Kuta climbed the polished stone stairway and passed through the hand-carved wooden doors of the Artisan’s Guild Headquarters. Inside, an ancient polished mosaic floor depicted the guild seal. As she entered the mezzanine with its grand staircases leading up to the second floor, a familiar face greeted her. Seated upon a plinth was old man Banzhiigan, the shopkeeper. It was strange seeing him outside his shop. Instead of his work attire, he wore clean clothes devoid of wood chips, oil, and varnish. The old man was a long-standing member of the guild, but guild members rarely came outside specific circumstances. He sat to himself, reading notes on a wax tablet. He looked up and smiled as she entered
“Good” Banzhiigan said, “I didn’t waste a trip.”
“What are you doing here?” Kuta asked, surprised by the unexpected visit.
“You instructed me to pass information back and forth between you and that foreigner. The white-bearded man you brought by my shop.”
“Gaba’ké?” she asked, “the one from Gaag?”
“Yes. Him” Banzhiigan answered. “He came to visit me this morning. He said he has some information to share with you about the attack against Patzau Yohati – the one that killed his master.” Kuta’s surprise prompted Banzhiigan to continue, answering the unspoken question. “I didn’t ask the specifics, Kuta” the old shop keep chortled. “I’m just the messenger. He’s waiting for you at my place.”
“Why didn’t he come himself?” she asked. “He could have met me here in the hall.”
“You’ll have to ask him yourself” Banzhiigan said. “How are you doing?” he pressed. “What with all this Mudtown mess.”
“I’m fine” Kuta said, a little too harshly.
“Are you sure?” Banzhiigan asked, switching to their shared ancestral tongue.
“There’s nothing I can do about Mudtown” Kuta said, hushing her voice. “It’s not my place, uncle. But I thank you for your concern.”
Banzhiigan smiled meekly, “I’ve got a few visits to make today. I’ll try and pay you a visit sometime soon. I’ll bring some of my daughter’s cooking.”
“I look forward to it.”
Banzhiigan’s shop wasn’t far from the guild. Kuta followed the streets south past the Golden Plaza where the market spilled into every nook and cranny. Hundreds of sellers gathered under the great blue dome of the Casoyan Auction house, but all seemed tense. Since the attack inside the city, the flooding, and violence outside the walls, the market felt lifeless. People came and went, as they did before, but what was lost was the casualness with which patrons lingered and browsed, talked and gossiped. The temperature was comfortable and the weather was inviting and yet a good part of the market remained vacant.
As she crossed the mountain road towards the auction house, the huge increase in soldiers stood out. No longer did the guild’s soldiers linger outside restaurants or mill about while on guard. They stood tall and vigilant, eyeing each person who passed by. Hands remained close to their wooden ghata. Some even carried shields and spears. Despite the lull in the market on the opposite side of the grand avenue and the increase in soldiers, the auction house appeared as lively as ever. Wealthy patrons and their retinues of private guards and soldiers frequented the grand building as if nothing had changed. She supposed, for them, nothing had. It made her feel bitter.
Kuta passed by the auction house’s stone façade and stone-faced soldiers and headed for the grand canal. As she approached, mud stains left their marks as a sharp reminder of how bad the flash-flooding had been. Clumps of grasses wrapped their tendrils around low banisters. Sherds of broken pots and other garbage littered the small nooks. A group of filthy young children were scrubbing the mud from one of the buildings on the corner. Kuta watched as they dunked dirty rags into pots of water under the watchful gaze of a man Kuta could only presume to be the building’s owner. The middle-aged man watched hawkishly as they cleaned. She spared the man a smile and tipped the children a few coppers, much to the older man’s disapproval. She could hear the silent argument written across his face, ‘time spent collecting tips was time not spent cleaning.’
Banzhiigan’s shop was covered in the same layer of mud as most of the other buildings around the area. Despite the flooding, the building had sustained minimal damage. The stairs leading up from the cobbled street had even been scrubbed clean, though the rest of the building still bore the grime that stopped just shy of the final step. Kuta wiped her feet and entered the cluttered haven of curiosities. The ringing of a bell announced her. Inside, the warm scent of wood and oil was comforting. Trinkets and furniture filled the space and Kuta hoped one day to have a home of her own where she could have such marvels as these.
Kuta looked around, expecting Banzhiigan’s daughter or granddaughter to appear. Neither did. Silence replaced the soft ringing of the door-chime. The storefront appeared empty. Where is Gaba’ké? Kuta wondered. Something felt off. She focused on her agindan sense and swept her presence through the store. She felt the countless spirits present. They clung to the fibers and oils in the furniture. They hid within the secret piles of dust left unswept for years. They imbued themselves happily in the wax of the candles and wooden beams that stretched across the ceiling. She brushed her senses across each one, but found no indication of another Aginjigaade. Has Gaba’ké left?
Kuta focused harder. She expanded her agindan to encompass not only the store but the floors above. When that yielded nothing, she pushed her domain further. She looked into the adjacent to buildings with similar results. She spread her agindan thinner and thinner until she felt the presence of familiar Casoyan Aginjigaade inside the palace on the other side of the canal. She thought about questing towards Yohati’s palace but thought better of it.
All the while, Kuta walked slowly through Banzhiigan’s quiet shop. The floorboards groaned under each soft step. She gazed past the fine furniture, looking for… well, she wasn’t sure exactly. The aisles were tight and didn’t provide visibility clearly across the space. They snaked a little the same way the streets and alleys of the city did. She rounded a corner near the back of the shop and saw a shadowy figure seated in a chair at the back.
Kuta’s heart skipped a beat. Seated in the shadows, his presence somehow hidden despite her proximity, sat Gaba’ké. She wrenched her questing agindan sense back to the shop and brought her consciousness to bear directly at him. She sensed nothing of his spirit. Is he dead?
Then, as if night flashed to day or a spark erupted into flames, his presence winked into existence. Like a first breath after drowning, he was gone and then he was just… there. Kuta stood immobile. It was impossible. She should have sensed him, felt the distinctive pulse of his agindan the moment she was near the building, but there had been nothing—only an emptiness where his presence should have been.
“Kuta,” Gaba’ké began, “I’m glad you came. I didn’t know who else to speak to.”
“H– How?” she stuttered.
He seemed to think for a moment before answering, “An old man is entitled to his secrets.”
“But that’s not possible. I have never before heard of an Aginjigaade having this ability” Kuta said. It almost came out as an accusation.
“Nor will you ever again” Gaba’ké answered. “I have chosen to trust you with this little secret of mine. I fear I have little choice. Even now, I fear for my life and Ohacha’s life each time I leave Yohati’s estate. I have nightmares… about the attack. I know they are… more harmful than helpful and yet I find it difficult to leave the safety of our home” he finished, not knowing what other word to use.
“Why?” Kuta asked. “You have demonstrated that you are incredibly powerful. Far more powerful than me. You may be one of the most powerful Aginjigaade in the city. And with this… ability, what could you possibly fear?”
“There are other things to fear than death, Kuta,” Gaba’ké said. “I don’t fear an attack on the streets; what I fear is losing the ones I care about. I’ve lost two men I considered brothers, here in this city. And many good men who remained loyal right until the end; who gave their lives for our cause. I’ve got two people left in the whole world, and they can die much easier than I can. Even from here, I’ll sense any threat of danger.”
Kuta frowned, calculating the distance. Yohati’s estate is a hundred meters from here. How powerful is he to maintain his agindan sense at this range? What other secrets does he hold? “Who is it you fear?” Kuta asked. “Who is it who seeks your deaths?”
“Nobody you can protect us from” Gaba’ké said, shutting down that line of conversation. “Our fight is not your fight. I haven’t asked you here for your help in protecting us. I asked you here because I need to share information with your Patzau Minoc. Perhaps, it will help us all.”
“Why haven’t you shared this information with Patzau Yohati?”
“Patzau Yohati has been elusive” Gaba’ké explained. “I feel we are being stonewalled from seeing him, and I can’t understand why. The day you met me in front of Patzau Palace” Gaba’ké began, “Before I left in the morning, I noticed a man watching Yohati’s estate. Then as I returned home, I saw him again. Over the days leading up to the auction, and the attack that killed Aramuk. I would look out my window towards the canal or the tenements surrounding Patzau Yohati’s estate and I could swear I could see him, out there, watching us. I thought I might be imagining things. That was until the moment prince Aramuk died. When he took that arrow to the chest, I looked around in panic, and I know with all the certainty in my heart that I saw the same man who had been watching us. His face is burned into my memories.”
“You’ve come to tell me about this man?” Kuta asked, confused.
“No, not exactly” Gaba’ké said, “but that context is important for what I’m about to share. I wanted to tell Yohati’s Aginjigaade, Janos, but he hasn’t been back to the estate since that night. This is an Aginjigaade matter and you’re the only other Aginjigaade I know in the city.”
“What is it?” Kuta asked.
“The day of the attack, there were other Aginjigaade involved” he explained. “Right before Aramuk died, somebody attacked me with the full force of their Agindan. It stunned me, for a brief moment. But I fought back against the mental attack, repelling it in time to defend myself from the thieves and murderers that appeared from the alleyways. I was so startled when it came that I pushed back as hard as I could with my own power. I pushed so hard that I felt my consciousness touched Her’s”
“Her?” Kuta asked.
“I pushed her so hard that I can still feel the imprint of her spirit on the peripheries of my own. It has stuck with me.” Gaba’ké said. “She was a woman. Older than you. Not particularly powerful. The tinge of her sorcery was sharp and acidic; like vinegar. It’s a broad description, I know, but I may be enough to identify the culprit. Nyama or Decay. An affinity from one or the other in the pairing. I figured the Patzau would keep tabs on all Aginjigaade inside the city. You might be able to identify her or even find her.”
“I must admit” Kuta said, “I have little knowledge regarding the other Aginjigaade inside Caso. I’ve not met anyone with either affinity, but I am the wrong person to ask. However, I can ask around. Minoc is knowledgeable on many things. Perhaps he knows this Aginjigaade you speak of. It’s a lead, at least.” Gaba’ké nodded in understanding. She thought back to what he said and asked another question, “Earlier, you said other Aginjigaade. Not another Aginjigaade. Was there was somebody else?”
“This is the part I’m unsure of” Gaba’ké confessed. “Moments before we were attacked, it felt like we were already under the subtle effects of sorcery. The shadows danced in an unnatural way and felt more… palpable.” He scratched at his chin beneath the long white beard. “I couldn’t feel a third Aginjigaade at the time but I’ve witnessed enough sorcery to recognize when the world is being tampered with by Aginjigaade.”
“That sounds like Janos’ sorcery” Kuta admitted. “He has an affinity to light.” But that wouldn’t make sense, Kuta thought, regretting the words as they left her lips. “Either way, I appreciate you sharing this information with me. I will bring it back to Patzau Minoc, and he will bring it to the council or at least to Patzau Ashill to discuss.”
“Thank you for coming to meet with me” Gaba’ké said. He looked tired and worn. His voice matched his appearance. “I wasn’t sure that you would” he admitted.
“Why is that?” Kuta asked.
“I don’t know” he answered. “Just an odd feeling. Clearly meaningless.”
“Oh!” Kuta exclaimed. “The man who was watching you,” Kuta said, thinking back on everything Gaba’ké had told her. “What did he look like? I can ask about him too.”
Gaba’ké closed his eyes and focused. After a moment, he spoke “He was a tall man, maybe twice your height. He looked a bit like you do, actually, with the rounder cheeks and darker skin. The same dark hair and an unkempt dark beard. He had a prominent hawkish nose. One that’s been broken a few times and a round birthmark under his left eye.”
“I’ll share this information with Patzau Minoc.”
“I hope it helps” Gaba’ké said with a hard sigh. He stood to leave. “Prince Ohacha is still mourning his uncle’s murder. It is a loss that has shaken us. Justice for Aramuk’s death and the return of our stolen fortune would bring some hope back, I reckon.”
“Justice…” Kuta repeated. The word echoed in her mind as he left.
*
A warm soft light filtered in through the window. Leaves rustled softly in the breeze. Through the open window, the repetitive dull thud of an axe resonated like the mountain’s slow heartbeat. Yoharum’s first sensation upon waking was the dull, aching throb of his burns. He was familiar with the pain now. It had been his constant companion, but it was no less excruciating. Yoharum forced his eyes open and blinked against the sunlight streaming into the room. A faint herbal scent lingered in his nostrils and Yoharum looked down at himself. His body was covered in a dark green paste that had been applied over his wounds. He was back in his parents’ house, safe for the moment, though the memory of what had happened out in that remote hamlet still haunted him.
He looked around the small bedroom he had shared with his siblings. It looked precisely the same as he remembered it and yet subtly different. Older. Emptier. The dry mud walls were cracked and crumbling from their age. The beds around his, save for one, were empty. His eyes wandered until they settled on the small wooden table beside his bed where a bowl of fresh water and a damp cloth sat waiting. His throat was dry and he reached over with great effort and brought the bowl to his lips.
Memories flooded back to him. Fleeing across the mountainside. Falling before of his parents. Jiral, his youngest sister, tending to him as he waved in and out of consciousness. He felt whole for the first time in a long time. The fog that had clouded his mind since the attack was beginning to lift. He sat up and the movement caused a ripple of pain across his blistered skin. The door creaked open, and Yoharum looked up at his little sister. She looked back at him as if her were a stranger. He realized after a moment that perhaps, to her, he was. She was older and taller than he remembered. When he had left, she was still a girl and now she stood before him as a spitting image of their mother. But it was her, unmistakably. She had the same round cheeks and large bent nose. But she had softer eyes and a rounder chin than he did. She wore a short blouse that revealed her waist and a long skirt down to her ankles. Her hair was pulled back into a braid that ended with a band of colourful fabric. Seeing him awake and alert, she hesitated for a moment before approaching the bed.
“Yoharum,” she said softly, her voice trembling with a mix of relief and anxiety. “You’re awake.” He nodded, though the effort made his head swim. She sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. She was trying to be brave, but Yoharum could see the fear in her eyes that wouldn’t meet his. “What happened to you?” she asked with concern. “You’ve been out for so long, and… and you were hurt so badly.”
Yoharum closed his eyes and winced in pain. His body instinctively retreated from the question. He didn’t want to lie to her, but he wasn’t sure she could handle the truth. He wasn’t sure he could handle telling her the truth either. “It’s better if you don’t know,” he said, his voice raspy. “I got into some trouble. It’ll be okay.”
Jiral’s expression tightened. “I’m not a stupid little girl anymore, Ani” she said sternly. “People talk. I know… we know, that you’ve been involved with some people. Bad people.” He refused to meet her gaze. When he didn’t respond, a wave of anger flooded through her. She was tired of this. Of the train of gossip that circled through their little community. Of his selfishness. She shifted around to face him head on–to force him to look at her. He had guilt ridden across his face and seeing it emboldened her. “You were involved in those attacks in the city, weren’t you?” Her question hung heavy in the air between them. An accusation.
Yoharum closed his eyes, fighting the wave of shame that washed over him. “Yes,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “I was involved.”
Jiral’s face fell, her disappointment clear. There was a part of her that had hoped it wasn’t true. That hope died. She stared at him, as if searching for some trace of the brother she had known as a child. The one who had been there to carry her home when she had fallen in the creek. Who had brought her into the forest to catch wild birds for dinner. “What happened?” she repeated.
“We got caught” he said simply. The weight of all those deaths rested on his shoulders. Those who died in the initial attack. Those who had been caught fleeing the city. And those who were killed escaping the burning hut in the hamlet. All those lives extinguished. And yet I survive. I persist.
Before either of them could speak again, a shout echoed through the house. It was their mother. Jiral and Yoharum both turned towards the front of the house and the rhythmic wood chopping came to an abrupt stop. Jiral stood and left her brother hunched over the bed. I do this for her, he reminded himself. She may not appreciate it now, but one day she’ll understand. He brought his hands to his face and found his long beard missing. They shaved my face. The realization shocked him as much as the pain. Years growing a war beard, wasted with one defeat.
There was a knock at the door and Yoharum moved to wipe his eyes. A wave of pain shot through him but he fought through it. He had expected his sister again at the door but when he looked up, she wasn’t alone. Another figure loom outside the room behind her. Yoharum’s gaze softened when he realized it was Zhenya.
“Yoharum?” Zhenya said, her voice full of concern.
“You know this woman?” Jiral had a protective look on her face that made him concerned
Yoharum moved to speak, but coughed instead and it set his body ablaze. “Yes” he croaked, “you can let her in. She’s a good friend.” Jiral looked at the other woman venomously. As if she were the reason her brother had turned out this way. As if it were her influence and not his own choices that had brought him down this path. Nothing could be further from the truth but she couldn’t know that. “Please, give us some privacy, Ji” Yoharum said. Jiral scowled at him once then turned and left.
Jiral leered over her shoulder at the tall woman as she left. She didn’t trust the stranger. Something in the way she carried herself. There was a confidence in her step. A look in her eyes that made you feel like she was somebody important. Jiral didn’t like it. She might look like she hailed from the mountains, but she carried herself like a city woman. Jiral stocked out and left the house, scowling the entire way. Stepping out onto the front porch, Jiral met her father, who shared her scorn.
“Who is she?” Harumal asked. “His wife?”
Jiral laughed by mistake. She covered her mouth, realizing she hadn’t considered it. “I don’t think so” she said quickly. “But they definitely know each other.” In unison, both father and daughter muttered the same four words, “I don’t trust her.”
Zhenya stepped into the room and stopped a few paces from Yoharum, who remained seated. He looked up at her and she could see the pain written across his face; all forms of it. His beard was gone, and raw red marks covered his face up to the birthmark under his eye. “I thought you were dead” she said. He noticed the faint bruise on her temple.
“Me too” he said. “How’d you get that?” he asked, pointing to the bruise.
“That Aginjigaade I was supposed to distract;” Zhenya said quietly, “the stone man with the princes. I threw everything I had at him. All of my mental fortitude. The full weight of my agindan power…”
“And?” he said after a pause.
“And he tossed me aside the same way a big man might boot a small dog” she said contemptuously. “He hit me so fast and so hard I lost consciousness immediately. I was standing when it happened. And when I woke up, I had been facedown on the floor for what I can only assume had been hours. I was a child throwing stones at a soldier, Yo. Spirits, there might be two or three other Aginjigaade in the whole city as powerful as that old man. I’m lucky to be alive.”
“Spirits” Yoharum sighed. “Are you okay? What happened after you woke up?”
“I had the most painful headache imaginable” she said, bringing her hand to her temple. “After I collected my wits, I stumbled out of the alleyway into some soldiers. They led me away. Spirits bless being a big woman. I don’t think they once considered I was involved. Then, that night, Mudtown burned. I hid inside the walls for the better part of three days, just trying to stay out of sight. Plus, my headache made it hard doing just about anything.”
“What do you mean Mudtown burned?” Yoharum asked, concern mounting.
She looked at him, confused by the question. “Your burns? Weren’t you caught in the Mudtown fires?” she asked.
“No” he answered. “The crew made it all the way out of the city to the safehouse. What do you mean when you say Mudtown burned? Darius said the same thing. What happened?”
She stared at him, confusion plain across her face. “They burned Mudtown in retaliation for the attack” she said plainly. “I think the soldiers caught one of the gang members we brought on as muscle. They claimed it was an assassination attempt on Patzau Yohati. Soldiers marched on Mudtown at dusk. It was carnage. There were soldiers beating people in the streets. A few were killing indiscriminately. Hundreds were arrested. They hit most of the crime dens. Then the fires got out of control and spread wildly. If it hadn’t rained, most of Mudtown would have been destroyed.”
The full weight of her words hit him with the force of a thousand eruptions. He clenched his fists in anger and despair, despite the pain that coursed through his body. Flakes of the dried herbs that had been plastered across his hands fell to the floor revealing the red damaged flesh below. He winced.
“What happened to the crew?” she asked, delicately. “How did you get your burns?”
“They found us” he said through a hoarse croak. “I don’t know how, but they found us. Then they did the same thing…. They set the safehouse ablaze with us still inside. Then they killed us as we tried to escape the fire. They slaughtered everyone. I… I think I’m the only one who got away.”
“Spirits of the earth” she whispered. “What happened to the take?” she asked.
For the first time, he panicked as he tried to remember what had happened to the silver they had stolen. There had been enough to buy an army. He looked down at his palms and noticed the small circular burns he’d received from the handfuls of coins he had snatched right before he had fled the safehouse. He looked down at himself, hoping to check his pockets only to notice for the first time he wore only a thin pair of undergarments. The rest of his body was plastered with herbal paste.
“Mother!” he yelled. “Bring my mother” he pleaded to Zhenya.
“No need” Zhenya said, “she’s listening from the other side of your window.” Yoharum tried to turn and did his best considering the pain. All the while, Yoharum’s mother, Ahunas, stood slowly from where she had been eavesdropping. She had a guilty look on her face right up until two women met eyes. Zhenya smiled. It was forgiveness. Ahunas smiled back in appreciation and then frowned at her son.
“What is it, Yo?” Ahunas asked her son, still standing at the window. Only her shoulders and head managed to peer through the small portal.
“Where are my clothes?” he pleaded.
“What?” Ahunas asked, sucking her teeth in disdain. “You don’t visit. You don’t tell me where you are. Not even so much as a ‘hello mother, how are you today?’ Do you even love your mother?”
“Hello mother” Yoharum groaned. Dealing with her was as painful as any injury.
“That’s all you have to say to me?” she said, raising her voice. “You show up covered in burns and bruises and cuts and more burns. You fall down half-dead at my door.” She tsked her teeth again. “The spirits gift us mothers patience because our sons are too stubborn to learn good sense.”
“Where are my clothes?” Yoharum repeated in frustration
“You mean to ask where is your money? Hm?” His mother scolded. He hesitated for a moment, then answered her with a simple nod. “When we brought you inside you made it sound like somebody was after you. I hid it away, just in case. Are you in trouble?”
“Where is it?”
“Where did you get it?” she fired back. “Spirits, tell me you didn’t kill somebody for it.”
“I killed somebody for it” he answered.
She reeled in embellished disappointment. “Boy, you are as dense as a mountain. Why would you tell me that. Now some Aginjigaade witch can use her magic to pry the truth from my tortured heart. You have doomed me, child.”
“You’re being dramatic. And it doesn’t work like that. You know it doesn’t work like that” he said dismissively.
Ahunas frowned. “And how would you know, eh?”
Yoharum turned slightly and cast a signaling glance behind him to where Zhenya still stood behind him. His mother’s eyes went wide. Her cheeks flushed and she brought the spiral of her fingers to her lips in a warding gesture. “You invited a witch into my house?!” she shouted. “No offence dear” she added, addressing Zhenya who stood, unphased by the insult. “Oh, why must the spirits of the mountains and rivers be so cruel to an old woman such as me” Ahunas prattled.
“Blood and fire, mother! You are the one who let her in!” Yoharum protested.
“Only because you deceived me” Ahunas wailed. “If you were a better son–”
“Enough” he cut in. “I am sorry that I don’t visit. I am a terrible son. Are you happy now?”
“If you are a terrible son, then I must be a terrible mother” she howled and Yoharum pushed his palms into his eyes until he saw spots.
“The coins,” Yoharum said, ignoring his mother’s theatrics, “Listen to me! Most of it is for you and for Jiral and Da. Da can quit the guild. You can fix the house and buy some more land. Da can plow and plant here at home rather than labour on one of the big Casoyan orchards near the coast. Whatever you want. You won’t have to work again.” Zhenya raised her eyebrows in interest. Yoharum’s mother, on the other hand, seemed unimpressed.
“You think of us so poorly as to need your blood money?” she challenged. “We do just fine.”
This was not going the way he had imaging it would. It didn’t help that the simple act of breathing felt laborious. “Spirits, mother. Please listen to me” Yoharum said in frustration. “You and Da are fine but how will Jiral do when you’re gone. How will she maintain this house with her future husband. So many families have already sold their land to the Casoyans. The city is reaching its claws even this far into the mountains. Soon there will be no trace of us. Of our people and our way of life. These Casoyans, they will starve us and then offer us salvation by buying the shirts off our backs and the land from under our feet. They are greedy and wicked. If we don’t have enough money to support ourselves, this community, then they will erode it until we are all living as vagrants in their slums.” Ahunas scowled at her son but made no argument. “If you don’t want it,” Yoharum said, after a moment, “send it to our family deeper in the mountains.”
“You are a silver-tongued devil” Ahunas said, her eyes never flinching from her son’s gaze. They held that stare for held breath’s time. “Fine” she relented. “I’ll go get your money. But you cannot call yourself a member of this community any more. You don’t hear the stories people tell about you. You have made life hard for us here and I see this as a way to repay your social debt.”
She turned and stocked off into the forest. Typical, he thought, she always twists the truth to suit her needs. He knew his mother well enough not to be surprised: all success was due to her merits, and all failures were the fault of others. It was vain, but he didn’t mind. It wasn’t his place to judge or chastise.
“I see where you get your spirit” Zhenya teased. “And your headstrong tendencies.”
He turned slowly to face her and bit back his argument. “What will you do now?” he asked.
“Stay low” she answered. He gave her a probing look and she sighed. “If you need me. Really truly need me, I’m going to cross the island to Cabiya. I won’t stay in the mountains. There are tales brewing. Stories of violence. The usual whispers of uprising. I don’t want to be a part of any of it. I’ve now witnessed the Casoyan thirst for blood. Fighting them is self-destructive.”
“Cabiya is controlled by the Casoyans” Yoharum countered.
“Exactly” Zhenya said. “They control Cabiya with an iron fist. No army our people can raise could take it or hold it. That means no uprising. And any place without violence is a good place by me.”
Zhenya left the next morning. She took her share with her. It wasn’t much to add to what she had already earned, but between the silver coins from the dead princes and the gold from Bartiin initial payment, she could make it last a long time. Especially if she chose to live her live simply. She would not. Considering her caliber and skill, a simple life was not one he could picture for her.
*
The following night, Yoharum’s bedroom door squeaked open once again. He heard the noise but couldn’t muster the effort to turn away from the window and look. He waited, expecting words but none came. Jiral or whoever it was walked across the small room and collected the small wooden stool next to the bed. Wood scraped on wood. Then the room returned to silence. Yoharum was confused. Still drowsy, he turned over with great discomfort. He had expected to see his mother, or perhaps Jiral. He was certain it wouldn’t be his father. Harumal hadn’t spoken to him once in the time he had been bedridden. It seemed unlikely the old man would break his silent disapproval here and now. So, when Yoharum turned, his brows furrowed. Dusk was settling and the room was dim. It was hard to see. But instead of his mother Ahunas, or his sister Jiral, or even his father, he swore he saw a different familiar face.
“Kuta?” he asked, surprised. “Is that you cousin?”
The silence stretched between them, heavy with the unspoken. Finally, Kuta crushed it, her voice cold, “Hello, Yoharum.” She kept silent, and he didn’t know what to say to her. There were too many questions, foremost of which being why she was here. But he was too afraid to ask that question. Afraid of both its perceived insult, and its obvious answer. He knew who her master was. Kuta let out a long sigh before speaking again. “I know that you were the one behind the attack in Caso. I want to know who the target was?”
Yoharum’s mind raced. I need an excuse. Any excuse! But what can I say? She already knows. She’s already tracked me down. Maybe she’s bluffing. He rolled over and tried to sit up. He had thought to use the movement to buy more time. Instead, a tide of agony that did everything but help him think straight. As he sat upright, her eyes passed over him. The ointment that had been applied the night before dried and flaked away leaving painful pink patches and raw bands across his arms. She saw them, but didn’t speak, still waiting for an answer. Yoharum hadn’t thought of a better one than the truth.
“I was paid to assassinate a pair of princes. Two men: uncle and nephew” he said plainly.
“That’s the truth?” she insisted. “Your target wasn’t Patzau Yohati?”
“Patzau Yohati?” he repeated. Then he remembered his conversation with Zhenya. “Spirits, no. Just the two princes and their bodyguards.” She seemed to mull over that answer.
“And the money…” she asked. “The coin you stole from the princes?”
It was a question, Yoharum recognized that much from her tone. But he didn’t understand what she was asking. “What about it?”
Whatever answer she was looking for, that wasn’t it. “I hope it was worth it” Kuta said, dismissively. Her voice oozed scorn. “Your deeds have cost incalculable suffering already.”
“Mudtown” he mumbled.
“So, you do know what you’ve done” she accused.
“I didn’t do that” he said sternly. “Your Patzaus did that. The fat man you work for, I’m sure he was involved in it. The Casoyans blew the whole thing out of proportion.”
“Says the man who works as a hired thug!” she yelled, angry now. He shushed her and for a moment he thought she might slap him. She was half his size but right now, it felt like the wind could topple him. And he knew well enough that she was stronger than just her size suggested. “You are such a hypocrite, Yoharum. You blame the Casoyans for everything and neglect your own part in the way things are. You brought known thieves and murderers inside the city walls and attacked a foreign emissary and then expect it to go without consequences?!”
“And you think your Casoyans are any better? Who steals our lands and strips our people of their wealth and dignity? Were we the ones who came down to their city and took their men for workers and their women for domestics? No! That was them. And those are the ones who get any work. The rest are left with nothing. They join the gangs because they are denied real opportunities. The gangsters and warlords exist because of their disregard for us: the people left behind. Our people. Now it has come back to bite them.”
“No! It has come back to bite us!” Kuta countered. “Our people are the ones who are suffering from your actions. Not the Casoyans. A handful of dead soldiers is nothing compared to the scar of ash they left across Mudtown. And our people will continue to suffer.”
“And what are you doing to help our people?” he challenged. “Is playing the Patzau’s pet helping anyone yet? You’re the strongest Aginjigaade in generations and instead of fighting for us—for your people—you work for the Casoyan dogs! You lick their boots and call them master.”
Kuta scowled hard. “You are so ignorant that you don’t even realize how foolish you sound. What? You think I should mount an open war because I have an ounce of power more than the average person? My strength pales. I’m just one person—one Aginjigaade. The guild has scores and they would crush me. What good is one sharp knife against a thousand sticks?”
“If I had your power–” Yoharum started
Kuta talked over him to finish her point. “And there is more than one way to fight for our people. Not that I heard you saying as much when you spoke to your friend Zhenya.”
The comment about Zhenya caught him off guard. Zhenya was very private with her ability and Yoharum was himself careful not to speak of it. How she possibly knew nagged at him but didn’t want to cede the argument by asking questions. “That doesn’t matter” he said, dismissing the point instead. “The Casoyans want our people erased, all of them.”
“You’re wrong” she said quietly. “Not all of them. There are good people out there.”
“Have you considered they’re only good to you because you’re useful to them,” he shot back, his voice laced with bitterness. “Where does that leave the rest of us?”
“Bah! You think yourself so much better but you’re no different than them, cousin” Kuta seethed. “How many young boys did you sacrifice for your score? How many men did you lure with the promise of riches only to use them as fodder? Ten? Twenty?”
“That’s not the same” he growled. “Our people, you included, need to harden for what is to come. There will be war. Soon. Our people must lift our chins in defiance and forge our own future. There will be a real reckoning for the crimes against us. We won’t be on our knees forever.”
“Good luck with that” Kuta said. She rose from her chair and made for the door.
Yoharum lurched, hoping to stop her but she was already outside his reach. The pain roared through him again and he winced audibly. “Wait” he gasped. Panic flooded through him. “You wont… say anything about me, will you?”
“Spirits! That’s what your worried about?” Kuta asked. “You think I’m going to turn you in to the guilds?” A dejected look spread across her face and he realized too late that he had hurt her by asking. “I might disagree with you, Yoharum, but I would never do that to our family. It would destroy them. It would cost your father his position in the guild. I hoped you would have at least that much faith in me.” Kuta exited without another word, leaving the room emptier than when she had arrived.
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