You must make contact with them, Mungulutu said.
“That will be difficult,” Rumundulu said. “The Matile have placed the ship under close guard, and will allow no one to approach it.”
He paused, knowing that was not what the Stone King wanted to hear. He knew what he was expected to say next, so he said it.
“But the task will be done.”
See that it is, Mungulutu said curtly.
With that, his simulacrum faded, as though the same artist who created it was now effacing his work. Then the ball of light that had held it winked out of existence, plunging the chamber into pitch darkness. But that darkness lasted only a moment. Rumundulu spoke a single, guttural syllable – and flames erupted from sconces set in the walls, bathing the chamber in a lava-red glow. This light was more natural, although a human would still have considered the chamber to be oppressively gloomy.
The chamber had been carved to resemble the interior of a cave. Stalactites and stalagmites ended only inches from each other, like interrupted pillars in the world above. The floor was an uneven carpet of stone, and the ceiling hung oppressively low.
Benches carved directly out of the cavern’s walls were the chamber’s only furnishings. The Tokoloshe who sat on them looked expectantly at Rumundulu. Only Mungulutu held higher authority than the embassy head, and the Tokoloshe always deferred to highest authority available. Now, that was Rumundulu. Rumundulu did not discuss his plans or seek counsel. He spoke tersely, knowing his words would be obeyed.
“We wait,” he told his people.
“We plan.”
“Then, we act.”
2
Jass Hirute took a long swallow from her cup of talla, the grain ale nearly all Matile drank copiously, whether they lived in the cities or the countryside. The cup was a piece of stained ceramic that had passed through hundreds of hands before hers. Its condition was in keeping with its surroundings, which were at best seedy; and at worst, squalid.
Hirute and several other Imba Jassi were drinking in a talla-beit located in one of the less-savory districts of Khambawe. Those who dubbed Khambawe the “Jewel City” had apparently never visited this area. It was not as dangerous as the Maim, which was the lair of most of the city’s predatory tsotsis. But it was still a place in which only the brave or foolish ventured out alone at night.
Hirute considered herself more than sufficiently brave, at least in comparison with soft-handed city-dwellers. But she was far from foolish ... in the borderlands, the foolish did not survive very long. That was why she had gone to the talla-beit in the company of two of her neighboring Imba Jassi – Jass Tsege and Jass Fetiwi – as well as armed men and women from the retinues of all three Jassi. Together, the rural-dwellers had taken over a large section of the talla-beit, much to the displeasure of several displaced local drinkers.
Despite their resentment, the locals offered only angry glares at the intruders. The rural-dwellers’ weapons – large, sharp knives that were the next-best thing to swords – were prominently displayed on the tables. And their willingness to use those weapons at the slightest provocation was well-known.
Hirute took another pull of talla, emptying her cup. Then she spoke, her voice barely rising above the din of the talla-beit.
“I don’t trust them,” she muttered.
“Don’t trust who?” Jass Tsege asked.
He was a burly, blunt-speaking man who had been a friend of Jass Hirute’s late husband, who had died fighting one of many incursions from the Thaba tribes.
“These newcomers,” she replied. “These Fidi.”
Tsege only grunted noncommittally. It was Jass Fetiwi who asked the obvious question.
“Why not?”
Hirute’s brows contracted at the sound of Fetiwi’s voice. He was the opposite of Tsege – a slender, devious-looking man who had an annoying habit of mimicking the aristocratic mannerisms of the Degen Jassi despite his contemporaries’ clearly expressed contempt for his – and the Degen Jassis’ – pretensions.
Fetiwi’s territory adjoined that of Hirute. Almost since the day Hirute’s husband, Jass Kassa, had died, Fetiwi had been pressing Hirute to become his wife and join her territory to his. Hirute had no interest in such a union, and she had always let her neighbor know that. But Fetiwi refused to be discouraged.
For all that, though, Fetiwi’s question was a good one.
“We don’t know why they’re here,” she finally replied. “We don’t know what they want from us.”
“Well, we won’t know that until the Leba spends some more time with them,” Fetiwi said.
Hirute gave him a pitying glance.
“We’ll know what the Leba decides he wants us to know,” she said. “And we’ll only know even that when he wants us to know it.”
“And when he does, it probably won’t be much,” said Tsege.
“It never is,” Hirute agreed. “The city people only pay attention to us during these useless ceremonies. We keep asking them for help against the Thabas, but nothing ever comes. If it weren’t for tradition and the Jagasti, there’d be no reason for us to come here at all.”
Tsege snorted derisively.
“And for some of us, even the Jagasti aren’t a good enough reason not to stay home,” he said.
There was a moment of uneasy silence before anyone else spoke.
“You’re talking about Jass Shebeshi,” Hirute said quietly.
Shebeshi was the Jass of Imbesh, a territory located in the remotest part of the remaining Matile lands. He had not come to First Calling with the others. Not only did Shebeshi refuse to participate in the nominally obligatory rites and ceremonies conducted in the capital; he also defied convention – and by most standards, common sense – by attempting to expand his lands into those held by the Thabas.
Thus far, Jass Shebeshi’s ambitions had not brought any consequences from either the Thabas or the Emperor. And the longer the rebel Jass went
