sounded behind a tree root. I darted forward,
scooping up the kicking watch guard. Ah, but it was never the brave
who escaped. I brought him close to my face. “Your friends are
chasing crickets, and you’re here. Were they worth it?”
 I dropped the limp frog into the bucket and sighed. Ten more to
go, which meant another round of running in circles and hoping mud
wouldn’t spill through the hole in my right boot. The fact that Rory
was a renowned chemist didn’t impress me, nor did this coveted
apprenticeship. What kept me from tossing the bucket and going to
Raya’s keep, where a warm meal and a comfortable bed awaited me,
was a debt of convenience.
Rory didn’t ask questions. When I appeared on his doorstep five
years ago, drenched in blood and shaking, Rory had tended to my
wounds and taken me to Raya’s. He rescued a fifteen-year-old
orphan with no history or background from a life of vagrancy.
The sudden snap of a branch drew my muscles tight. I reached
into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around the hilt of my
dagger. Given the Nizahl soldiers’ predilection for randomly searching
us, I usually carried my blade strapped in my boot, but I’d used it to
cut my foot out of a family of tangled ferns and left it in my pocket.
A quick scan of the shivering branches revealed nothing. I tried
not to let my eyes linger in the empty pockets of black between the
trees. I had seen too much horror manifest out of the dark to ever
trust its stillness.
My gaze moved to the place it dreaded most—the row of trees
behind me, each scored with identical, chillingly precise black marks.
The symbol of a raven spreading its wings had been carved into the
trees circling Mahair’s border. In the muck of the woods, these
ravens remained pristine. Crossing the raven-marked trees without
permission was an offense punishable by imprisonment or worse. In
the lower villages, where the kingdom’s leaders were already primed
to turn a blind eye to the liberties taken by Nizahl soldiers, worse
was usually just the beginning.
I tucked my dagger into my pocket and walked right to the edge
of the perimeter. I traced one raven’s outstretched wing with my
thumbnail. I would have traded all the frogs in my bucket to be
brave enough to scrape my nails over the symbol, to gouge it off.
Maybe that same burst of bravery would see my dagger cutting a
line in the bark, disfiguring the symbols of Nizahl’s power. It wasn’t
walls or swords keeping us penned in like animals, but a simple
carving. Another kingdom’s power billowing over us like poisoned air,
controlling everything it touched.
I glanced at the watch guard in my bucket and lowered my hand.
Bravery wasn’t worth the cost. Or the splinters.
A thick layer of frost coated the road leading back to Mahair. I
pulled my hood nearly to my nose as soon as I crossed the wall
separating Mahair from Essam Woods. I veered into an alley,
winding my way to Rory’s shop instead of risking the exposed—and
regularly patrolled—main road. Darkness cloaked me as soon as I
stepped into the alley. I placed a stabilizing hand on the wall and let
the pungent odor of manure guide my feet forward. A cat hissed
from beneath a stack of crates, hunching protectively over the half-
eaten carcass of a rat.
“I already had supper, but thank you for the offer,” I whispered,
leaping out of reach of her claws.
Twenty minutes later, I clunked the full bucket at Rory’s feet. “I
demand a renegotiation of my wages.”
Rory didn’t look up from his list. “Demand away. I’ll be over
there.”
He disappeared into the back room. I scowled, contemplating
following him past the curtain and maiming him with frog corpses.
The smell of mud and mildew had permanently seeped into my skin.
The least he could do was pay extra for the soap I needed to mask
it.
I arranged the poultices, sealing each jar carefully before placing
it inside the basket. One of the rare times I’d found myself on the
wrong side of Rory’s temper was after I had forgotten to seal the
ointments before sending them off with Yuli’s boy. I learned as much
about the spread of disease that day as I did about Rory’s staunch
ethics.
Rory returned. “Off with you already. Get some sleep. I do not
want the sight of your face to scare off my patrons tomorrow.” He
prodded in the bucket, turning over a few of the frogs. Age
weathered Rory’s narrow brown face. His long fingers were
constantly stained in the color of his latest tonic, and a permanent
groove sat between his bushy brows. I called it his “rage stage,”
because I could always gauge his level of fury by the number of
furrows forming above his nose. Despite an old injury to his hip, his
slenderness was not a sign of fragility. On the rare occasions when
Rory smiled, it was clear he had been handsome in his youth. “If I
find that you’ve layered the bottom with dirt again, I’m poisoning
your tea.”
He pushed a haphazardly wrapped bundle into my arms. “Here.”
Bewildered, I turned the package over. “For me?”
He waved his cane around the empty shop. “Are you touched in
the head, child?”
I carefully peeled the fabric back, half expecting it to explode in
my face, and exposed a pair of beautiful golden gloves. Softer than
a dove’s wing, they probably cost more than anything I could buy for
myself. I lifted one reverently. “Rory, this is too much.”
I only barely stopped myself from putting them on. I laid them
gingerly on the counter and hurried to scrub off my stained hands.
There were no clean cloths left, so I wiped my hands on Rory’s tunic
and earned a swat to the ear.
The fit of the gloves was perfect. Soft and supple, yielding with
the flex of my fingers.
I lifted my hands to the lantern for closer inspection. These would
certainly fetch a pretty price at market. Not that I’d sell them right
away, of course. Rory liked pretending he had the emotional depth
of a spoon, but he would be hurt if I bartered his gift a mere day
later. Markets weren’t hard to find in Omal. The lower villages were
always in need of food and supplies. Trading among themselves was
easier than begging for scraps from the palace.
The old man smiled briefly. “Happy birthday, Sylvia.”
Sylvia. My first and favorite lie. I pressed my hands together. “A
consolation gift for the spinster?” Not once in five years had Rory
failed to remember my fabricated birth date.
“I should hardly think spinsterhood’s threshold as low as twenty
years.”
In truth, I was halfway to twenty-one. Another lie.
“You are as old as time itself. The ages below one hundred must
all look the same to you.”
 He jabbed me with his cane. “It is past the hour for spinsters to
be about.”
I left the shop in higher spirits. I pulled my cloak tight around my
shoulders, knotting the hood beneath my chin. I had one more task
to complete before I could finally reunite with my bed, and it meant
delving deeper into the silent village. These were the hours when
the mind ran free, when hollow masonry became the whispers of
hungry shaiateen and the scratch of scuttling vermin the sounds of
the restless dead.
I knew how sinuously fear cobbled shadows into gruesome
shapes. I hadn’t slept a full night’s length in long years, and there
were days when I trusted nothing beyond the breath in my chest
and the earth beneath my feet. The difference between the villagers
and me was that I knew the names of my monsters. I knew what
they would look like if they found me, and I didn’t have to imagine
what kind of fate I would meet.
Mahair was a tiny village, but its history was long. Its children
would know the tales shared from their mothers and fathers and
grandparents. Superstition kept Mahair alive, long after time had
turned a new page on its inhabitants.
It also kept me in business.
Instead of turning right toward Raya’s keep, I ducked into the
vagrant road. Bits of honey-soaked dough and grease marked the
spot where the halawany’s daughters snacked between errands,
sitting on the concrete stoop of their parents’ dessert shop. Dodging
the dogs nosing at the grease, I checked for anyone who might
report my movements back to Rory.
We had made a tradition of forgiving each other, Rory and me.
Should he find out I was treating Omalians under his name, peddling
pointless concoctions to those superstitious enough to buy them—
well, I doubted Rory could forgive such a transgression. The “cures”
I mucked together for my patrons were harmless. Crushed herbs
and altered liquors. Most of the time, the ailments they were
intended to ward off were more ridiculous than anything I could fit
in a bottle.
The home I sought was ten minutes’ walk past Raya’s keep. Too
close for comfort. Water dripped from the edge of the sagging roof,
where a bare clothesline stretched from hook to hook. A pair of
undergarments had fluttered to the ground. I kicked them out of
sight. Raya taught me years ago how to hide undergarments on the
clothesline by clipping them behind a larger piece of clothing. I
hadn’t understood the need for so much stealth. I still didn’t. But
time was a limited resource tonight, and I wouldn’t waste it soothing
an Omalian’s embarrassment that I now had definitive proof they
wore undergarments.
The door flew open. “Sylvia, thank goodness,” Zeinab said. “She’s
worse today.”
I tapped my mud-encrusted boots against the lip of the door and
stepped inside.
“Where is she?”
I followed Zeinab to the last room in the short hall. A wave of
incense wafted over us when she opened the door. I fanned the
white haze hanging in the air. A wizened old woman rocked back and
forth on the floor, and bloody tracks lined her arms where nails had
gouged deep. Zeinab closed the door, maintaining a safe distance.
Tears swam in her large hazel eyes. “I tried to give her a bath, and
she did this.” Zeinab pushed up the sleeve of her abaya, exposing a
myriad of red scratch marks.
“Right.” I laid my bag down on the table. “I will call you when I’ve
finished.”
Subduing the old woman with a tonic took little effort. I moved
behind her and hooked an arm around her neck. She tore at my
sleeve, mouth falling open to gasp. I dumped the tonic down her
throat and loosened my stranglehold enough for her to swallow.
Once certain she wouldn’t spit it out, I let her go and adjusted my
sleeve. She spat at my heels and bared teeth bloody from where
she’d torn her lip.
It took minutes. My talents, dubious as they were, lay in efficient
and fleeting deception. At the door, I let Zeinab slip a few coins into
my cloak’s pocket and pretended to be surprised. I would never
understand Omalians and their feigned modesty. “Remember—”
Zeinab bobbed her head impatiently. “Yes, yes, I won’t speak a
word of this. It has been years, Sylvia. If the chemist ever finds out,
it will not be from me.”
She was quite self-assured for a woman who never bothered to
ask what was in the tonic I regularly poured down her mother’s
throat. I returned Zeinab’s wave distractedly and moved my dagger
into the same pocket as the coins. Puddles of foul-smelling rain
rippled in the pocked dirt road. Most of the homes on the street
could more accurately be described as hovels, their thatched roofs
shivering above walls joined together with mud and uneven patches
of brick. I dodged a line of green mule manure, its waterlogged,
grassy smell stinging my nose.
Did Omal’s upper towns have excrement in their streets?
Zeinab’s neighbor had scattered chicken feathers outside her door
to showcase their good fortune to their neighbors. Their daughter
had married a merchant from Dawar, and her dowry had earned
them enough to eat chicken all month. From now on, the finest
clothes would furnish her body. The choicest meats and hardest-
grown vegetables for her plate. She’d never need to dodge mule
droppings in Mahair again.
I turned the corner, absently counting the coins in my pocket, and
rammed into a body.
I stumbled, catching myself against a pile of cracked clay bricks.
The Nizahl soldier didn’t budge beyond a tightening of his frown.
“Identify yourself.”
Heavy wings of panic unfurled in my throat. Though our
movements around town weren’t constrained by an official curfew,
not many risked a late-night stroll. The Nizahl soldiers usually
patrolled in pairs, which meant this man’s partner was probably
harassing someone else on the other side of the village.
I smothered the panic, snapping its fluttering limbs. Panic was a
plague. Its sole purpose was to spread until it tore through every
thought, every instinct.
I immediately lowered my eyes. Holding a Nizahl soldier’s gaze
invited nothing but trouble. “My name is Sylvia. I live in Raya’s keep
and apprentice for the chemist Rory. I apologize for startling you. An
elderly woman urgently needed care, and my employer is
indisposed.”
From the lines on his face, the soldier was somewhere in his late
forties. If he had been an Omalian patrolman, his age would have
signified little. But Nizahl soldiers tended to die young and bloody.
For this man to survive long enough to see the lines of his forehead
wrinkle, he was either a deadly adversary or a coward.
“What is your father’s name?”
“I am a ward in Raya’s keep,” I repeated. He must be new to
Mahair. Everyone knew Raya’s house of orphans on the hill. “I have
no mother or father.”
He didn’t belabor the issue. “Have you witnessed activity that
might lead to the capture of a Jasadi?” Even though it was a
standard question from the soldiers, intended to encourage vigilance
toward any signs of magic, I inwardly flinched. The most recent
arrest of a Jasadi had happened in our neighboring village a mere
month ago. From the whispers, I’d surmised a girl reported seeing
her friend fix a crack in her floorboard with a wave of her hand. I
had overheard all manner of praise showered on the girl for her
bravery in turning in the fifteen-year-old. Praise and jealousy—they
couldn’t wait for their own opportunities to be heroes.
“I have not.” I hadn’t seen another Jasadi in five years.
He pursed his lips. “The name of the elderly woman?”
“Aya, but her daughter Zeinab is her caretaker. I could direct you
to them if you’d like.” Zeinab was crafty. She would have a lie
prepared for a moment like this.
“No need.” He waved a hand over his shoulder. “On your way.
Stay off the vagrant road.”
One benefit of the older Nizahl soldiers—they had less inclination
for the bluster and interrogation tactics of their younger
counterparts. I tipped my head in gratitude and sped past him.
A few minutes later, I slid into Raya’s keep. By the scent of
cooling wax, it had not been long since the last girl went to bed.
Relieved to find my birthday forgotten, I kicked my boots off at the
door. Raya had met with the cloth merchants today. Bartering always
left her in a foul mood. The only acknowledgment of my birthday
would be a breakfast of flaky, buttery fiteer and molasses in the
morning.
When I pushed open my door, a blast of warmth swept over me.
Baira’s blessed hair, not again. “Raya will have your hides. The
waleema is in a week.”
Marek appeared engrossed in the firepit, poking the coals with a
thin rod. His golden hair shone under the glow. A mess of fabric and
the beginnings of what might be a dress sat beneath Sefa’s sewing
tools. “Precisely,” Sefa said, dipping a chunk of charred beef into her
broth. “I am drowning my sorrows in stolen broth because of the
damned waleema. Look at this dress! This is a dress all the other
dresses laugh at.”
“What is he doing with the fire?” I asked, electing to ignore her
garment-related woes. Come morning, Sefa would hand Raya a
perfect dress with a winning smile and bloodshot eyes. An
apprenticeship under the best seamstress in Omal wasn’t a role
given to those who folded under pressure.
“He’s trying to roast his damned seeds.” Sefa sniffed. “We made
your room smell like a tavern kitchen. Sorry. In our defense, we
gathered to mourn a terrible passing.”
“A passing?” I took a seat beside the stone pit, rubbing my hands
over the crackling flames.
Marek handed me one of Raya’s private chalices. The woman was
going to skin us like deer. “Ignore her. We just wanted to abuse your
hearth,” he said. “I am convinced Yuli is teaching his herd how to kill
me. They almost ran me right into a canal today.”
“Did you do something to make Yuli or the oxen angry?”
“No,” Marek said mournfully.
I rolled the chalice between my palms and narrowed my eyes.
“Marek.”
“I may have used the horse’s stalls to… entertain…” He released a
long-suffering sigh. “His daughter.”
Sefa and I released twin groans. This was hardly the first time
Marek had gotten himself in trouble chasing a coy smile or kind
word. He was absurdly pretty, fair-haired and green-eyed, lean in a
way that undersold his strength. To counter his looks, he’d chosen to
apprentice with Yuli, Mahair’s most demanding farmer. By spending
his days loading wagons and herding oxen, Marek made himself
indispensable to every tradesperson in the village. He worked to
earn their respect, because there were few things Mahair valued
more than calloused palms and sweat on a brow.
It was also why they tolerated the string of broken hearts he’d
left in his wake.
Not one to be ignored for long, Sefa continued, “Your youth,
Sylvia, we mourn your youth! At twenty, you’re having fewer
adventures than the village brats.”
I drained the water, passing the chalice to Marek for more. “I
have plenty of adventure.”
“I’m not talking about how many times you can kill your fig plant
before it stays dead,” Sefa scoffed. “If you had simply accompanied
me last week to release the roosters in Nadia’s den—”
“Nadia has permanently barred you from her shop,” Marek
interjected. Brave one, cutting Sefa off in the middle of a tirade. He
scooped up a blackened seed, throwing it from palm to palm to cool.
“Leave Sylvia be. Adventure does not fit into a single mold.”
Sefa’s nostrils flared wide, but Marek didn’t flinch. They
communicated in that strange, silent way of people who were bound
together by something thicker than blood and stronger than a
shared upbringing. I knew because I had witnessed hundreds of
their unspoken conversations over the last five years.
“I am not killing my fig plant.” I pushed to my feet. “I’m
cultivating its fighter’s spirit.”
“Stop glaring at me,” Marek said to Sefa with a sigh. “I’m sorry
for interrupting.” He held out a cracked seed.
Sefa let his hand dangle in the air for forty seconds before taking
the seed. “Help me hem this sleeve?”
With a sheepish grin, Marek offered his soot-covered palms. Sefa
rolled her eyes.
I observed this latest exchange with bewilderment. It never failed
to astound me how easily they existed around one another. Their
unusual devotion had led to questions from the other wards at the
keep. Marek laughed himself into stitches the first time a younger
girl asked if he and Sefa planned to wed. “Sefa isn’t going to marry
anyone. We love each other in a different way.”
The ward had batted her lashes, because Marek was the only boy
in the keep, and he was in possession of a face consigning him to a
life of wistful sighs following in his wake.
“What about you?” the ward had asked.
Sefa, who had been smiling as she knit in the corner, sobered.
Only Raya and I saw the sorrowful look she shot Marek, the guilt in
her brown eyes.
“I am tied to Sefa in spirit, if not in wedlock.” Marek ruffled the
ward’s hair. The girl squealed, slapping at Marek. “I follow where she
goes.”
To underscore their insanity, the pair had taken an instant liking
to me the moment Rory dropped me off at Raya’s doorstep. I was
almost feral, hardly fit for friendship, but it hadn’t deterred them. I
adjusted poorly to this Omalian village, perplexed by their simplest
customs. Rub the spot between your shoulders and you’ll die early.
Eat with your left hand on the first day of the month; don’t cross
your legs in the presence of elders; be the last person to sit at the
dinner table and the first one to leave it. It didn’t help that my
bronze skin was several shades darker than their typical olive. I
blended in with Orbanians better, since the kingdom in the north
spent most of its days under the sun. When Sefa noticed how I
avoided wearing white, she’d held her darker hand next to mine and
said, “They’re jealous we soaked up all their color.”
Matters weren’t much easier at home. Everyone in the keep had
an ugly history haunting their sleep. I didn’t help myself any by
almost slamming another ward’s nose clean off her face when she
tried to hug me. Despite the two-hour lecture I endured from Raya,
the incident had firmly established my aversion to touch.
For some inconceivable reason, Sefa and Marek weren’t scared
off. Sefa was quite upset about her nose, though.
I hung my cloak neatly inside the wardrobe and thumbed the
moth-eaten collar. It wouldn’t survive another winter, but the
thought of throwing it away brought a lump to my throat. Someone
in my position could afford few emotional attachments. At any
moment, a sword could be pointed at me, a cry of “Jasadi” ending
this identity and the life I’d built around it. I recoiled from the cloak,
curling my fingers into a fist. I promptly tore out the roots of
sadness before it could spread. A regular orphan from Mahair could
cling to this tired cloak, the first thing she’d ever purchased with her
own hard-earned coin.
A fugitive of the scorched kingdom could not.
I turned my palms up, testing the silver cuffs around my wrists.
Though the cuffs were invisible to any eye but mine, it had taken a
long time for my paranoia to ease whenever someone’s idle gaze
lingered on my wrists. They flexed with my movement, a second
skin over my own. Only my trapped magic could stir them,
tightening the cuffs as it pleased.
Magic marked me as a Jasadi. As the reason Nizahl created
perimeters in the woods and sent their soldiers prowling through the
kingdoms. I had spent most of my life resenting my cuffs. How was
it fair that Jasadis were condemned because of their magic but I
couldn’t even access the thing that doomed me? My magic had been
trapped behind these cuffs since my childhood. I suppose my
grandparents couldn’t have anticipated dying and leaving the cuffs
stuck on me forever.
I hid Rory’s gift in the wardrobe, beneath the folds of my longest
gown. The girls rarely risked Raya’s wrath by stealing, but a
desperate winter could make a thief of anyone. I stroked one of the
gloves, fondness curling hot in my chest. How much had Rory spent,
knowing I’d have limited opportunities to wear them?
“We wanted to show you something,” Marek said. His voice
hurtled me back to reality, and I slammed the wardrobe doors shut,
scowling at myself. What did it matter how much Rory spent?
Anything I didn’t need to survive would be discarded or sold, and
these gloves were no different.
Sefa stood, dusting loose fabric from her lap. She snorted at my
expression. “Rovial’s tainted tomb, look at her, Marek. You might
think we were planning to bury her in the woods.”
Marek frowned. “Aren’t we?”
“Both of you are banned from my room. Forever.”
I followed them outside, past the row of fluttering clotheslines
and the pitiful herb garden. Built at the top of a grassy slope, Raya’s
keep overlooked the entire village, all the way to the main road.
Most of the homes in Mahair sat stacked on top of each other,
forming squat, three-story buildings with crumbling walls and cracks
in the clay. The villagers raised poultry on the roofs, nurturing a
steady supply of chickens and rabbits that would see them through
the monthly food shortages. Livestock meandered in the fields
shouldering Essam Woods, fenced in by the miles-long wall
surrounding Mahair.
Past the wall, darkness marked the expanse of Essam Woods.
Moonlight disappeared over the trees stretching into the black
horizon.
Ahead of me, Marek and Sefa averted their gaze from the woods.
They had arrived in Mahair when they were sixteen, two years
before me. I couldn’t tell if they’d simply adopted Mahair’s peculiar
customs or if those customs were more widespread than I thought.
The day after I emerged from Essam, I’d spent the night sitting
on the hill and watching the spot where Mahair’s lanterns
disappeared into the empty void of the woods. Escaping Essam had
nearly killed me. I’d wanted to confirm to myself that this village and
the roof over my head weren’t a cruel dream. That when I closed my
eyes, I wouldn’t open them to branches rustling below a starless sky.
Raya had stormed out of the keep in her nightgown and hauled
me inside, where I’d listened to her harangue me about the risk of
staring into Essam Woods and inviting mischievous spirits forward
from the dark. As though my attention alone might summon them
into being.
I spent five years in those woods. I wasn’t afraid of their
darkness. It was everything outside Essam I couldn’t trust.
“Behold!” Sefa announced, flinging her arm toward a tangle of
plants.
We stopped around the back of the keep, where I had illicitly
shoveled the fig plant I bought off a Lukubi merchant at the last
market. I wasn’t sure why. Nurturing a plant that reminded me of
Jasad, something rooted I couldn’t take with me in an emergency—it
was embarrassing. Another sign of the weakness I’d allowed to
settle.
My fig plant’s leaves drooped mournfully. I prodded the dirt. Were
they mocking my planting technique?
“She doesn’t like it. I told you we should have bought her a new
cloak,” Marek sighed.
“With whose wages? Are you a wealthy man now?” Sefa peered
at me. “You don’t like it?”
I squinted at the plant. Had they watered it while I was gone?
What was I supposed to like? Sefa’s face crumpled, so I hurriedly
said, “I love it! It is, uh, wonderful, truly. Thank you.”
“Oh. You can’t see it, can you?” Marek started to laugh. “Sefa
forgot she is the size of a thimble and hid it out of your sight.”
“I am a perfectly standard height! I cannot be blamed for
befriending a woman tall enough to tickle the moon,” Sefa protested.
I crouched by the plant. Wedged behind its curtain of yellowing
leaves, a woven straw basket held a dozen sesame-seed candies. I
loved these brittle, tooth-chipping squares. I always made a point to
search for them at market if I’d saved enough to spare the cost.
“They used the good honey, not the chalky one,” Marek added.
“Happy birthday, Sylvia,” Sefa said. “As a courtesy, I will refrain
from hugging you.”
First Rory, now this? I cleared my throat. In a village of empty
stomachs and dying fields, every kindness came at a price. “You just
wanted to see me smile with sesame in my teeth.”
Marek smirked. “Ah, yes, our grand scheme is unveiled. We
wanted to ruin your smile that emerges once every fifteen years.”
I slapped the back of his head. It was the most physical contact I
could bear, but it expressed my gratitude.
By Suyi Davies Okungbowa

THE NAMELESS REPUBLIC

Son of the Storm
Warrior of the Wind

David Mogo, Godhunter

 Praise for
Son of the Storm

“A mesmerizing coming-of-age tale set against a thrilling, fantastical

adventure that introduces a beguiling new world… and then rips
apart everything you think you know.”
—S. A. Chakraborty, author of The City of Brass

“Ambition and intrigue cause surprises on nearly every page as

characters reach for power in unpredictable and nuanced ways.…
The effect is rich, wild, and occasionally dizzying.”
—NPR Books

“Okungbowa weaves an intricate and irresistible plot around the

tensions and contradictions of a corrupt, decadent society. The result
is a vibrant tale of betrayal, intrigue, and revolution, which benefits
greatly from an original setting, a fresh take on magic, and deftly
executed characterization.”
—Anthony Ryan, author of The Pariah

“Fantastical beasts and forgotten magic propel a story about

ambition, conspiracy, and the elusiveness of belonging. This is epic
fantasy that will make you think and leave you unsettled.”
—Fonda Lee, World Fantasy Award–winning author of Jade City

“An epic fantasy set apart by how deftly Okungbowa unfurls his
intricate, richly imagined world. It’s not often you get to read a
fantasy novel that spans not only ancient magic, sinister
machinations, and monstrous forests but courthouses, college
classes, and hairdressers too, evoking the terrible and fascinating
city-state of Bassa in living, breathing detail.”
—A. K. Larkwood, author of The Unspoken Name

“Highly recommended for fans of epic fantasy based on non-

European mythologies… readers who enjoy protagonists on troubled
journeys… or anyone who likes to chew on stories with complex
shenanigans.”
—Library Journal (starred review)

“Enthralling.… This sweeping and politically charged fantasy explores

race, gender, and culture in a complex and compelling world.”
—BuzzFeed News

“A flash of lightning in the dark! Suyi Davies Okungbowa has created

an original and fully conceived new world of fantasy teeming with
brilliant possibilities and demanding to be explored.”
—P. Djèlí Clark, author of A Master of Djinn