Rumundulu led his people further down, past the dome-shaped chamber in which Mungulutu had commanded him to close the Embassy and return to the homeland. They descended yet further, through tunnels humans would have found insufferably claustrophobic. For the Tokoloshe and Dwarven, however, the close confines felt like an embrace from the spirits that dwelt Belowground.
Soon they reached what appeared to be an impenetrable wall of rock. However, the light from Rumundulu’s globe revealed a thin crack that split the stone from top to bottom.
Rumundulu opened his mouth to voice the syllable that would cause the crack to widen. Before he could speak, Humutungu began to wail. Despite the attempts of the Tokoloshe women to quiet him, the infant’s cries continued unabated.
Rumundulu sensed an omen in Humutungu’s outcries. He spoke quietly to Bulamalayo, who was at his side. Bulamalayo nodded, then went to the woman who held Humutungu, spoke to her in turn, and took the infant from her arms. Then he carried the still-crying Humutungu to Hulm.
“Take him,” Bulamalayo said. There was a note of command in the Tokoloshe’s rumbling voice.
Hulm only stared straight ahead, refusing to look at the squirming, wailing infant. Anguish was graven on his broad features.
“Take him, Hulm,” Bulamalayo repeated. “He is yours. And he is ours. You do not have to love him. But you must accept him.”
Slowly, hesitantly, Hulm extended his arms. Bulamalayo gently placed Humutungu in his father’s grasp.
Hulm forced himself to look at the infant. Humutungu’s mouth was open wide as he cried. And so were his eyes ... Izindikwa’s eyes. Hulm realized then that part of Izindikwa lived on in the child he was holding. And, at that moment, Humutungu’s cries ceased.
Then Rumundulu spoke a set of syllables that sounded harsh even by the standards of the Tokoloshe tongue. When he finished, a grinding, groaning noise accompanied the slow widening of the crack in the rock. Soon, the crack became a gap wide enough to allow passage. Rumundulu squeezed through, and the others followed. When the last of the group was on the other side of the gap, it closed again, and a shroud of darkness descended on the part of Belowground the Tokoloshe had occupied beneath Khambawe – a darkness in which shadows could not survive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
A Deal With The Tsotsis
1
Athir was lazing in his Gebbi Senafa suite when he heard the scuff of footsteps approaching his door. He half-rose from the long lounge-seat in his sitting-room and rearranged the satiny, colorfully patterned throw-cloth beneath him. Earlier he had informed a passing servant that he wanted more talla. From what he had gleaned of the workings of Gebbi Senafa protocol, he knew that the servant to whom he had spoken would, in turn, relay his request to the people who were in charge of dispensing food and drink in the palace. Then the servant assigned to his suite would bring him what he desired.
Ordinarily, such a sound of footsteps would have elicited an instant response from the Ship’s Rat. His survival had always depended upon the quickness of his reactions to what his sharply honed senses told him. But the soft life in the Gebbi Senafa had dulled the knife’s edge of tension that had always been inside him. And his best friend, fear, had fallen quiescent of late.
Athir’s hand toyed idly with the thin tail of hair that dangled down the nape of his neck. Never before had he spent so much time in one place, or within the walls that did not belong to a prison. But then the palace was, in its own way, as confining as any place of incarceration had ever been.
Although he was fairly certain the tsotsis no longer posed a threat to his life, penned as they were in the Maim, he still wasn’t willing to venture into the streets. He knew the tsotsis had penetrated much of Khambawe before their downfall, and there was still a remote chance that a determined few from Jass Mofo’s set could capture him if he left the protection of the Gebbi Senafa. Inside the palace, he remained safe, secure ... and bored.
Not that he didn’t enjoy his new life of indolence and luxury. Who wouldn’t? Still, with increasing frequency, his fingers itched to cradle the ivory cubes he continued to keep in their pouch at his belt. He missed the thrill of the hunt for victims for his petty larceny, as well as the inevitable flight from the marks’ angry vengeance. The conflict between the dreamlike life he was living and his recollections of his former days was becoming a tempest inside him, and he could not drink enough talla to put that turmoil to rest.
A diffident knock on his door interrupted Athir’s reverie. He rose from the couch, walked to the door and lifted its latch. Few people who dwelt in the palace bothered to secure their doors. But Athir’s old habits were hard to discard, even if it seemed they were no longer needed.
The grin that was on his face when he swung the door open faded when he saw who was standing on the other side. He had been expecting one of the serving-women with whom he had become familiar in more ways than one. Instead, the servant who carried a fresh pitcher of talla and a cup already filled to the brim was a new man who had only recently been assigned to attend Athir’s needs when the women were not available.
The Ship’s Rat made no attempt to conceal his disappointment.
“Oh. It’s you,” he muttered. “Come on in.”
He stepped aside and the servant entered, balancing the tray on the palm of one hand. After placing the tray on a low table in front of Athir’s couch, the servant moved toward the open door. Without looking at him, Athir went back to his couch and sat down again.
He didn’t particularly care to look
