As I turned to mount, I saw Natalie blushing. Until that moment, it had not even occurred to me, in more than an intellectual sense, that the men were half-naked. Then, unfortunately, I could think of nothing else. My own cheeks heated, and I fumbled my rise to the saddle, catching my shoe in the hem of my divided skirts. (My self-conscious embarrassment was somewhat mitigated by seeing Mr. Wilker a bit pink in the ears himself—likely more for ladies being exposed to such a thing than for his own sake, as gentlemen see one another bare in many contexts. We had all known this would happen, the climate of the region being what it is, but knowing and experiencing were separate things.)
To cover for my loss of composure, I questioned Faj Rawango as we rode out of the dockside district and through Nsebu proper. Or rather, that was my intention; it soon devolved into a polite argument wherein each of us tried to insist upon using the other’s native tongue, with the result that he spoke to me in Scirling and I responded in Yembe. Languages have never been my métier, so I fear he had the better of me in the comparison of skill, but my experience in Vystrana had taught me that there is nothing like using a language on a regular basis to better one’s skill. I therefore persevered until Faj Rawango bowed in the face of my stubbornness and began answering me in Yembe.
We conversed on a variety of topics then, exploring as widely as my limited vocabulary and Faj Rawango’s instructions from his royal master would allow. The former was more of a restriction than the latter, but I soon discovered (through my customary curiosity and lack of discretion) that the political climate of Bayembe was not a suitable subject. The man did not chastise me for asking, but he showed a marked disinclination to speak about the movement of Ikwunde troops that had so spooked the new man at the Foreign Office, or even more generally about the expansionist ambitions of the inkosi, their ruler. Nor would he speak of the Talu, the “union” to the north that was, in truth, an empire by another name, assimilating its neighbours one by one. Clearly such matters were not for the likes of him to share with Scirling outsiders—even outsiders here for non-political purposes.
(Yes, I thought my stay in the region would be non-political. When you have finished laughing, you may proceed.)
We spoke instead of the men and women we passed, Faj Rawango giving me my first education in distinguishing one people from another, which in retrospect was at least as valuable to me as his political opinions would have been. Physical distinctions are, of course, often muddied by intermarriage, but enough patterns persist in that region to be of moderate use, and of course the apparel and ornament of each people has its variations. Nowhere, however, did I see anyone resembling Faj Rawango himself, and he deflected me when I asked. My suspicion that he was of foreign birth grew, but I did not press.
In this manner did we ride through the fortified gates of Nsebu and into the grass beyond.
These days the two places have run together into one indistinguishable city, but back then Nsebu and Atuyem were quite separate. The former had a small port district that had, up until fifty years ago, been all there was of the town. Increased trade had spurred its growth, and then the alliance between Scirland and Bayembe had seen the construction of the fort at Point Miriam, with the colony following soon after. Now Nsebu was a strangely hybrid place, creeping across the open ground toward the more aristocratic precincts of Atuyem.
These sit above Nsebu both socially and physically, on a plateau high enough to enjoy cooling winds, but near enough to the port to benefit from the trade; which is why Bundey n Mawo Nsori, the reigning oba a century before, had moved his primary residence there. Atuyem is further stratified between the lower town and the upper, which perches atop a rocky, flat-topped hill, the better to command a view of the surrounding countryside. The walls of the oba’s fortified residence rose higher still, a crown surmounting that stony head, and they shone gold in the afternoon light.
Much of that gold was metaphorical, an illusion created by the color of the soil used in building the walls and the warm glow of the sun. The highest tower within the complex, however, gleamed too brightly for mere dirt. The stories were untrue, that the oba of Bayembe lived in a palace of solid gold; but one tower, at least, had been plated in the substance.
It was a suitably impressive display of wealth—though one the oba perhaps regretted in a time of such conflict and greed. Then again, Bayembe’s gold was not what attracted interest from Satalu, Ikwunde, and Scirling alike. Iron was the prize those three lands sought to claim.
Around that central fortress spread the courtyards and compounds of his chief nobles, patriarchs of the various lineages that made up the aristocracy of Bayembe. These had, over the years, grown too numerous and extensive, crowding all others off the small hilltop, exiling the common folk to houses and shops gathered around the rocky skirts of the hill. Our little party attracted a great deal of attention as we rode through, for our escorts were clearly royal warriors, and Faj Rawango a high official; nor had Scirlings become so common here as to be unworthy of remark, as they were in Nsebu. Natalie and I drew particular commentary, Scirling ladies being very uncommon in any part of Bayembe.
I rode self-consciously, feeling the burden upon me of representing my race and my sex to these people. My clothing—travel wear that was simple to the point of tedium by Scirling standards—seemed fussy and overcomplicated here, designed for sensibilities and a climate foreign to this place. I knew my face was flushed and damp with sweat, and likely sunburnt despite the protection of my bonnet, and the gritty dust of these grasslands clung to me all over. As representatives went, I felt like a shabby one indeed.
We circled the base of the hill along what was clearly the main road, until we came to a gate built in the style of these lands: hard-pounded earth, decorated with bright tiles, and studded regularly with wooden struts that were, as I understood it, both internal supports and climbing aids for when the exterior needed repair. Here Faj Rawango conversed briefly and incomprehensibly with a guard, making it apparent just how much he had slowed and clarified his speech for my sake. Thus interviewed, we rode onward, and began our ascent of the hill at its gentlest point.
The Atuyem we traveled through now was entirely different. Instead of the clamour and crowds of the base, we passed the near-faceless walls of the lineage compounds, whose decorative tiles communicated a message beyond my skill to translate. Guards stood at the gates, and servants traversed the roadway, some of them bearing the shaded palanquins of their masters. Where the curtains were gauzy, I could glimpse dark shadows within, that sometimes stretched out gold-laden hands to twitch the fabric aside and study us directly. These stares were different from the ones before: to the nobles of the heights, we were not mere curiosities, but new variables in the political equation of their land. Whether our effect would be positive or negative had yet to be determined.
It was both a relief and a fresh source of tension to ride through the mighty gates of the oba’s own fortress, away from those measuring eyes. We dismounted in a front courtyard and were met by kneeling servants who offered up bowls of fresh, cool water with which to cleanse our faces and hands. Our escort stood at attention while we conducted our ablutions, then saluted and jogged once more out the gates.
In their place came a pair of what I guessed to be upper servants, one male and one female. “Rooms have been prepared,” our guide said. “These two will show you.”
The presence of two servants gave me a hint as to what we might expect. “Are our quarters separate?” I asked.
Faj Rawango nodded, with an impassivity I read to mean he had anticipated the question, but still thought me a simpleton for asking. “Men and women do not lodge together in the royal palace.”
I wondered what they would have done had Jacob been alive, and here with me. Were married couples given joint quarters, or did husbands have to arrange to call upon their wives? But that was hardly the sort of question I had come here to ask. “We intend to spend much of our time together,” I said instead. “O
ur work requires it.”
“Of course,” Faj Rawango said, all courtesy. “There are public areas.”
Where we could be watched, I supposed, for any hint of improper behaviour. I had hoped to leave that sort of thing behind in Scirland.
We suffered ourselves to be led away, Mr. Wilker in one direction, Natalie and I in another. Our new guide was an older woman, her hair faded to an iron-grey that reminded me of Scirland’s interests in this region. She led us through a honeycomb of courtyards and colonnades, until at last we climbed a set of stairs to a cool and airy room tiled in blue.
By now I was tired enough that my brain had become sulky about handling a foreign tongue, but I understood from the woman’s words that this was to be a shared residence for Natalie and myself. It was sparsely furnished by Scirling standards, with a few padded benches and stools of the kind that can be folded out of the way when not in use, and chests for our belongings. The bed was draped with gauzy curtains, the better to keep out troublesome insects while still allowing cooling breezes through. After the cramped conditions of the ship and the rigor of a long ride, it seemed to me like a small corner of heaven.
While Natalie asked after the bathing arrangement, I explored. One set of windows, covered with wooden laths hung on string, faced west, and looked out over a section of the palace that, by what I could see of the bustle therein, was a working area for servants. We had not, it seemed, been given terribly desirable quarters, however elegant the tiling.
The windows on the opposite side overlooked another of the myriad of courtyards that made up this palace. (Indeed, I was not far wrong in thinking of the place as a honeycomb; it was composed as much of open space as enclosed, and virtually everything of substance seemed to take place in the former. In a country as hot as Bayembe, fresh air is not only pleasant but necessary for survival.)
Our servant departed, and Natalie collapsed with a sigh on the bed—the benches there being far less suitable for collapsing upon than sophas and divans. “I promise I will say this only once,” she remarked, “but good Lord, the heat.”
(With all due respect to Natalie, whom I love as my own self, she lied. If I took a sip of gin every time she said that during the expedition, my liver would be foie gras.)
I gave in to temptation, sitting down on a bench and unlacing my boots. The coolness of the tiles beneath my bare feet was a blessing. “I can’t decide whether this is a good development or a bad one,” I said. “Has the oba brought us here to offer his assistance, or is he going to interfere?”
“Why would he interfere?” Natalie asked, reasonably. “I can’t see what he would gain by it, and he would risk antagonizing our fellow countrymen.”
“That might be reason enough. It would be minor antagonism at worst—I doubt the military and industrial gentlemen have much concern for our research—and so it would be a relatively safe way for the oba to show that he won’t be pushed around by Scirlings.” I scratched my fingers vigorously along my scalp. “One thing is certain; he has quite neatly separated us from most of our countrymen. Perhaps he thinks we’ll be less of a danger that way.” My fingers came away covered in sweat and grit, and I grimaced at them.
Natalie rolled over to regard me directly. “But we aren’t any kind of threat, are we?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t see how we could be.”
Later I would recall those words with a great deal of irony.
SIX
Meeting the olori—M. Velloin—My views on hunting—The uses of M. Velloin—Dinner at Point Miriam—Sheluhim—The worship of dragons
True to Faj Rawango’s words, there were public areas in which we could socialize with the opposite sex. Before we found them, however, we had to run a gauntlet of women.
The next morning (having dined alone and retired early the night before), Natalie and I sponged ourselves off, dressed in fresh clothing, and went downstairs in search of Mr. Wilker. Trying to follow what we thought was the proper path, we found ourselves in a courtyard full of ladies, all of whom fell silent at the sight of us.
We were, I own, shockingly out of place. Everyone else in the courtyard was Erigan, and dressed in patterned cotton wraps that looked a good deal more comfortable in that weather than our own stays and long-sleeved dresses. Such exotic creatures as a pair of Anthiopean women must, of course, draw attention. But there was, I felt, more to it than that: we had now entered waters not only foreign but political. We were not merely strangers; we were, as I had thought before, new variables.
It soon became apparent whose responsiblity it was to address the change in the local calculus. A woman sat on a low stool at the far end of the courtyard, watching us, and by the disposition of the people around her, she was clearly the most important in the group. Her features were of the sort Faj Rawango had identified to me as characteristically Mebenye: a low forehead and rounded jaw that gave her broad face an almost circular appearance. It was a friendlier shape than a more angular face might have been, but the set of her full mouth and the sharp regard of her eyes warned me not to read personality into physiognomy.
She gestured, and another woman approached us. Speaking in Yembe, she said, “Olori Denyu n Kpama Waleyim bids you come speak with her.”
Then I knew who had snared us. “Olori” was the title given to the oba’s lesser wives; we might translate it as “princess consort,” the position ranking below that of his principal wife or queen, who had the title ayaba. The current oba had three wives, I knew, but that was where my knowledge ended. Information on them had been hard to come by in Scirland, and what little I’d gleaned had to do with Idowi n Gemo Tagwi, the queen.
The only way to learn was to proceed. Natalie and I approached, until the olori held up one hand for us to stop, about four paces from her. She sat beneath a canopy of beaded and embroidered fabric, and her hair was braided with gold, a match for the jewelry that burdened her every limb.
I curtseyed to her as I might to the queen of Scirland, hoping either that other Anthiopean women had been here before me, or that the olori would independently recognize it as a gesture of respect. Scarcely had I risen from this, and Natalie beside me, when the woman spoke. “You are here alone?”
“No, olori,” I said, hoping I was unlikely to go wrong if I addressed her by her title. “Miss Natalie Oscott here is my companion, and we also came with a gentleman named Mr. Thomas Wilker.”
The pursing of her lips did not look impressed by this answer. “Your name. It is Isabella Camherst.”
“Yes, olori.” We must have been a topic of gossip before our arrival.
“Women of your people take the lineage name of their husband, yes? Then this man is not your husband. You came here alone.”
Too late, I understood. “I’m afraid my husband is dead.”
Her gaze flickered across my body. Looking for signals of mourning or widowhood, I supposed. “And his brother did not marry you?”
I thought of Matthew, and narrowly avoided laughing at the thought. “That is not our way, olori.” Tardily, the recollection came that Bayitists in some countries faithful to the Temple still followed such practices—often the ones who also took multiple wives—but I did not trust my command of the language to address so complicated a topic, nor was it particularly relevant. Scirlings did not do such things; that was enough.
“Mmmmm.” The olori showed no sign what she thought of this. She was, I suspected, a deeply political creature, who never showed much of anything unless it might bring her gain. I did not like her, but whether that was because her reserve hid any impulses I should fear, I could not tell.
Then she asked the question—the same question I have gotten dozens, nay, hundreds of times in my life, always with that same air of faint disbelief. “You are here for … dragons?”
“Yes.” She could be reserved all she liked; I made no effort to hide my enthusiasm. “We are scholars of dragons.” It was the closest I could come to saying “natural historian” in Yembe.
&
nbsp; “What is there to study? They are not gods or great heroes. They are not even livestock, or beasts of war. You cannot train them to be useful. Are you hunters?”
“Gracious, no!” The words burst from me. “That is—we have hunted dragons, Mr. Wilker and I have, though I suppose it would be more precise to say he did the hunting. I only drew the body afterward. But we are not hunters as I think you mean it, olori, killing them for sport or for trophies. We seek to understand them: their nature, their behaviour.”
Ordinarily this is the thread my conversational partners pursue, the (to them) incomprehensible question of why understanding the nature and behaviour of dragons is worth so much effort, if not for the purpose of killing them. Olori Denyu n Kpama Waleyim had other things on her mind. “Draw them? Then you are an artist?”
“I suppose so,” I answered, taken aback. “I’m much more of a scholar, really, but I do draw and paint. For my work.”
For some reason, this appeared to please the olori, though I could not imagine why. She put her hands on her knees with a self-satisfied air, nodding. It seemed to be a signal that our interrogation was done: other women began to speak then, and Natalie and I passed a pleasant (if mentally taxing) half hour conversing in Yembe. We only escaped by pleading the necessity of finding Mr. Wilker.
This gained us a guide, who showed us through the royal honeycomb to a more public courtyard. We found Mr. Wilker there, beneath the shade of a spreading tree, deep in conversation with another man.
I was not sure whether I should be surprised that his companion was Anthiopean. Foreigners were not all confined to the colonial districts of Nsebu, of course, but I had not expected them to seek us out so quickly. Or had Mr. Wilker sought him out?
He did not appear to be a military man. Blond of hair and reddish of whisker, he wore loose, practical clothing made out of the fabric the Isnatsi call khaki, not a woolen uniform. His fair skin was weathered to a solid brown, much seamed with lines, though I judged him not to be above forty. He had the fit look of an athlete, and I had no idea who he was.
The Tropic of Serpents: A Memoir by Lady Trent (A Natural History of Dragons) Page 6