Chapter Thirty Nine: Fade Into Acquaintances
You say I'm dead on the inside but it wasn't like you liked me for my sunny views on life –
So meet me on the bridge and we'll hand over our hostages: your dad's broken watch, a letter to your old address.
– Sam Griffiths
Of all the animals in the mansa's private zoo, Yue found herself most fascinated by the gazelle and the antelopes. They were such graceful studies in contrast: their corkscrew horns rose higher than she had ever dreamed they might, more sharply pointed than the picturebooks had ever suggested, and their lithe little bodies were all black and white and tan, so that they could be most clearly distinguished in motion by searching for that little flash of pure white, stark against the artificial bronze of their enclosure. The gazelle were small and fine-featured, while the antelope had long, sad faces, vaguely bovine in appearance, as though Yue had just whispered to them all of her woe and they knew no other way to sympathise.
At each enclosure, an attendant resplendent in blue kaftan would list some features of the animals, and their origins in the world, whether they had been captured in the wild by the mansa's team of elite hunters or whether they had been a gift from another mansa, another nation, another part of the world. Uzohola would translate these comments with some hesitation, the language of her native Manden seeming to trip her up more than the foreign tongues of the other mansadoms which she had interpreted so much more fluently. Did it remind her of her brother, Yue wondered, did the spectre of Uzokuwa linger along each phrase and word? If that was the case, Uzohola disguised it well. She was smiling pleasantly, even, though it was that kind of pleasant detachment that all of the Kingdom in Exile seemed to have perfected in their years as genteel fugitives. Liara was practising her own iteration of that same, cool expression now, regarding the animals with a look that suggested she wasn't really perceiving any of them, not as they were before them.
But of course, Yue thought ruefully, these animals probably weren't to Liara's liking. What would she prefer – something sleek and dangerous, a panther or a lion, something as beautiful as its teeth were sharp?
They were moving on.
"Baa kelen souroukou," this attendant was saying in that soothing, melodious voice they all seemed to share. Uzohola was quick to clarify that this meant Mansa Kifu Nygozi had more than a thousand heads of hyena on her private estate. They had been a gift from Mansa Jephté, on the occasion of the engagement of her male ward, Maseli – and it did not escape Yue's attention that Liz had blinked and recoiled a bit upon the pronouncement of that word, engagement, though whether it was the word alone or the idea that the dour Manden boy had a fiancée stashed away somewhere, Yue wasn't quite sure. It was slowly becoming easier to stitch together all of these names and relationships, to remember that Maseli and Tewedaji were siblings and wards to Kifu, who was Enhle's cousin on their mother's side, who was Demetri's uncle by marriage.
Power was inherited, Yue mused, always inherited. Not always by blood, of course – after all, Maseli and Tewedaji had been adopted into inheritance. What did that feel like, Yue wondered, to go from an ordinary existence to a position of such responsibility and obligation? Did they miss it sometimes, the scowling Daji and the sour-looking Maseli? Or, perhaps, was it a welcome reprieve from the kind of life they had experienced up to that point? They had become Nygozi, from whatever name they had held before; did that gall? Did it sound unfamiliar, when someone called for them?
She almost laughed at herself. Wasn't she in the Selection? Hadn't she joined a competition purposefully designed for precisely that purpose: for a strange kind of transformation? Wouldn't the One depart this contest, not as themselves, but as Liara Dunin, or Queen Eden, or…..
Yue Dunin didn't sound very pleasant, she mused, amusing herself with how reluctantly she admitted it even to her own mind. Queen Yue had a pretty ring to it, but queen – the term itself felt heavy, even as she merely weighed it on her tongue and permitted it no escape. Demetri Yukimura? Now, that sounded slightly more melodious. She couldn't keep herself from smiling as she thought it. That was a pretty name, if ever she'd heard one.
Beside her, Liara was regarding her as though there was a very real risk that the northern girl had simply gone mad. "Do you find the hyenas so amusing, Yukimura?"
She said, "I've been lost in a world of my own, Liara, I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry."
Liz agreed, from Yue's other side. "It's wonderful to see you smile."
They were walking along a narrow wooden walkway which spanned square metal platforms dotted about the mansa's estate at roughly equal intervals, each varying in height but almost always at least twelve metres in the air. Yue was grateful to have no fear of heights though, looking down at her ballet flats and, more importantly, at the ground far, far, far beneath them, she rather thought this experience would be sufficient to inspire such a phobia in the most daring of pilots. If there was a net stretched under them, prepared to catch anyone flat-footed enough to fall, then it would have had to be gossamer thin to not shimmer even the slightest bit under the unrelentingly harsh sun which bore down on them from above. The animals were all sunning themselves and moving about the fields lazily, looking well-fed and comfortable; they had their own little knots, their tight little clans, and the space was large enough that they did not need to interact with one another unless they desired to do so. Uzohola, a few steps ahead of them, was explaining to no-one – no, not no one, a raptly attentive Atiena – that the mansa's zoo was not only for decoration and entertainment, but was devoted to conservation and study. They had saved the Western giant eland from extinction, the attendant seemed to be explaining, increasing their population from under one hundred to over six hundred in the space of only fifty years.
"Extinction," Eden murmured from behind them, sounding almost despairing. "Please don't mention extinction."
Liz laughed. "Eden, do you remember you asked me to tell you if ever you were being dramatic?"
"Hmm," Eden said, as though this sufficed as an answer.
"Well," Liz began, "I'm afraid we might need to have a chat..."
"More of an intervention, really," Liara added.
Yue glanced ahead of them. Atiena and Uzohola were moving just ahead of them, Uzohola daring Atiena to extend a hand towards the enormous giraffes which had wandered over to inspect these new interlopers to their space, stepping between the comparatively tiny gazelle with a deceptively light-footed gait as they ran their soft muzzles across the underside of the walkway. "They won't hurt you," Uzohola was saying, "you're only at risk of getting licked, really..."
"A most unusual kind of threat," Atiena murmured with a chuckle.
Ahead of them, Demetri was walking with Tewedaji, who had already made him laugh with one of her dryly uttered witticisms. Yue was inordinately grateful to find no part of her hurting as she caught glance of it – at the focus Demetri paid to the pretty Manden girl, or the way he smiled, or the way Tewedaji purposefully leaned into him to gesture towards some aspect of the estate. The memory of him smiling at her on the beach – seeking her out – and saying you terrify me – that was enough to keep at bay all the self-criticism which usually would have rushed in to harangue her in such a moment. He was committing no crime. He was having a pleasant conversation with their host, showing kindness to someone who had been kind to them – well, Yue thought, remembering Daji's barbed comments about dresses and mistresses, perhaps it was more accurate to say someone whose mother had been kind to them.
She was really working entirely too hard to convince herself that she was fine to ever successfully convince herself that she was actually fine.
And then Demetri glanced over Daji's shoulder, and caught her eye, and smiled. She smiled back. Every part of her was abruptly, pleasantly, warm; she knew without need for a mirror that her cheeks were pink. When had seeing him started to relax her, rather than make her nervous? Dear god above, what a hostage he kept her.
They had caught up with Uzohola and Atiena, and took turns running their hands over the soft furred faces of the giraffes who had come to inspect them, admiring their enormous brown eyes and their long inky eyelashes – "they always remind me of Täj, those eyelashes," Uzohola murmured, and Liara had been surprised enough at this comparison to laugh in a manner which was not at all ladylike or elegant.
"Enviable," Liz agreed with a smile, "thank god he's not in this competition with us, we wouldn't have half a chance with Demetri..."
"Have we got half a chance now?" Eden murmured.
"Oh, a bit more than that," Atiena said, with a good dose of fake cheer.
"Two-thirds," Liara agreed, "at the very least."
"I've won Olympics with less," Yue said sweetly, and was rewarded with another gentle ripple of laughter amongst the Selected, bevied louder and higher by the fact that this kind of arrogance was so unexpected from little Yue Yukimura; the sudden din had Daji turning back as though to interrogate the source of all this sound. She really was extraordinarily pretty, Yue thought, but cold and focused in a way that didn't do much to endear her. Maybe Cor came across so, to strangers, unless you had the good fortune to win her favour early on. No doubt Daji had enough friends, without trying to make more here. Yue was still shocked that she had managed, and yet here she was, shoulder-to-shoulder with some of the most beautiful, most intelligent, most interesting girls she had ever encountered, and she had made them laugh. It was a golden feeling.
Demetri called, "what are you making a fool of yourselves over?"
"Täj's eyelashes," Liara shouted back lazily. The tension had ebbed out of her, very slowly, over the course of the day; she must have had a bad dream, Yue thought, and ached to think of what nightmares might haunt the Angeles girl, when the night drew down. Mordred had been her friend. Whatever else he had been, he had been her friend. How could she and Demetri sound so relaxed, and volley quips so, knowing what was happening in Angeles? It was a performance, perhaps, but a good one, certainly.
"I'm hurt." He shook his head. "That you've left me out of such a vital conversation."
Eden shot back, "have you strong opinions on the matter, Demetri?"
"Oh, the very strongest."
"Very well," Liz said, "we'll adjourn for later discussion. Bring your strong opinions to dinner, won't you?"
"Do you think Uzohola's grandmother would appreciate such a debate?"
Yue smiled. They were dining with the Ndlovukazis that evening? She had imagined that it would be another stilted meal with the mansa, as they had shared on the beach that afternoon, full of wonderful food and hesitant conversation, as they wondered how much they could say in the company of their temporary hosts. When had they accumulated so many secrets? It was so strange, she thought, to feel so embedded into the Kingdom in Exile – as a tick burrowed into an animal? Was she a part of it, or a parasite on it? She shook her head and dismissed this thought as best she could. Liz would never ask herself such a question; Liara would scoff at the very idea of wondering; Eden would say, "what does it matter, either answer?" They were the Selected, the Elite.
They were, she was coming to realise, Demetri's friends.
As they continued towards the final platform and the little ladder hanging from it which led back towards the blessed ground, Daji paused and pointed at the pride of lions lazing a few hundred yards away from their walkway, separated from the giraffes by an imperceptible electric fence. She said, "Kifu asked me to have you name them. They're new; gifts from Enhle for our hospitality this week."
Demetri said, "how many of them are there?"
"Twelve, Demetri."
"Well, then," he said, "one for each of my inner circle, and one for each of my Elite."
Beside Yue, Liz was doing a silent count on her fingers: demetri, wick, täj, uzohola, thiago, klahan, vardi tayna, eden, yue, liara, liz… Only eleven.
Demetri seemed to have belatedly realised this as well. He added, belatedly, "Raphael as well, then, that's a good name for a lion."
Yue flinched to hear the name. But he wasn't wrong. Raphael, and all her golden hair, and her strong, broad-shouldered physique – yes, Yue mused, a lion was just right, just perfect. It suited all of the inner circle, truth be told, although she thought that the comparison rather wore a little thinner when it was applied to the narrow band of Selected that remained.
As they reached the ladder, Daji descended first, followed by Uzohola and Atiena, and then by the Selected. Yue lingered on the platform, to be the last down, and delighted silently in the way that Demetri gently bumped her shoulder to get her attention as they waited for Liz to clear the halfway mark.
"Did you have a good time?"
"A wonderful time," Yue said.
Demetri said, thoughtfully, "I'd never seen an elephant before."
"Never?" She blanched. How could that be? There was a small herd of them in the Central Angeles Zoo – she had gone to see them many times as a child, when she was in town for a competition. She had seen them in Cambodia as well, when she had travelled there for an international skating exhibition, and exhilarated to see them in the wild.
"Never. The General's family had a history of kwan chang and he always said that he would bring me back to Thailand with him to see them in the wild, when the war was over."
The war was not yet over. And the General was dead. Yue touched his sleeve, very gently, and said, "kwan chang?"
"Elephant trainers."
Now there was an image, but a strange one – the General seemed such a consummate soldier, in every story told of him, in every photograph in which he appeared, that the idea of him as something so different, so bound to nature, was anathema. Yue said, "it's all a bit sad, isn't it? Seeing them hemmed in like this? Caged so?"
Demetri said, "it's probably better than the alternative."
"Longer lived?"
"Better fed."
Yue said, slightly dramatically, "don't, please, make it into a metaphor. Eden's already tried, and we've bullied her accordingly."
Demetri smiled. "you're a merciless bunch."
"Terrifying," Yue said softly, remembering his words on the beach. Liz was on solid ground now, just a dot on the earth, all red hair and blue dress. "Well, we've studied hard in our time with you."
With you. Why had she phrased it so intimately? She didn't have time to question it; Demetri was too quick to agree with her, which never really allowed the self-doubt to creep in as it otherwise might. "I would be delighted, if I hadn't liked you so much as you were."
She smiled. "Well, a little toughening up was inevitable. Atiena is determined to make soldiers of us yet."
Demetri said, as though something had just occurred to him – "oh. I had something arrive for you, actually. Can I come by tonight?"
Tonight. That would mean her room, wouldn't it? One part of Yue thrilled at the suggestion; the other rather bristled, for a pronouncement like this from Demetri meant that she wouldn't see him until tonight. He'd pick Eden or Liara or Liz for all the public-facing elements – as he had picked Liz for the camel rides earlier – and slip by only to spend time with Yue when no one was looking. They still hadn't had that date together, even a paltry date. What had he said, the night of Enhle's party: "is it so wrong for me to want something for myself? Not for the world?"
"Not at all. But am I a thing?"
Her words withered on her lips as she looked at him. His brother was dead or dying, somewhere across a vast and inhospitable ocean, and he was asking to give her something – something he had managed to procure even here, living on the edge of a foreign nation like a beggar court – and he was asking to see her, and Yue's heart had never truly managed to harden, not in all her time with the Kingdom in Exile, not even a little bit.
She said, cocking her head, "can I sit next to you at dinner?"
And that smile. He said, "please do. Uzohola's family petrifies me."
Yue almost laughed, but then thought of Uzokuwa. Hmm, "I find it hard to think any relative of Uzo's could be scary."
"Not scary," he said, "just terrifyingly intelligent. I can never keep up with their conversations."
Yue said, feigning sorrow, "ah, I see. But you can talk to me just fine..."
Demetri rolled his eyes. "Will you go down the ladder, Yukimura, or will I have to push you?"
She might have tried to make a joke here about falling for him, if she wasn't worried about the ring of truth that might permeate it – so she said instead, simply, "don't you dare," and started the long, slow descent back to earth.
The Ndlovukazi family compound were a set of broad, earthen buildings, corralled by thick sand-coloured walls onto which had been painted a set of neatly painted blue and red geometric patterns, twined with little yellow flowers which seemed to have escaped from Uzohola's grandmother's garden. This was a more normal part of the Saharan Federation than any the Selection had glimpsed before; this was Manden as Manden people knew it, with all the mundaneity and rhythm that title implied. There were children sprinting to make it home before dinner, and women leaning out of their doorways to exchange what scattered words they could manage, and men perched on stools outside the gateway to their compounds peeling vegetables or washing their shoes or smoking cigars, watching the little narrow procession of the Selected making their way towards the Ndlovukazi with slightly apprehensive expressions. Eden couldn't blame them; she was sure that, even if they didn't recognise the Kingdom in Exile by sight alone, there was a short list of candidates for the identity of the tight pack of white and Asian guests moving slowly down the avenue.
Uzokuhlenga had come to greet them at the train station, on their way back from the mansa's private zoo. Though he was nomarch in Masr, and held his family compound there in a considerable degree of luxury with his mother Uzahambile and his young son, Ngomthandazo, he had agreed to come south to help the Selected with translation efforts, and, Eden suspected, to help smooth over any thorny conversations which arose when Uzohola encountered her family as a granddaughter for the first time, having gone away so many years ago as a grandson. It was not something Eden had considered as a potential issue, truth be told, until she had seen how nervous the co-ordinator became when the issue of gender segregation came up, or the Selected were chivvied towards women's space, or Uzokuhlenga took her hand as they descended from the train and it became obvious that Uzohola's knuckles had gone grey-white with tension.
"It'll be alright," Atiena had murmured, and taken the co-ordinator's hand, and Uzohola had smiled at her like a woman on the verge of drowning in her own anxiety.
"It will be," she said, "it will be. This is home."
They were in Uzohola's native Bàmako, the largest of large cities, nearly eight hundred and fifty million people strong, landlocked and central and green, greener than people knew the Federation could be. It was, indeed, green, many parts of it; every home had trees hanging over the edges of their walls, potted flowers and vines overflowing their windowsills. And despite the enormous scale of the city – the train had shot through mile upon mile of urban sprawl on its way here, more city than Eden could ever remember glimpsing before, a whole Illéa worth of asphalt – this felt like such a neighbourly place, like some lost remnant of Layeni had been transplanted here and nurtured, painstakingly, into blooming. The long avenues piled atop one another, tangled and undulating; she wasn't sure they were heading in the right direction until, ahead of them, there was a piercing whistle and a long silhouette leaned from a painted red gateway to wave enthusiastically in their direction.
Irozi Ndlovukazi was as tall and thin and elegant as her granddaughter; she wore her dreadlocks almost to her waist, and was wearing a long silk dress in the same distinctive bright waxprint that Liz had worn to the welcome banquet at Enhle's palace – this one was patterned red and black, a sartorial choice which made her brown eyes look exceptionally russet and her black hair look exceptionally ebony. She was lingering on the threshold of the compound as they approached, and opened her arms wide as she stepped forward to greet them. "Ahhhhh, sanibonani, sewudlile, Uzohola yami?"
Eden didn't need to know the language to understand what Irozi was asking her granddaughter – it was a greeting that rather transcended any difference of grammar or vocabulary. Pa had always greeted her similarly, hadn't she? Come in, girl, have you eaten? She forced down the part of her that came rushing and whispering and asking why Pa jumped to mind for this comparison rather than Eden's own flesh-and-blood mother, the woman who had raised her, the woman who could be dead or dying or maimed, killed by the people whose company Eden now kept – now, enthusiastically, kept.
Uzohola flushed red along her cheekbones, and accepted her grandmother's embrace with a broad white smile, even as she murmured softly that the king should always be greeted first in such mixed company. Irozi was dismissive of this idea – "isn't this your dinner, isn't this your homecoming?" – but did as her granddaughter had bid, and offered Demetri a short, formal bow, keeping a firm grasp on Uzohola's forearm as though she feared that the rebel might disappear like so much mist twisting in the wind if she didn't maintain a tight hold on her. "Thank you for your visit, Demetri."
"Ugogo," Uzohola said in soft reproach, though the adoration with which that simple phrase was pronounced left little room for genuine criticism. She drew out that last sound: goooooo. Eden wasn't sure if she could relate to the genuine feeling with which Uzohola had imbued the word, like she hadn't believed she would ever have occasion to say it ever again. "Not Demetri. Your Majesty."
Irozi said, "he isn't my Majesty. You won't take offence, will you, Demetri?"
"Not at all," Demetri said, with a smile. "Please. Demetri is perfect."
"Come in, all of you. Uzohola, the family is dying to meet you."
Uzohola reached for Demetri; despite all that had passed between them – despite her brother's betrayal, despite the distance that had stretched between them in their time here in the Federation, despite the wary mistrust with which they had regarded one another for these long days past, Demetri took her outstretched hand, and squeezed it, and looked at her reassuringly. "They all know, don't they?"
"They know. They couldn't care a whit." Irozi had a lovely melodic accent, like the youngest wife in Enhle's harem, Yoni; it sounded, even when she hesitated and chose her words carefully, like she was reciting poetry. "We've made your favourite."
"La Capitaine Sangha?"
"Just as you liked it." Irozi smiled slyly, and leaned into her granddaughter to murmur more softly. "Nami ngenzele abelungu ukudla."
Demetri said, "I'll refrain from offence."
"My apologies, Demetri. I didn't know you spoke iZulu."
"I don't," Demetri said, "but I've known your granddaughter for many years. I know the word for white people."
"And I bemoan it often," Uzohola said, smugly. "Come in, everyone. We're going to have such a wonderful evening."
She was right. All of Uzohola's relatives seemed to be as lanky as she; there were only a handful of shorter relatives, usually married in, and a few with the same broad-shouldered build as Uzokuwa, though lacking that man's brusqueness or thorough scarring. They were a friendly bunch, and loud; Eden's family had been a small trio, rarely sharing more than a single meal per week, and more prone to murmured gossip and hissed criticisms than the kind of exuberant greetings and jovial banter that reigned supreme on this occasion. There were too many people for even Irozi's enormous kitchen to contain, and had to spill out into the courtyard, to the scattered collection of wooden dinner tables which had been gathered around the concrete fountain that otherwise dominated the space. Uzohola was being spiralled around the garden for hugs and for interrogations, aunties alternatively cooing over her lovely long hair and enquiring about her life on the run, both pronouncements as casual as a discussion about the weather.
The Ndlovukazis were doing an admirable job of speaking English for their guests but, truth be told, Eden didn't mind so much when they slipped back into the lovely mix of dialects and languages which seemed to make up every Federation gathering. There was something so peaceable about not being thought about, about slipping into the background, about becoming just another part of the milieu. She had spent many long weeks and months as Eden the Selected, Lahela the traitor, the scion of the Axiom – now, she was simply Uzohola's foreign friend, among a whole group of Uzohola's foreign friends, and it was a delightful kind of relaxing to allow the pretty co-ordinator to soak up the spotlight while the Selected scarfed down the peanut butter stew and the chilli-and-banana perch fish and positively caramelised jollof rice, and danced to the kora harp and the ngoni lute that Uzohola and Uzokuhlenga were bullied into playing on as the dusk closed down over the day, and took turns downing short glasses of a drink that was enough like ginger beer that the harsh burn of alcohol was all the more startling when they tasted it.
Yue had managed two shots in a row, and Uzohola's cousins were drumming the table impatiently to urge her to try a third. Yue was protesting feverishly, searching about the table for a friendly face who would allow her some reprieve, but laughing as well even as a third shot was poured, shaking her head, urging Liara to take it for her. "Nah, nah, nah," Liz was saying, "go, Yue, go – " and then there was a raucous burst of laughter as Yue tipped back her head, most reluctantly, and found that it had been plain guava juice. "You bastards," Yue said, and it was such a novelty to hear Yue swear that Eden found herself laughing alongside the others.
"Where's Demetri?" Liara enquired. "Poor Yue shouldn't suffer alone..."
Yue nodded determinedly. "Don't make me suffer alone."
Eden rose from the table. She had been lost in her own melancholy for time enough; it might be good to stretch her legs, and get some fresh air, and explore a little more of Uzohola's childhood home. She was starting to understand why the inner circle had clung to Layeni so; so many of their memories of home must have been warm, like this. Irozi had lit lanterns overhead, so that the courtyard was awash with red-orange light, and there was tall black braziers spaced out around the square offering what little heat was needed to keep back whatever chill might attempt to creep in alongside the encroaching Manden dusk.
Like the chateau in which the Selection were staying, the Ndlovukazi living room opened directly onto the courtyard; it was a square room with a low ceiling, floored with a scarlet red rug, and filled with the youngest generation of the family, watching a dubbed movie on the television in the corner of the room. Eden offered them a shy little "sanibonani", and was answered by a loud chorus in kind, Uzohola's nephews and nieces and toddler cousins leaping up and down to answer this strange greeting from this even stranger girl. It was sweet, Eden thought, and reminded her so much of her interactions with the Anchorite children in the Wastelands markets, the children she would photograph and ask to verify her pictures as ados or not ados.
Eden was starting to realise that she might have a soft spot for children, now that it came to it.
She ducked into the corridor, and found that this particular building had, of all things, its own little bar. It wasn't much – not compared to some of the private drinks cabinets she had glimpsed in the homes of the Angeles elite – but it was a nice little earthen room near the rear of the house, with a long mahoghany counter separating a set of bar stools from the shelves on which had been stocked several generations' worth of alcohol.
"A remnant of old days," Uzokuhlenga said, ruefully. Eden hadn't even realised that he was here, until he had spoken; he was standing behind the counter, pulling a bottle of whiskey off the shelf, looking like he had grown quite organically from the walls themselves, which were painted with the same geometric triangles which adorned his kaftan. "During the Inguquko dynasty, alcohol was prohibited. Many houses installed their own bars, to subvert such laws."
Eden said, "your family isn't religious, I suppose?"
He smiled, but it was Demetri – golden Demetri, who only seemed pale when, as here, he was shrouded by the artificial gloom into which the early dusk had plunged the room – who answered. "Oh, they pray plenty. But not to anyone in particular."
"We hedge our bets," Uzokuhlenga said smoothly, "can you imagine if we committed to something now, and was proven wrong when it mattered most?"
Eden laughed. "I can't argue with that one, I suppose."
Uzokuhlenga leaned over the counter, and gestured that Eden should move closer; she did so, noting the amused glint in Demetri's eye as the Saharan nomarch said, "your friend, Atiena – is there anything I should know?"
Eden hesitated, purposefully, her eyes tracing a slow path over Demetri. He looked drawn and tired, less his usual golden than a strange kind of wheaten fair; if she hadn't known better, she might have mistaken him for some kind of a faded version of himself. She said, finally, sweetly, "nothing at all. Shoot your shot, Kuhlenga. I wish you well."
He smiled. He really was a handsome man, Eden mused; his dreadlocks were much longer than Enyakatho's had been, which gave him a distinguished and elegant look; he had long, vaguely feline eyes and very dark skin that seemed to glow in this faint dusk. Poor Atiena, she thought – and, as he departed with his chosen bottle of spirits, Demetri added, "poor Uzokuhlenga."
Eden arched an eyebrow.
"False hope is an awful thing to give to a man."
Eden said, "the alternative, too, is cruelty."
"When you put it like that," Demetri said, "I rather don't see the point of saying anything anymore."
"You've been drinking." Eden eased herself up to the bar stool next to him, hooking her ankles around its lower rung so that she could maintain her balance as she leaned over the counter and grabbed a bottle of barva wine from the other side of the bar. "I'm not against it in theory, but..."
Demetri cocked a brow. "You wouldn't begrudge me this much, would you?
"I'd begrudge you wasting an opportunity," Eden said. "Where's Enyakatho?"
"I can't say that I keep track of the man's every movement."
"He should be here." Eden poured herself a glass, enjoying the way the bright emerald liquid bounced about the crystal tumbler. "This is propaganda gold. You know Liz did a backflip earlier?"
"Not sure what that would be propaganda for," Demetri said, in an exaggeratedly dubious tone of voice that had Eden smiling, even as the barva wine proved disappointingly out of season and crushingly bitter, like it had been laced with cyanide when no one was looking at it. "But your point is taken." He shook his head. "You know, I remember when you called yourself a journalist."
"Things change," Eden said.
"So they do."
There was a long, sad pause.
Demetri said, slowly, deliberately, "my choices are narrowing."
He spun the glass. Eden watched it spin in a juttering spiral, wavering dangerously close to the edge of the table each time, the light from the dusk painting it yellow-honey along the edge. The liquid within was dangerously golden; she said, "your choices?"
"Ouch," he said mildly. But he did not protest the appellation. He was not in the habit of protesting against the truth – not when they were both able to recognise the truth, of course. She rather thought he'd lie to her through his teeth if he thought he could get away with it.
Eden said, "do you remember what we spoke about?"
He grimaced. "How could I forget?"
She set a hand gently on his forearm, abruptly realising how thin he had become over the last few months; she could feel every cord of muscle moving beneath his shirt, clearly trace the shape of his veins and bones from under his sallow skin. She said, softly, "am I so awful?"
She had worried, earlier in the day, that she had overplayed her hand with Demetri; she had wondered whether she had put her whole family at risk by laying out her cards as she had. But she still had people to protect, and, every day that the Selection dragged on, that list grew longer and longer – it was no longer simply Mother and Father, Fatimeh and Brooks and Maldonado; it was Pa and Enyakatho, Yue and Liara and Liz, Soledad and Opal and – yes, some part of her loathed to admit it, and Uzohola and maybe even Raphael, if she was still alive, if she could possibly, in any world, be still alive, but yes, Demetri as well, Demetri also. Demetri might have murdered her mother, undone all her reasons for being here, composed all her family's ruination with that sad, golden smile of his.
And yet, she knew, if she was taken back to the capital tomorrow, she'd argue for his life.
He said, "not so awful."
"Worse than false hope?"
He said, "no better, certainly."
He drained his glass, and set the glass down on the envelope he had been contemplating. Its face had been etched with a distinctive chickenscratch, in no set of characters or alphabet that Eden had ever encountered. Him and his letters, Eden mused, thinking of the letters she had found at Pa's. It was hard to look at him now without thinking of the desperation in those letters, the open adoration he had shown Raphael, the strange sadness and despair that had permeated every single letter: please don't forget me please forgive me please don't forget what we were i still love you no matter what happens…. Would Yue still look at him with those big, sad eyes of hers, if she knew that this strange, indecisive, cold version of himself was not the only way that Demetri knew how to be? That he was clearly capable of loving as openly and as honestly as any Selected girl could be forgiven for hoping?
Eden said, "I'll try not to take it personally."
"Don't." He smiled at her.
"I said I'll try."
"I've never known you to fail at something you've tried before, Lahela."
Eden rapped the counter gently. "You know, we seem to have gone backwards there. I was so happy to finally be Eden."
"I express affection via surname, you know."
She said, "so I should start calling you Dunin?"
"No," he said, "certainly not. Anything but that."
They returned to Masr late that night; though the Ndlovukazis had valiantly attempted to keep them there overnight, offering spare rooms plenty and the tempting offer of a barbecued breakfast in the morning, Demetri had been uncharacteristically insistent about getting back to Enhle's mansadom, and uncharacteristically withdrawn as they retreated down the avenue, even as the Selected girls marvelled at the food and the music and the dancing they had enjoyed the whole evening long. Eden had dyed her lips emerald with sour barva wine, and smeared it onto her hand to mark the other girls' faces with it as well, etching a little green heart onto Yue's check and a pointed star onto Liara's and two neat X's on Liz's, like two kisses at the end of a letter.
Uzohola had bid them goodbye at the doorway of the family compound, almost giddy with glee. "Are you sure it's alright?" she had murmured, in a tone of face that suggested she rather didn't want to be told otherwise. "I'll return tomorrow – just a little more time with them..."
Demetri hadn't said anything, only nodded and walked away, pausing a few strides down the road to turn, and return, and hug her, tight enough that there was some risk he might break her, and say, "I'm glad this went well, Uzo. You deserve the whole world."
She had seemed on the verge of tears as they left; Liz hoped, desperately, that they were tears of happiness. As they returned to the train, and cut a rapid path back across the Federation, Atiena produced a pack of cards to deal a hand to each of the Selected girls, and Demetri sat in the corner of the carriage, staring out the window. As they left the bright lights of Bámako behind, the window slowly silvered into a mirror, so that it seemed like he was just gazing thoughtlessly at his own face, ceaselessly, even as the girls chatted and laughed on the other side of the space.
Liz wasn't sure why she couldn't tear her eyes away. The transformation had been so abrupt; she felt like she was trying to divine the weather by the colour of the clouds at dawn. Now, similarly, there was something brewing. She hadn't recognised it at Layeni; she hadn't recognised it at the safehouse. But here, and now, there was something on the horizon –
and Demetri was scared.
She lingered behind as the train coasted into its place at the edge of the chateau property, within sight of the squat little guardhouse in which Atiena had taken to spending many of her nights. Yue was busy trying to convince her to come inside for a cup of tea before she retreated to an overnight watch, clearly banking on the idea that the taller girl would be reluctant to return to a cold evening in the guardhouse once she was in the warmth of the chateau. Eden and Liara were speaking softly, about nothing in particular, and Demetri was trailing them all, a spectre of green and faded gold, as Liz lingered, taking time with each step, until she had eventually fallen back to walk in lock-step with the silent beggar king.
He said, low and intent, "Liz."
"You don't need to talk."
A ghost of a smile, which she knew he did not mean. "Alright then."
They walked in silence. In the undergrowth which lined either side of the avenue, tropical songbirds whose names and plumages Liz had no scope of reference for twittered softly and shifted their weight; there were cicadas chirping their tunes in the grass on the verge; there was still a dry warmth clinging to the night, which seemed to have started earlier in Manden, despite its location vaguely west of them. That was backwards, wasn't it? Liz was trying to picture a map. They usually caught the night after Angeles did; she remembered driving with her grandfather back from a market in Fennley, and raising the sunset as they did so, leaning out the window to watch the shadows slowly grow and eclipse the truck even as Donald put his foot flat to the mat and ran every red they hit between here and home. There had not been any other cars on the roads, but it had nonetheless felt a crime; her mother had warned her afterwards that it had been senseless. You can break the rules when it matters, Lizzie, but only when it matters. Only when it matters much.
As the guardhouse sloped out of the shadows, two silhouettes slowly grew detached from them and coalesced into shapes of their own, independent of the gloom which surrounded them. Maseli Nygozi had been held in Masr for all the time that Demetri was not within its borders – it was an old tradition for the Federation, but one dearly valued. For as long as Demetri was here, he was to be treated like a son by Enhle and Ulpia, and if a son of a mansa entered the territory of another, there had to be some kind of an exchange of equivalents – a hostage, Liara had said, quite critically, even as Demetri had smiled blithely and dismissed the term as needlessly harsh. "Just a safeguard."
Would Kifu have done anything to hurt them, if she and Enhle hadn't exchanged sons so? Liz somehow doubted it. The mansa of Manden was a straight-faced, serious woman, but she didn't seem reckless – but then, neither had Uzokuwa.
Maseli seemed to be in his usual fine form, which was to say that he was scowling, arms folded. He didn't speak to Demetri as the Selected approached, only extended his hand to drop something golden into his hand – a tiny gold-and-emerald scarab, Liz saw, the seal of Enhle's throne. Demetri returned the favour by handing Maseli the seal of Kifu's, a woven coin overlaid on one side with gold leaf embossed by the symbol of a bow and arrow.
"Did he take good care of you?" Demetri enquired softly.
Maseli and the pale man exchanged looks. Liz hadn't realised that it had been days since she had seen Täj – she certainly hadn't expected to see him now, but he seemed to have coalesced from the darkness itself to stand here now, Demetri's strange mirror in the way that he seemed to wear the king's exhaustion on himself, like he was trying to share the burden of that weariness by portioning it out. He looked rather as Liz had felt, in those first long weeks after Wyatt had died: the first few days had been for shock, a kind of coldness and disbelief, a refusal to acknowledge the idea that he was gone for good. The first weeks, then, had been for bone-deep grief and the knowledge that, yes, he had been lost and the world had been tilted off its axis and nothing was ever, ever, ever going to feel as it had. Like learning to read everything in italics, that realisation.
Maseli said, at last, "you have a most dull retinue, Illéa."
"That is the first time I've ever been insulted like this, Manden." Demetri smiled. "May we always be described so."
He moved past Maseli slowly, exchanging no words with Täj, which wasn't really like either of them; Liara, too, had lingered, and looked at Täj for a long moment, and then followed Demetri and Yue up the path in silence. Liz was about to follow them when Maseli put out his hand, and caught her by the arm.
The gesture was an abrupt one, though for all that abruptness it certainly could not be called violent or rough – it was simply brusque. She rather had the impression that he hadn't been certain of doing this until this very moment, like the urge to stop her had rather overwhelmed him in the split second that he had stopped her.
He said, low and intent, "Liz."
All princelings sounded the same, it would seem; all heirs had a certain way of saying her name. Liz. Had Maseli ever called her Liz before? Was he permitted to do so?
And she looked at him, and was surprised by the earnest concern in those big dark eyes of his. He said, urgently, "there will be a massacre tonight. Tell your king."
"Maseli?"
"He won't believe me. Tell him. You must leave tonight."
He released her, and moved down the path; Liz spun to face the direction in which he had gone, to shout in his wake, but Atiena was already calling for her up at the chateau and – Liz's throat constricted – would he have lied?
Really, why would he lie? About this, like this? There will be a massacre tonight. Unbidden, the image of Layeni swam to the midst of Liz's mind's eye. God, no. How much more could they be expected to take? How much more could they be expected to lose?
She murmured, softly, more to herself than to him, "abaraka", and then she followed Atiena's voice quickly up the path, towards the chateau. Demetri, she thought determinedly, she had to talk to Demetri.
Maybe this was why he had looked so sad, all the evening long – like the world was about to collapse around him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
"Liara?"
That whisper could have been conjured from her dreams. Hadn't she dreamed of this, all the long evenings? He had been at Mordred's piano, wearing Mordred's face; he had worn Bryce's bruises, and looked at her as he had, half-hateful and half-infatuated; he had been in Demetri's clothes and standing in Demetri's place, staring at the ashes under his boots and smoking – that damned, constant, smoking.
He said again, "Liara?"
Liara woke. Like an arc of moonlight diffracted along the glass edges of her bedroom door, the silver shape of Täj was lingering, as though he could not cross the threshold without permission. That sounded like a Saran line, didn't it – she had accused Täj of drinking blood plenty of times, hadn't she – and it wasn't totally far-fetched, not when the gloom crept in so, and the night was so full of stars, and Liara hadn't fully divested herself of the dreams which even now tried to crawl into her skull and along her fingers and pull her back, whole-bodied, into sleep.
She said, sleepily, "Mordred?" and wasn't sure why she had, because she knew who it was. She would not have mistaken him for anyone else; she could not have.
"Sorry to disappoint."
She pushed herself up into a sitting position, automatically moving to straighten her pyjamas, to push her hair out of her eyes. Were you in love with him? Täj was no romantic, even in spite of the many dark evenings they had spent together which might have tricked a less discerning girl into believing him so; he would not have come to her like this, in the middle of the night, unless there was something to say. She knew it, like she knew that her heart was beating. "Is there news? Is he…?"
She wasn't even able to say the words. She had risen, without thinking; Täj didn't move, didn't reach to reassure her, only watched her with those pale green eyes of his. For a split second, her heart split; for a horrible, long, torturous moment, he was dead and nothing was going to be okay.
And then, he said, "he's not."
She almost had to sit down as the relief washed over her. "Then, what…?"
Täj said, "I need you."
She looked at him. It was strange, the parts of him that stood out in the dark: the black scar on his throat, the callouses on his fingers, the ragged edge of his hair.
"I need you to come with me."
Liara knew then: she would have followed him anywhere.
She dressed as he slipped from the room; she kept quiet, lest this be a summons that was not accorded to the other Selected and found, as she went out onto the corridor, that she had been correct: the whole house was silent, and dark, the scent of a doused fire slowly wafting up the stairs to stain the air with the faintest hint of smoke. She had found a narrow selection of clothes in the wardrobe from which she could assemble a vaguely practical ensemble, a long black skirt and a silver blouse that she thought might have come with them from Layeni. Raphael's old boots were here as well; she hoped against hope this wasn't a summons to the palace, as she laced them and moved as quickly and as quietly as she could down the stairs.
The door to the chateau was hanging open; she slipped through it, and down the road to where she could, just about, discern the silhouette of Demetri and his reflection at the end of the driveway, where the estate gave way to a thicket of eucalyptus and mahoghany trees which separated the chateau from the central railway line by a protective distance of several kilometres. They were standing beside a car that Liara had never seen before, a beaten up old sedan that bore absolutely no resemblance to the sleek black limos which had conveyed them back-and-forth to Enhle's palace the night before last.
Liara wasn't sure why she hadn't expected to see Demetri here; there had been something furtive about Täj, about the way he had spoken and moved. But here he was, stepping back as Liara approached, and giving her a tight, insincere smile. "Sorry to wake you."
"Quite alright," Liara said, hesitantly. It didn't escape her notice that they were just far enough from the house that the car would not be heard when its engine was started. The other Selected were being kept in the dark, then. "What's going on?"
I need you.
She wasn't going to get any answers out of him; he was lifting one of Atiena's bags of guns and loading it into the trunk, pausing only to withdraw two of the revolvers, one of which was tucked into his belt and the other was offered to Liara, hilt-first. She accepted it hesitantly, grateful for Atiena's tutelage, but unable to shake the air that she was being invited, unknowingly, to embark on some kind of assassination mission. Those black letters filtered across her mind again: ПОКУШЕНИЕ.
She looked to Demetri, and said again, "what's going on?"
A long silence.
"Demetri?"
Täj was pretending not to look at her as he started the car, keeping the lights off so that only the low rumble of the engine broke the hush of the evening. Despite its rough exterior, it was a quiet vehicle; Liara could not escape that feeling, creeping along her nerves, that she was glimpsing the steps of a dance well-rehearsed and long-practised. Whatever else he was, Täj was, would always be, Demetri's executioner; anything that mandated the cover of night was unlikely to be something the sun would smile on.
For his part, Demetri just said, "there's a meeting in the Levantine."
"A meeting?" The Levantine? That was ten, twelve, fourteen hours away. Liara's mind was at once blank and spiralling with thoughts: Artur Gildas, or Enhle, or Corvina Rouen, or the other members of the Inner Circle, those that were still alive, Wick or Thiago, or – or the Crown. Set, or Ysabel, or Mordred. Mordred, as long as he wasn't dead yet.
Täj said, "I'll tell you once we're on the road." He was looking at his watch. "We're running out of time."
Demetri said, "the last time we said goodbye like this, I didn't see you again for four months."
Täj wasn't looking at him. He said, "we should be grateful we're saying goodbye at all."
"Bring her back," Demetri was saying, softly, "bring her home."
"She's a piece of home, demusha. As if I would ever come back without her."
Täj stood back, as though to retreat to the safety of the driver's seat; Demetri arrested his retreat with a firm hand, and pulled him into a brief embrace. Liara averted her eyes – it seemed such a private moment. Täj had gone willingly enough, but there was still that awful tension to his jaw, the strange verdigris light behind his eyes, that made him seem, perpetually, on the edge of some awful, fatal, destructive decision.
Demetri took Liara's hand as well, just before she followed the pale man. "Look after him for me, won't you? He's a piece of me."
And I'm a piece of home. Liara said, "I won't let anything happen to him, stranger. You have my word."
How had she failed to see it before? Demetri's eyes were deep and bright and emerald; Demetri's eyes had been cool and pale and mint-green. Demetri was firm and handsome and strong-featured, but all the Dunin men were built like knives: sharp and somehow sly looking. He said, "I'm sorry, Liara," and before she could ask him why he was apologising, the man with her childhood friend's name had shut the passenger door of the car, and Täj was saying, in that low and lovely voice of his, "you can sleep, if you want, if you can."
She said, "I'd rather stay awake, if that's okay. I'd rather talk, if that's okay."
The man who had called himself Täj said, in a voice that seemed half-stranded between resignation and relief, "what do you want to talk about?"
