Jass Mofo made a sound that was halfway between a snarl and a curse. Athir’s command of the Matile language wasn’t sufficient to allow him to make out all the words that followed. He felt it was just as well that he didn’t understand everything the tsotsi was saying. He was simply glad it wasn’t directed toward him
This was the first time Mofo had missed after six scoring consecutive successful tosses. In eight throws out of ten, he could make the bones fall as he intended. But eight out of ten was not good enough, nor was nine out of ten. Mofo didn’t need Athir to tell him that a crooked dice-roller’s tosses had to be perfect every time. And getting to ten-for-ten from eight-for-ten was not a rapid process, not even for someone with Mofo’s obvious natural talent.
That wasn’t what Athir chose to tell him.
“You’re really doing well, Jass Mofo,” he reassured. “It’ll be just a matter of time before you’re better than I am at this.”
Mofo stared at Athir. And that’s when Athir’s colleague, fear, settled into its home in the pit of his stomach. The climate in Khambawe was hot, but when Mofo gave him his bleak-eyed glare, Athir felt a chill stir inside like a stiff wind from the Northlands.
“Time be short in the Maim,” Mofo said.
He kept his eyes fixed on Athir’s. The Ship’s Rat didn’t dare to look away.
“Could be, time short for you too, Fidi-tsotsi,” he added.
Athir remained calm on the surface. Inside, his companion was becoming clamorous. He knew the novelty of his presence among the Ashaki was wearing off, and it was unlikely Mofo would fully master the bones before becoming weary of the Ship’s Rat. His mind raced in search of something to say that would divert Mofo from the anger that was becoming visible, building by the moment as he glared at the dice. Before Athir could say anything, though, an excited tsotsi burst into the room.
“Jass Mofo! Jass Mofo!” the tsotsi cried. “The Uloans come! They be killin’, burnin’ everywhere! Whole city be crazy!”
Mofo’s mood changed immediately. He forgot about his frustration with the dice, and his growing impatience with the newest recruit to his set. He smiled, and to Athir that simple movement of Mofo’s lips looked like the baring of a carnivore’s teeth.
Other tsotsis who had overheard the news now gathered around Jass Mofo and Athir. They anticipated what their leader would say next, and they were eager to hear it.
“This be our time now,” Mofo said, the feral grin still on his face. “This city – everything in it belong to us. And we gon’ take it all! Heard?”
“Heard!” the Ashaki set shouted in a single voice.
Then they whooped and waved their spiked weapons. One tsotsi snatched up a nearby drum and began to pound out a battle-rhythm. The others, still shouting, broke into a spontaneous dance.
Jass Mofo glanced at Athir.
“You gon’ do more than throw bones now, Fidi-tsotsi,” Mofo said menacingly. “Heard?”
“Heard,” Athir acknowledged.
His expression was as wan as the tone of his voice. And his internal companion was becoming relentless, its message impossible to ignore as he joined the tsotsis in their preparations for the looting spree of a lifetime.
Now, he was ranging with the tsotsis as they moved beyond the confines of the Maim. Never before had so many members of this set, or any other, ventured out of its territory at the same time. They preferred to do their work in the city by themselves, or with, at most, one or two companions, so they could blend more easily with the surroundings of their victims.
Now, however, the streets were either deserted or filled with fleeing, panic-stricken people to whom the sight of a full set of tsotsis on the prowl was as nothing compared to what they had already experienced from the Uloan invaders and their jhumbis.
Navigating the night shadows, the tsotsis were headed toward the wealthier part of Khambawe, where the Jasses and wealthy merchants kept their aderashes. Flames illuminated the night sky, and the tsotsis could hear outcries drifting up along with acrid smoke.
Athir had only a vague notion of who or what the “Uloans” might be. However, he sensed he was in great danger a he struggled to keep up with the fleet-footed tsotsis. The tsotsis were a gang, not an army. His inner companion was warning him that disaster loomed, despite their supreme confidence that they could do whatever they wanted now that the city was in upheaval. For emphasis, his companion clutched at his stomach with an icy hand.
Jass Mofo urged the set onward. hey needed to reach the loot-laden dwellings of the Jasses before the other tsotsi sets – or the Uloans – did. The Ashakis rounded a corner – and nearly collided with the vanguard of another gang of tsotsis. The hands of the newcomers bristled with weapons, and fire-filled light glittered madly in their narrowed eyes. Those eyes suddenly widened in recognition when they saw Jass Mofo and the others.
“Ashaki,” one of the others cried, spitting out the name of Mofo’s set as if it were a deadly curse.
“Hafar,” Jass Mofo said, naming the set that was the Ashakis’ most dangerous rivals in the Maim.
The Ashakis didn’t fail to notice the bulging sacks that several of the Hafars were carrying. The rival set had obviously learned of the Uloans’ invasion well before the Ashaki, and had managed to beat their enemies to the prize. The triumphant expressions on their faces conveyed their scorn for the Ashakis’ tardiness. But that didn’t disturb Jass Mofo.
“You done our work for us, Hafars,” he said. “Now, we gon’ take what’s ours.”
A moment later, Athir found himself in the midst of a screaming, blood-spilling melee
