by Tomi Adeyemi
The sword that pierced through her chest.
I push myself, reaching out again with the very ends of my fingertips. When they brush the scroll, I close my eyes.
No magic comes forth.
The breath I did not realize I was holding rushes out as I pick up the wrinkled parchment. I unroll the scroll and trace the strange symbols, trying in vain to make sense of them. The symbols look like nothing I have ever seen, no language ever covered in my studies. Yet they are symbols that maji died for.
Symbols that might as well be written in Binta’s blood.
A breeze flutters from the open windows, stirring the locks of hair that have fallen out from my loosened gele. Underneath the flowing curtains, Kaea’s military supplies sit: sharpened swords, panthenaire reins, brass chest plates. My eyes settle on the spools of rope. I knock my gele to the floor.
Without thinking, I grab Father’s cloak.
CHAPTER FOUR
ZÉLIE
“ARE YOU REALLY NOT going to talk to me?”
I lean to the side of Nailah’s saddle to get a look at Tzain’s stone face. I expected the first hour of silence, but now it’s hour three.
“How was practice?” I try instead. Tzain can never resist a conversation about his favorite sport. “Is M’ballu’s ankle okay? Do you think she’ll be healed in time for the games?”
Tzain’s mouth opens for a split second, but he catches himself. His jaw clamps shut and he smacks Nailah’s reins, riding her faster through the towering jackalberry trees.
“Tzain, come on,” I say. “You can’t ignore me for the rest of your life.”
“I can try.”
“My gods.” I roll my eyes. “What do you want from me?”
“How about an apology?” Tzain snaps. “Baba almost died! And now you want to sit here and pretend like it never happened?”
“I already said sorry,” I snap back. “To you, to Baba.”
“That doesn’t change what happened.”
“Then I’m sorry I can’t change the past!”
My yell echoes through the trees, igniting a new stretch of silence between us. I run my fingers along the cracks of worn leather in Nailah’s saddle as an uncomfortable pit forms in my chest.
For gods’ sakes, think, Zélie, Mama Agba’s voice echoes in my mind. Who would protect your father if you hurt those men? Who would keep Tzain safe when the guards come for blood?
“Tzain, I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “Really. I feel awful, more than you can know, but—”
Tzain releases a sigh of exasperation. “Of course there’s a but.”
“Because this isn’t just my fault!” I say, my anger reaching a boiling point. “The guards are the reason Baba went out on the water!”
“And you’re the reason he almost drowned,” Tzain shoots back. “You left him alone.”
I bite my tongue. There’s no point in arguing. Strong and handsome kosidán that he is, Tzain doesn’t understand why I need Mama Agba’s training. Boys in Ilorin try to be his friend, girls try to steal his heart. Even the guards flock his way, singing praises of his agbön skills.
He doesn’t understand what it’s like to be me, to walk around in a divîner’s skin. To jump every time a guard appears, never knowing how a confrontation will end.
I’ll start with this one.…
My stomach clenches at the memory of the guard’s rough grip. Would Tzain yell at me if he knew? Would he shout if he realized how hard it was for me not to cry?
We ride in silence as the trees begin to thin and the city of Lagos comes into view. Surrounded by a gate crafted from the heartwood of the jackalberry trees, the capital is everything Ilorin isn’t. Instead of the calming sea, Lagos is flooded with an endless horde of people. Even from afar, so many swell within the city walls it’s impossible to understand how they all live.
I survey the layout of the capital from atop Nailah’s back, noting the white hair of passing divîners along the way. Lagos’s kosidán outnumber its divîners three to one, making them easy to spot. Though the space between Lagos’s walls is long and wide, my people congregate along the city’s fringe in slums. It’s the only place they’d allow divîners to live.
I settle back in Nailah’s saddle, the sight of the slums deflating something in my chest. Centuries ago, the ten maji clans and their divîner children were isolated all over Orïsha. While kosidán populated the cities, the clans lived along the mountains and oceans and fields. But with time, maji ventured out and clans spread across Orïsha’s lands, curiosity and opportunity driving their migration.
Over the years maji and kosidán began to marry, creating families with divîners and kosidán like mine. As the blended families multiplied, the number of Orïsha’s maji grew. Before the Raid, Lagos housed the biggest maji population.
Now those divîners are all that’s left.
Tzain pulls on Nailah’s reins, stopping her when we near the wooden gate. “I’ll wait here. It’ll be too crazy for her in there.”
I nod and slide off, giving Nailah’s dark, wet nose a kiss. I smile as her rough tongue licks my cheek, but the smile fades when I glance back at Tzain. Unspoken words hang in the air, but I turn and keep moving forward all the same.
“Wait.”
Tzain slides off Nailah, catching up to me in a single bound. He places a rusted dagger into my hand.
“I have a staff.”
“I know,” he says. “Just in case.”
I slide the weapon into my worn pocket. “Thanks.”
We stare at the dirt ground in silence. Tzain kicks a rock by his feet. I don’t know who will break first until he finally speaks.
“I’m not blind, Zél. I know this morning wasn’t all your fault, but I need you to do better.” For a moment Tzain’s eyes flash, threatening to reveal everything he holds back. “Baba’s only getting worse, and the guards are breathing down your neck. You can’t afford to slip right now. If you make another mistake, it could be your last.”
I nod, keeping my gaze on the ground. I can handle a lot of things, but Tzain’s disappointment cuts like a knife.
“Just do better,” Tzain sighs. “Please. Baba won’t survive if he loses you.… I won’t, either.”
I try to ignore the tightness in my chest. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’ll do better. I promise.”
“Good.” Tzain pastes a smile on his face and ruffles my hair. “Enough of this. Go sell the hell out of that fish.”
I laugh and readjust the straps on my pack. “How much do you think I can get?”
“Two hundred.”
“That’s it?” I cock my head. “You really think that lowly of me?”
“That’s crazy coin, Zél!”
“I bet you I can get more.”
Tzain’s smile widens, gleaming with the shine of a good bet. “Get above two hundred and I’ll stay home with Baba next week.”
“Oh, you’re on.” I grin, already picturing my rematch with Yemi. Let’s see how she does against my new staff.
I rush forward, ready to make the trade, but when I reach the checkpoint, my stomach churns at the sight of the royal guards. It’s all I can do to keep my body still as I slide my collapsible staff into the waistband of my draped pants.
“Name?” a tall guard barks, keeping his eyes on his ledger. His dark curls fuzz in the heat, collecting the sweat dripping down his cheeks.
“Zélie Adebola,” I answer with as much respect as I can muster. No screwups. I swallow hard. At least, no more today.
The guard barely spares me a glance before writing the information down. “Origin?”
“Ilorin.”
“Ilorin?”
Short and stout, another guard wobbles as he approaches, using the giant wall to keep himself upright. The pungent smell of alcohol wafts into the air with his unwelcome presence.
“Wha’sa maggot like you doin’ s’far from ’ome?”
His words slur just before incomprehension, dripping from his mout
h like the spittle on his chin. My chest clenches as he nears; the drunken glaze in his eyes turns dangerous.
“Purpose of visit?” the tall, thankfully sober guard asks.
“Trading.”
At this, a disgusting smile crawls onto the drunk guard’s face. He reaches for my wrist, but I back away and raise the wrapped package.
“Trading fish,” I clarify, but despite my words, he lunges forward. I grunt as he wraps his pudgy hands around my neck and presses me against the wooden wall. He leans in so close I can count the black and yellow stains on his teeth.
“I can see why you’re sellin’ the fish.” He laughs. “What’s the goin’ rate for a maggot these days, Kayin? Two bronze pieces?”
My skin crawls and my fingers itch for my hidden staff. It’s against the law for maji and kosidán to so much as kiss after the Raid, but it doesn’t keep the guards from pawing at us like animals.
My anger twists into a black rage, a darkness I sensed in Mama whenever the guards dared to get in her way. With its rush, I want to shove him back and snap each of the soldier’s fat fingers. But with my rage comes Tzain’s concern. Baba’s heartache. Mama Agba’s scolding.
Think, Zélie. Think of Baba. Think of Tzain. I promised not to mess this up. I can’t let them down now.
I repeat this again and again until the brute unhands me. He laughs to himself before taking another swig from his bottle, proud. At ease.
I turn toward the other guard, unable to hide the hatred in my eyes. I don’t know who I despise more—the drunk for touching me or this bastard for letting it occur.
“Any other questions?” I ask through my teeth.
The guard shakes his head.
I move through the gate with the speed of a cheetanaire before either can change his mind. But it only takes a few steps away from the gates before the frenzy of Lagos makes me want to run back outside.
“My gods,” I breathe, overwhelmed by the sheer number of people. Villagers, merchants, guards, and nobles fill the wide dirt roads, each moving with precision and purpose.
In the distance, the royal palace looms—its pristine white walls and gilded arches gleam in the sun. Its presence is a stark contrast to the slums lining the city’s fringe.
I marvel at the rustic dwellings, breath catching at the towering shacks. Like a vertical labyrinth, the shanties sit atop one another, each starting where another stops. Though many are brown and fading, others shine with bright paints and colorful art. The vibrant protest defies the title of slum, an ember of beauty where the monarchy sees none.
With tentative steps, I begin walking toward the city center. As I pass the slums, I notice the vast majority of the divîners roaming its streets aren’t much older than me. In Lagos, it’s almost impossible for any divîner children who lived through the Raid to reach adulthood without being thrown in prison or getting forced into the stocks.
“Please. I didn’t mean to—agh!” A sharp cry rings out.
I jump as a stocker’s cane strikes down in front of me. It cuts through the flesh of a young divîner, leaving bloodstains on the last clean clothes the boy will ever wear. The child falls into a pile of broken ceramics, shattered tiles his thin arms probably couldn’t hold. The stocker raises his cane again, and this time I catch the gleam of its black majacite shaft.
Gods. The acrid smell of burning flesh hits me as the stocker presses the cane into the boy’s back. Smoke rises from his skin as he struggles to crawl to his knees. The vicious sight makes my fingers numb, reminding me of my own potential fate in the stocks.
Come on. I force myself forward though my heart sinks. Move or that’ll be you.
I rush toward the center of Lagos, doing my best to ignore the smell of sewage leaking from the slum streets. When I enter the pastel-colored buildings of the merchant quarter, the odor shifts to sweet bread and cinnamon, making my stomach growl. I brace myself for the barter as the central exchange hums with the sounds of endless trading. But when the bazaar comes into view, I’m forced to stop in my tracks.
No matter how often I trade big catch here with Baba, the madness of the central market never ceases to amaze me. More tumultuous than the streets of Lagos, the bazaar is alive with every Orïshan good imaginable. In one row alone, grains from the vast fields of Minna sit alongside coveted ironworks from the factories of Gombe. I walk through the crowded booths, enjoying the sweet smell of fried plantain.
With ears perked, I try to catch the pattern of the barter, the speed of every trade. Everyone fights, using words as knives. It’s more cutthroat than the market of Ilorin. Here there’s no compromise; only business.
I pass wooden stalls of cheetanaire cubs, smiling at each tiny horn that protrudes from their foreheads. I have to wade past carts of patterned textiles before finally reaching the fish exchange.
“Forty bronze pieces—”
“For a tigerfish?”
“I won’t pay a piece above thirty!”
The shouts of hagglers at work ring so loud I can barely hear myself think. This isn’t the floating market of Ilorin. A regular barter won’t work. I bite the inside of my cheek, surveying the crowd. I need a mark. A fool, some—
“Trout!” a man shrieks. “Do I look like I eat trout?”
I turn to the plump noble clad in a dark purple dashiki. He narrows his hazel eyes at the kosidán merchant like he has just received a grave insult.
“I have searobin,” the merchant offers. “Flounder, bass—”
“I said I want swordfish!” the noble snaps. “My servant says you refuse to sell it.”
“They aren’t in season.”
“Yet the king eats it every night?”
The merchant scratches the back of his neck. “If a swordfish is caught, it goes to the palace. That’s the law of the land.”
The noble’s face turns red and he pulls out a small velvet purse. “What does he offer?” He jingles the coins. “I’ll pay double.”
The merchant stares at the purse longingly but stays firm. “I can’t risk it.”
“I can!” I shout.
The noble turns, eyes narrowed with suspicion. I wave him toward me, away from the merchant’s stand.
“You have swordfish?” he asks.
“Better. A fish no one else in this market can sell you.”
His mouth falls open, and I feel the same rush I get when a fish circles my bait. I unwrap the sailfish with care and move it under a ray of light so that its scales gleam.
“Skies!” The noble gapes. “It’s magnificent.”
“It tastes even better than it looks. Red-tailed sailfish, fresh from the coast of Ilorin. They’re not in season, so you can be sure even the king’s not eating this tonight.”
A smile crawls onto the noble’s face, and I know I’ve made my own catch. He holds out his purse.
“Fifty silver pieces.”
My eyes widen, but I grit my teeth. Fifty …
Fifty gets us by this tax, maybe leaves us enough for a new boat. But if the guards raise the taxes next quarter moon, fifty won’t keep me out of the stocks.
I let out a loud laugh and start rewrapping the fish.
The noble’s brow furrows. “What are you doing?”
“Taking this jewel to someone who can afford it.”
“How dare you—”
“Forgive me,” I interrupt. “I don’t have time for a man who bids fifty on a prize worth ten times that much.”
The noble grumbles, but he reaches into his pockets and pulls out another velvet purse.
“You won’t get a piece above three hundred.”
My gods! I dig my feet into the dirt to keep myself from wobbling. That’s more than we’ve ever seen in our lives. At least six moons of taxes, even if they’re raised!
I open my mouth to take the deal, but something in the noble’s eyes makes me hesitate. If he folded so quickly on the last offer, maybe he’ll fold again.…
Take it, I imagine Tzain warning. It’s more than e
nough.
But I’m far too close to stop now.
“I’m sorry.” I shrug and finish wrapping the sailfish. “I can’t waste a meal for a king on someone who can’t afford it.”
The noble’s nostrils flare. Gods. I may have gone too far. I wait for him to break, but he only seethes in silence. I’m forced to walk away.
Each step lasts an eternity as I crumble under the weight of my mistake. You’ll find another one, I try to calm myself. Another noble desperate to prove his worth. I can do better than three hundred. The fish is worth more than that … right?
“Dammit.” I almost ram my head against a shrimp stall. What am I going to do now? Who’s going to be stupid enough to—
“Wait!”
As I turn, the plump noble shoves three jingling purses into my chest.
“Fine,” he grumbles in defeat. “Five hundred.”
I stare at him in disbelief, which he mistakes for doubt.
“Count them if you must.”
I open one purse and the sight is so beautiful I nearly cry. The silver shines like the scales of the sailfish, its weight a promise of things to come. Five hundred! After a new boat, that’s almost a year’s worth of rest for Baba. Finally.
I’ve done something right.
I hand the fish to the noble, unable to hide my glowing smile. “Enjoy. Tonight you’ll eat better than the king.”
The noble sneers, but the corners of his mouth twitch up in satisfaction. I slide the velvet purses into my pack and start walking, heart buzzing so quickly it rivals the insanity of the market. But I freeze when screams fill the air. This isn’t the sound of haggling. What the—
I jump back as a fruit stand explodes.
A troop of royal guards charges through. Mangoes and Orïshan peaches fly through the air. Second by second, more guards flood the market, searching for something. Someone.
I stare at the commotion in bewilderment before realizing I have to move. There are five hundred silver pieces in my pack. For once, I have more than my life to lose.