“Your father had always suspected there were tsotsis among us, posing as shamashas,” Keshu said to Tiyana. “But we could never uncover them. They were too clever.”
“But why would tsotsis, who respect neither laws nor gods, want to destroy images of the Jagasti?” Tiyana wondered, thinking of the nameless girl who had attended her after the First Calling during which the Fidis had arrived, and wondering if she had been one of the tsotsi infiltrators.
“What are the Jagasti to the likes of them?” Keshu retorted.
Before anyone could answer that question, another Amiya, who had come into the House behind them, spoke.
“The Leba and the Seer have awakened, and they want all of us to be gathered together,” the Amiya, a woman who had been the Vessel of the river-goddess Ateti, announced. “They say something is wrong.”
3
Despite the final killing in the harbor, there were still Uloans alive in Khambawe. They were the blankskin spies ... spies like Sehaye, whose message concerning the coming of the Fidi had been the catalyst that began Retribution Time.
For a long time, Sehaye had cursed the fate that had caused the huangi to choose him as a gatherer of the mainland’s secrets. His childhood and adolescence had been a nightmare of taunts as his skin remained featureless while that of the others around him became living testimony to their adulation of Legaba.
The huangi had told him he would be facing more danger than any of his tormentors could imagine; and as an infiltrator, he would be performing an exemplary service for the Spider God. And Jass Imbiah herself had assured him that when Retribution Time came, he would receive his spider-scars in a ceremony of blood and honor.
Yet it was Sehaye’s lack of skin-marks that had saved his life. Throughout the invasion, he had hovered in the shadows, furtively slaying Matile who could not distinguish him from themselves. More than once, he had been forced to flee his fellow islanders, because he had no time to make them realize he, too, was a Uloan.
Ultimate triumph over the mainlanders had been well within his people’s grasp. But then the mist came. And the night-sun shone. And the jhumbis died a second time. And Legaba abandoned the Uloans. And the Ishimbi walked. And the fleeing invaders were gutted like fish in the harbor ....
Sehaye cried out and shook his head violently. He was wandering the ravaged streets, hoping to find other Uloan spies. He had not been acquainted with any of them in the past; the huangi had forbidden such contact so that the secret of their presence could be more easily maintained. For all Sehaye knew, he was the only Uloan left alive in Khambawe.
But he did not want to believe that ...
A few Matile who had seen his outburst stopped and stared at Sehaye. But they said nothing to him; his behavior was far from unusual. The shouts and screams of those whose minds had been unhinged by the trauma of the invasion and its ensuing carnage echoed throughout Khambawe.
Sehaye did not trust himself to talk. He could no longer think, let alone speak, in the mainland language the huangi had forced him to learn. He had not been allowed to go to the mainland until he could mimic their speech flawlessly. If he opened his mouth now, however, he would give himself away to the mainlanders. And he knew what they would do to him, stunned and bewildered though they may be in the face of their costly triumph.
Why them not kill I? he asked himself for the hundredth time. He could not answer that question. He could only continue his aimless journey: stepping over corpses, dodging scavengers, wading through pools of blood, adding his crimson footprints to those left by his enemies.
One day, he was convinced, Legaba would speak to him and give him an answer. And this belief was the only thing that was keeping him alive.
4
Even in daylight, Kalisha moved furtively through the Maim. Her stealth was so habitual it seemed instinctive, as was the case with all tsotsis. To relax one’s vigilance even for a moment in the Maim was to die. On this day, though, she need not have bothered with caution. The Maim’s filthy byways were nearly deserted. Even the hyenas had moved on to richer harvests of decaying flesh in other parts of Khambawe.
There were tsotsis in the streets – members of sets other than the Ashakis. But neither they nor Kalisha attempted to intimidate or avoid each other. The Uloans’ invasion and its outcome had left the tsotsis as disoriented as everyone else in Khambawe. And with the rest of the city in ruins, there was nothing left to loot, and thus no reason to assert old – or new – rivalries among the warring sets.
Earlier, Kalisha had wrapped a gold-striped chamma she had stolen from the Beit Amiya around her slight frame. Its ends trailed on the ground behind her as she walked. The chamma concealed a leather sack that contained the Mask of Nama-kwah. The sack was strapped firmly around her waist.
Ordinarily, she would have had to hide the chamma, too, or risk having it ripped from her body by other tsotsis. But on this day, most of the tsotsis she encountered were openly displaying the clothing, jewelry and weapons they had purloined while the rest of the city was fighting the Uloans. Some staggered and reeled, already drunk on stolen talla. Others were chewing khat, and losing themselves in the dream-like escape the leaves provided.
Some of them recognized her.
“Amiya-girl,” they called, sometimes with a laugh.
Kalisha smiled and returned the greetings. Inside, she laughed at them in turn. In her mind, what she carried under her chamma was far more valuable than the insipid baubles the others so proudly displayed.
She could not wait to show the Mask of Nama-kwah to Jass Mofo. Her anticipation of his reaction pushed aside the nagging anxiety she
