His eyes narrowed.
“Where he be?”
“In a safe place.”
“How I know you got him?”
“Maybe this will convince you.”
Slowly, Sehaye reached beneath the folds of his chamma and produced a long, thin tail of sandy-colored hair. As he held it in front of Mofo’s eyes, Athir’s hair-tail swayed like a pendulum.
With a sound akin to a snarl, Mofo snatched the hair-tail from Sehaye’s hand. With his other hand, he pulled his tirss from its loop at his waist and thrust the weapon in front of the other man’s face. Its points were close to Sehaye’s eyes.
“Give the rest of him to me,” Mofo said in a low voice.
“I want something in return,” Sehaye said.
The points of Mofo’s tirss moved closer to Sehaye’s eyes. Sehaye did not move or blink. He knew his life depended on not giving in to the terror that was clawing him inside.
“I want; I take,” Mofo said. “I take easy, I take hard. But I take. Heard?”
Sehaye knew exactly what the tsotsi meant.
“You can torture me if you want to, Jass Mofo,” the Uloan said. “You can make me scream for my gods and my mother. But I will not tell you where you can find Athir unless you do what I ask. If you do it, not only will you have what you want; you will also be free from the Muvuli, and no longer be hated by the people of this city. Heard?”
No one had ever before spoken to Jass Mofo with such impunity. The remaining Ashaki waited for their Jass to savage Sehaye with his tirss.
Instead, Mofo lowered his weapon. He stared at Sehaye with an expression akin to interest. It was as though he was looking at something he had never seen before. In Sehaye’s eyes, he recognized an implacability that might well have matched his own.
“What you want, then?” he asked.
Sehaye told him. And when he finished, Mofo did not kill him.
5
Athir opened his eyes to darkness. He blinked several times, but what he saw was always the same: a darkness so profound that he could not see his hand in front of his face. Or, more accurately, had he been able to move his hand into his field of vision, it would have remained indistinguishable from the darkness. But he could not move his hands, or his feet. His limbs had been bound so securely that he wondered how blood managed to make its way to his extremities.
However, Athir was not gagged. He could call for help if he so desired. He didn’t. His abductor had obviously hidden him in a place where no one was likely to hear his cries, and had therefore not bothered to ensure his silence.
Although Athir could see nothing, the darkness did not affect his sense of smell. A foul odor permeated the place in which he was imprisoned. A strong smell of garbage surrounded him, and he struggled to prevent himself from retching. And there was another, underlying scent as well ... one with which Athir was familiar, having encountered it in other places in the course of his travels.
It was the dank, musty, acrid smell of a sewer. On more than one occasion, such places had provided an appropriate place of refuge for the Ship’s Rat. And another sewer in this city had held the loot that bought him his now-departed time of luxury. But now, the underground was a prison. Or, perhaps, a tomb.
The latter was not likely, though. If the palace servant who had abducted him had wanted him dead, by now he would be. However, he had a feeling that he would not live much longer if he remained bound and helpless in the sewer. He had essayed a few abductions himself, and he knew the value of the victim was either loot or life. He knew of no one who would be willing to pay anything to keep him alive. So his skin had to be the prize in this game. And he knew exactly who it was that wanted that skin more than anything else.
The tsotsis ...
Rivulets of sweat began to trickle down Athir’s face as he contemplated his chances for survival. Out of necessity, he had become adept at wriggling his way out of ropes, and sometimes even chains. He could not discern the nature of his present bonds. However, the job had been done in expert fashion. His arms were bound straight at his sides, giving his fingers nothing upon which to gain purchase. He tried the eel-like wriggle that had always worked for him in the past. He could move ... but only a little. And he knew if he continued such gyrations, he would eventually free himself. His bonds were so tight, though, that he knew a great deal of time would have to pass before that happened.
And he did not know how much time he had. He suspected it was far less than he needed ...
Then he heard faint, splashing sounds. And he knew he had no time left at all. For the sounds were coming closer to him. And he could see an object that was casting a silvery light in the pitch-darkness of the sewer.
As the object drew nearer, Athir could see that it was a mask, carved in the likeness of a woman too beautiful to be human, even though it was marred by a small dent. At first, the mask seemed to be floating disembodied in midair. Then, as his eyes became accustomed to the sudden light, Athir could see that the mask surmounted the emaciated, nearly naked body of a young girl.
“Who are you?” he croaked. “What are you doing down here?”
The wearer of the mask did not reply. As she came closer, Athir let out a low cry of fear and frustration. Not only was the girl wearing a glowing mask; she was carrying a small, lethal-looking dagger. And the dagger was moving toward him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE@
Eshetu’s Story
1
Eshetu did not look like a man who belonged in, or anywhere
