Her sense of apprehension intensified when she reached the Ashakis’ mansion – and found no one guarding the entrance. But she did notice large pools of congealing blood marking the places where the set’s sentries usually stood. With that sight, her heart began to beat so loudly she was sure anyone near her would be able to hear its frantic pounding against her ribcage.
Kalisha almost ran away then. However, she could hear a murmur of voices coming from the mansion. Whose voices were they, though?
She quivered like an antelope caught between a leopard and a lion. But she didn’t bolt. She felt a compulsion to know who was inside – Ashaki or foe. Was Jass Mofo still alive? Or was he as dead as the sentries whose blood thickened on the stones? It would only take one quick look to find out....
Kalisha edged her way to the entrance. She avoided the blood pools. Trusting the daylight shadows to hide her, she crept into the entrance. And her breath caught in a rasping wheeze in her throat at what her eyes showed her.
There were no enemies, tsotsi or otherwise, in the mansion – only Ashakis. But the numbers of the set were direly depleted. A row of mutilated bodies of Ashaki women and children lay in a row along one wall. Their wounds were horrendous; even the youngest children had not been spared.
Kalisha recognized Jass Mofo’s woman, Kimbi, among the dead. Her throat had been slit from ear to ear, and her eyes stared sightlessly at the destruction that surrounded her. Her dazzling jewelry and elaborate clothing had been taken from her – along with her life.
Mofo, along with the other survivors, was in the great chamber, which was now nearly empty. The pile of plunder that was the Jass’s throne was gone; only bits of worthless metal and scraps of shredded cloth remained. Kalisha knew then that Mofo had made one of the few miscalculations in his life.
For not all of the tsotsis had joined the massive looting spree in the city. Some of the sets had decided that pickings in the Maim would be easier, with so many fighters gone. And Mofo had not left enough defenders to guard his people and goods. And so, while the main body of the Ashaki had fought to the death against the Hafars and the Uloans, someone else had overwhelmed the sentries and looted the Ashakis’ aderash.
To make matters worse, no new booty was in sight. Mofo and the others had returned empty-handed from their foray. Dried gore encrusted the spikes of their weapons, and blood from their own wounds stained their clothing red. Despite their youth, the tsotsis’ faces bore marks of weariness that belonged on the faces of people who were much older than they.
The low murmur of conversation ceased when Kalisha entered the chamber. No one bothered to challenge her with the Ashaki signal as she made her way through the sad remnant of the set.
She approached Jass Mofo. Bleakness stared at her from the Ashaki leader’s eyes. It was as though a fire had gone out inside him, leaving only cold ashes behind.
“What you got for me, Amiya-girl?” Mofo asked in a flat, perfunctory tone.
Kalisha unwrapped herself from her stolen chamma and let it fall to the floor. Then she reached into the pouch and pulled out the silver Mask of Nama-kwah. She held it out to Mofo as if it were an offering to a king.
“I take it right from the Goddess,” she said. “No one see me; no one try to stop me.”
Mofo’s eyes remained lifeless as he gazed at the Mask. Without changing expression, he abruptly snatched it out of Kalisha’s hands and hurled it away. The Mask sailed through the air and clanged against the far wall of the chamber. Then it fell, dented, to the floor.
Kalisha could not believe what Mofo had done. The Mask of Nama-kwah had more value than all the loot the Ashakis had previously accumulated that year, and would easily make up for what had been stolen by the tsotsis who had looted the mansion. It did not matter to her that other tsotsis had stolen the other Jagastis’ Masks and most likely taken them back to their sets. To her mind, the Mask of Nama-kwah was the most beautiful – and valuable – of them all.
And Mofo had simply thrown it away, as if it didn’t matter in the slightest.
She stared at him as though he had suddenly gone mad, as if she did not know him anymore.
“You go, Amiya-girl,” Mofo said to her. “We all dead here. Everythin’ be gone. Nothin’ here for you now. Nothin’ here for none of us. Heard?”
Kalisha did not reply. Tears filled her eyes, but she refused to allow them to fall. She gathered up her stolen chamma. And she went to the Mask, picked it up and enfolded it in the garment. Then she ran out of the mansion without looking back.
The blighted streets of the Maim beckoned her. She answered their call, for she had nowhere else to go.
5
Gebrem and Kyroun strode swiftly through the streets of the well-to-do section of Khambawe. Although the area had not suffered as much damage as those closer to the docks, the Uloans and the tsotsis had still exacted a toll of destruction. Soot smeared the painted walls of estates and pools of gore congealed in the gutters.
Despite their advanced years, the two holy men were practically running to their destination – the Gebbi Zimballa, the place of refuge to which the Emperor and Empress had been taken. When they had awakened from their weariness-induced torpor, Almovaar had issued a warning that was heard by both the Seer and the Leba: Alemeyu and Issa were in danger. But the deity had told them nothing more than that.
The Amiyas and Initiates followed. Survivors in the street gaped at the grim-faced
