Demane shrugged. “My Aunty.”
Brothers fell out rolling in the grass. They joked. They laughed.
“Got my skills from Granny! Where you get yours at?”
“Was my wife learned me up. Old gal got a arm on her!”
“Where I come from, women hunt if they feel like it . . .” Then Demane made himself shut up. You get sick of saying the same thing over and over. Men on this side of the continent thought they were the best at everything. It was stupid! Aunty, however, needed his defense about as much as did Mt. Bittersmoke, where lightning struck in continuous cascade about a lake of brightly splashing lava. “Well, Captain don’t go easy on me, either,” Demane pointed out.
The second or third time Captain had called these drills, a near-metamorphosis had come over Demane unexpectedly. His senses sharpened, reflexes quickened, just before he’d thrown his spear. The point had caught in Captain’s robe, nearly impaled him. Since then, Demane sat out drills. He and the captain sparred spear-to-spear at the end of exercises. Nor did Captain hold back much.
“I don’t know about the rest of y’all, but it’s them two little niggas”—Barkeem nodded toward the brothers still at drills—“I feel sorry for.”
Demane, too. Every now and then, he’d ask Captain again to cut the hapless youngsters a little slack. “No,” said the captain, without variation.
Xho Xho and Walead were all sharp elbows, skinny shanks, bony knees. So were several other brothers. None of those others, however, was so cursed with bungling hands and feet. Xho and Walé were made to throw their spears twice as many times as everyone else. Ungentle hands jerking the boys into correct stance, Captain would fix their grip on the spear, tension and turn of shoulders and hips, even how far up or down they held their chins. When a spearcast failed to please him, which was most of them, the boys had to run full out—that is, stagger, hunched over with side-stitches—back and forth a time or two from where the spear lay, back to where the captain waited, hardfaced as the fatherghost these northerners called God.
“Yo, my dudes,” said a brother. “Heard they got hoes at the Station.”
The truth of this hearsay was by another brother affirmed. “Yeah. Down in some tents out past the big market.”
A latter beside the former two put forward his own intention, and inquired into other brothers’. “I’m heading down that way to see about one, damn betcha. Who else going?”
Nearly every brother was.
“’Bout you, Sorcerer?”
“I don’t do that.”
“Moi? I most certainly do,” said T-Jawn for the general edification; and then, confidingly, to Demane: “Has no one informed you then, Sorcerer? After Mother of Waters, there shan’t be any further opportunities to, ah—what was that marvelously apt phrase of yours, Barkeem?” T-Jawn popped his fingers encouragingly.
“Get your dick wet.”
“Voilà—before we come to Olorum City?”
In the green hills of home there was no such institution. And so when he’d first come from the remotest spur of the continent, to cities of the northern riviera, Demane had thought it to be a route by which men wishing to marry could meet a wife.
There, in old colonial Philipiya, skill won him the position of huntmaster for the city amir. Remunerative but silly work, bagging game for sport; and a lonely life as well, all day speaking languages other than his own, with no one to hold at night. Before a year was out, Demane had begun wondering why he’d ever traveled so far from Saxa, first love and then oldest friend, and especially from Atahly, the woman—on second thought—he really should have married. You’ll love me later as much as I love you now, and regret leaving. She was right.
Whenever he admitted to loneliness, men of Philipiya would commend to him whores. Women of exceeding beauty, was the impression he’d gotten; and not to be approached without wealth. At last, he decided he’d better marry one and settle down.
The shawl cost half his savings. The amir himself had recommended the merchant. You would need six months’ travel by ship to find another like this in the world! The silk was orange and crimson as low clouds above a sunset, stitched in thread-of-gold. Demane bought smaller treats, too, of course: pretty little bangles, candied fruit, perfume. He, the lady, and her advocates would feast together, wouldn’t they? He could discreetly leave the shawl afterwards, if the lady found him congenial. The elders might like an amphora of that grape vinegar, also from overseas and costly, so beloved by Philipiya’s rich . . .
The place was filthy. A long and dark hall; over doorways on the right-side wall, raggedy carpets hung. Hoarse noise and women’s sobs. The fishy reek of sex unwashed for days. Reeling and flinching, his thoughts couldn’t make sense of abomination. A carpet drew back on a girl much too young, lying atop stained sheets. No supper was laid out and there’d be no polite talk. He and his wife-to-be wouldn’t, late in the meal, stare brazenly at each other, and then cast down their eyes again, chastened by a grunt from the chaperones. Nothing he’d imagined. Motes seethed on the verminous pallet. Who fed this little girl? Not enough. “Pretty, ain’t she?” said the . . . merchant . . . proprietor? (The pimp, which word he hadn’t known then.) “Youngest one I got. Silver penny if you want her.”
Gripping the rich fringe, Demane let the shawl unfurl to the floor. He shook the bright silk aloft and let it go, draping the naked child. And left. Not so long as he lived would he forget her eyes, the misuse in them, and expectation of more.
“I said,” Demane repeated, “I don’t do that.” His mortal mask slipped a bit askew, and he couldn’t hide, for a moment, the piece of him that was perilous, a god.
T-Jawn’s smirk faltered. Talk of whores diverted elsewhere, now in hushed tones, brothers leaning together like boys trading nasty whispers within earshot of the father.
Demane looked south. Coming up the path their caravan would travel down tomorrow, a northbound caravan was just arriving at the Station of Mother of Waters. Half the size of theirs, this caravan had a couple hundred burros, some fifty men, merchants and brothers. At the back of the caravan, some few dozen buffalo were driven along by men riding camels of a sort Demane had not seen before, sleek and agile.
“Buffalo riders,” said Faedou, eyes too on this arrival. He like Demane cared nothing for what went on in the tents beyond the market, caring only for his two beloved wives and eleven children.
Buffalo riders? Were they? Yes! Look at the beaded leathers, the long locked hair, their complexion not some singular color like other peoples, but three shades at once. How did it go? Oxblood, amber, good earth . . . Everything just as in the tall tales and melancholy songs brothers told or sang at nightly camps. One thing puzzled Demane, though. “Ain’t they suppose to ride the buffalo?” He’d dearly wanted to see that—some rider perched high atop a buffalo’s hump and clinging, presumably, to the horns.
Faedou gave a crack of incredulous laughter. “Ride em?”
“Well, they called buffalo riders, ain’t they?”
“Aw, baby . . . ! What kind of Sorcerer you suppose to be, thinking they ride buffalo, not herd em?”
“Leastways I don’t wrestle bare-handed with bandits trying to stab me with a knife.”
“Ooooooh!” said the brothers. Demane and Faedou went back and forth for a few good-natured rounds of insult.
Xho Xho and Walead ran up. “Captain said.” They blew, they puffed. “The captain said, tell that damn Sorcerer to bring his lazy, loafing ass on.”
No doubt that had been the sense of his message. But Captain stooped neither to low speech, nor ever to profanity.
Demane rose with his spear, and punched at half-speed for Walead’s head. Laughing, the boy just managed to duck away.
“Hold this.” Demane tossed his bag to Cumalo. Some brothers risked a look askance; others gawped in awe at the bag. One or two made a sign against the Beast. Unlike his brothers, easygoing Cumalo suffered no pangs of either fear or curiosity. Certainly one ancient little heirloo
m, passed down to mortal offspring from the gods gone back to heaven, was not enough to rouse him. Bag on his chest, Cumalo resumed drowsing in the grass.
To the east, as far as sight went, there was a view of overgrazed scrub and cracked earth, all in shades of gray and dun. The weedy field of goat chips inclined slightly, the black-robed figure standing tall against morning’s blue-gold sky. Captain exuded his familiar tang-spice of impatience. Demane hustled up the dry acres to him. One of them bristled and frowned, the other going downcast and quiet, whenever the two came near each other, and why? Hatred, said most brothers: hot and personal. No, it was rivalry, said others: respectful but fierce. And then some brother would mutter half of the proverb, “Two top dogs, just one pack . . .” and everyone would shake his head, eyes peeled for the brewing showdown.
The captain had a tic, at this very moment indulging it. His thumb and forefinger pinched along the edges of his headscarf, though the cloth was cinched too viciously tight for adjustment. As always, it covered Captain’s head even down over the brows (shaved off, anyway). And snug as that scarf was tied, it was no wonder he went around squinting, mouth set in a hard line, as if his head never stopped aching. The captain had rebuffed all of Demane’s inquiries into the need for disguise, and so now he gathered clues only as they dropped. It seemed Captain was nobody awash in glory or scandal, so long as that scarf stayed on. Should the wrong eyes see him with it off, however . . .
“Cain’t see nothing,” Demane said. “You got that scarf on proper, like always.”
Had a scorpion bit it, that hand couldn’t have quit its fussing any quicker. The captain bristled and frowned.
“First touch?” Demane handed over his spear. Captain nodded while swaddling the point of Demane’s spear in thick cloth; he handed it back. His own spearblade unscrewed from an iron mount on the shaft, already disarmed.
Signaling for the watchers’ sake, Captain held up two fingers, then raised a third. Softly he sang: “Two of three.”
That voice! Captain lacked the power of speech, was capable only of song. He could stand dumb, gesturing, or else make incomparable music. Even in a monosyllable, it was possible to hear him struggling to tarnish his pure tones, hoarsen their rich clarity; trying to turn his vox seraphica into a thing befitting the vulgar, violent world of a caravan guardsman. But calliphony was as inseparable from the captain’s voice as blood from a living heart, and he could do nothing, try as he might, to make any utterance of his less than the loveliest you’d heard, or would ever hear, so long as you lived.
Captain attacked. It would seem safer to hang back from the point of another warrior’s spear, and in particular that spearpoint which tracked so closely, punished so fiercely, every instant of proximity, addering in and out with venomous speed, one bite sufficient to kill. Men—nearly every man—had to work up the nerve to skip in close, thrust once and fast, and then skip backwards again, not caring so much whether they’d gotten the kill, just glad to be alive. Demane fought that way, certainly. The captain, however, lunged in close enough to deal death easily, or catch his own, and never quit such closeness until someone fell dead, never yet him.
The captain’s single spear seemed two, even at times three. It darted from the billowing folds of his dark robe with murderous speed and accuracy. Demane scrambled from the thrusts, blocked the slashes. Scarcely could he steal a moment to gasp for breath between attacks. At this pace, defense was the best he could do, offense out of the question.
Then—lightly as a brush of lips—the blunt mount of Captain’s spear tapped the base of Demane’s throat.
Absurd control! Captain could have won the bout at any moment from the first. His own breath bellowing in his ears, Demane could hardly make out the brothers’ raucous encouragement.
“Where’s your fire today, Sorcerer?” So exquisite was the manner of Captain’s speech, meaning of his words was easily missed. “Keep that spear up, and centered here or here.” He tapped his chest, his belly. “And you can hardly win, can you, if you just block and flee?” To hear was like to see a majestic view of mountains; or for the first time, some city teeming with its thousands—such a chill and creep of gooseflesh as that, such wonder . . . “So attack me, man. Attack!”
Next bout. Demane bullied in closer as Captain had often advised him to do, and there his greater strength and heavier spear seemed to tell. Either Demane fought better, or the captain began to tire at last from his mad exertions. They made the same attack, spears harpooning in. Demane parried. The captain spun aside, but coming too near. Without thinking, Demane threw a punch of the sort that cracks a skull, snaps the neck. But didn’t connect—for Captain leaned back easily from that fist, his face just beyond the knuckles. Even so, the spontaneous strike earned Demane a rare “Good!” and a glissando of surprised laughter, Captain’s body releasing the thrill-scent of a fearless man just brushing death.
Right at that moment, the swaddling cloth slipped from Demane’s spearpoint.
There was no moment to disarm the spear again, for Captain, careless that he faced a live spearpoint, jabbed his own shaft with killing force, pressing the offense. Caring in the captain’s stead, Demane gave way and offered only defense. Long practice, however—and Captain’s own masterful training—had ingrained new reflexes in Demane. Those quick feet—always so sure—chanced to stumble, and caution could not quite check the instantaneous drive of Demane’s spear.
The captain should have, as always before, made a light-footed sideways spin. But, as never before, Captain faltered a second time, flat-footed in just the right position to die.
Two things occurred: one thought, one action.
Demane pulled the strike, of course—hauling back and jerking it aside with violence sufficient to knock himself over. Even so, the blade pierced the captain’s robe and some flesh too. And Demane’s thought?
He did that on purpose.
Captain tossed his head, meaning Get up. Demane didn’t rise, staying sprawled on the ground. There was never any time or space for open talk between them, so they’d learned to say a great deal with expression alone. Demane would not play, not with these rules; he made that clear to Captain. Whose face hardened, whose blunted spear darted forwards, a blow that would not feel nice. For the captain held firmly that any insubordination from a man under his command was best answered with the hardest of knocks. Bandits and corsairs, intent upon murder, hadn’t hit Demane so hard as this man.
Would Captain knock the wind from him? A gut-blow? Or would the steel base crack against his forehead, raising an egg? A strike to the mouth, bursting a lip, chipping some tooth . . . ? The plunging spear halted a hair’s breadth above Demane’s navel—content, today, to mime the blow and deal none. Captain wins!
Demane knocked the shaft aside. “Isa! Did I hurt you?” He got up. “Why did you—?”
“Call me Captain.” He wound a fist in his loose robe, pressing the wadded cloth to his side. “Don’t get your people mixed up, brother.” Sun in his eyes, the captain had pretext by which to turn about, his back now to the brothers’ shouts: facing Demane and winning them a moment’s semiprivacy. The aspect of cruel command left the captain’s face, abruptly as if he’d removed a mask. No one had ever looked so changed! There was a deep story here, some great wrong done: how had this man meant only for the gentle and the good been conscripted into service of violence and pain?
You cannot fix the whole world’s pain, Demane; there’s too much. But what about one man’s, Aunty? Can I do that much?
“Listen, D.,” Captain sang not in his customary register, stonehills,1 but in the one Demane liked, far lovelier. “Would you help me with something?”
“Yeah, but why—and let me see—”
“Stop, man.” Captain brushed the hand away. “It’s just a scratch. Listen to me.” He said such things as—See to the others, I wasn’t hurt; it’s nothing; I’m fine; I don’t feel it—turning aside all help, although he knew, for Demane had warned him the first day the
y’d met, that all lies were barefaced to Demane’s hypersenses. Scent testifies against a liar, and subtle flinches; a stuttering pulse and mistimed blinks, the tremors and halts of the voice: there were a thousand tells . . . Demane couldn’t help but know truth from falsehood.
The captain faced about again, so all could see him. No longer fey, his face resumed a falcon’s arrogance. “Tell the brothers they’d best behave in the Station. At Mother of Waters, the fort soldiers don’t play. If the fo-so are called out because some brother is wilding, the caravanmaster pays a fine in silver full-weight. You know what Suresh will say then. Leave that fool here at the edge of the desert, with nothing, or maybe he’ll say, Let the brother come with us, but I’ll take it from his pay. Either way, it’s a bad outcome for that brother.”
Demane nodded. He watched to see whether a besoaking gleam would come through the cloth Captain held bunched to his side. Nothing would put him off if that robe showed wet.
“Oh,” said the captain, “and if I’m the one who catches some brother raising a ruckus . . .”
Where had that glimpse of surpassing peace gone? Now there was nothing to be seen in the captain but what long and bloody allegiance to war had made of him. If just he’d talk to the others, too, and let them come to know him truly; joke with the brothers sometimes, sit beside them in easy fraternity. Then there’d be no need to threaten a savage beatdown to get them jumping to obey him . . . ! Demane gave as much of this advice as he could: “All right, Captain; I’ll tell em. But—”
“Not the time or place. Are you going to set me on fire right here, D.? In front of everybody?”
Demane shook his head.
Hand pressed to his side, Captain jogged up to the Station.
“You almost got him! That was gold, my nigga. Not fake, not fool’s, not dross: GOLD. Nigga, it was some official shit you just did, almost beating the captain like that! That, my nigga, was straight up gold-plated LIKE SHIT.”
The Sorcerer of the Wildeeps Page 2