“You may come aboard, Emperor,” he said. “It is ... safe.”
He returned to the deck without saying more, as though any further words were trapped in his throat, unable to emerge.
The Emperor exchanged puzzled glances with Issa and Jass Gebrem. Then the Degen Jassi, along with a still-damp Tiyana and the Tokoloshe emissaries, made their way up the ramp and joined the soldiers on the deck. And their eyes widened as they stared at a scene that combined horror and history in equal measures.
It took only a single glance to confirm that the people who lay scattered across the deck were not Uloans. The Uloans were similar in appearance to the Matile; indeed, the ancestors of the islanders had migrated from Matile Mala ages ago, and there had been much contact between the two peoples before the Storm Wars split them apart forever. And even after centuries of estrangement, they remained the same race, if not the same people.
The occupants of the ship, however, were pale in color, the skins of some of them almost white as salt, while others’ had been darkened by the sun or reddened by the wind. Their hair grew in many different colors. Some had black hair, like that of the Matile, Uloans, and all the other races of Abengoni. But the locks of others were otter-brown or fox-red or a tawny yellow, like the color of a lion’s hide, or blades of grass during the dry season.
As well, many had sharp features, which to Matile eyes looked as though they had been cut too thin. Their noses were like beaks; their brows protruding; their lips thin lines. Yet for all those surface differences, most of the people on the deck were clearly human. There were others, however, who just as clearly were not ....
These were short, wide-set individuals with thick, chest-length beards and hairy hands. At first, as well as second glance, they looked like paler versions of the Tokoloshe. At the sight of them, Bulamalayo and the other emissaries spoke excitedly among themselves in their own rumbling language; in the distant past, ships that came from the Fidi lands had never included people who appeared so similar to them.
The wet, bedraggled clothing most of the strangers wore was not dissimilar to that of the Matile – tunics and trousers, but no chammas. Some, however, were swathed in robes of varying shades of blue that were somewhat like the Matile over-garment. Most the clothing was worse for wear, with abundant patches and mends.
Those among the soldiers and Degen Jassi who had read antique texts and perused dusty pictures remembered that the Fidis’ homeland was so distant the seasons changed during their voyages to Matile Mala. Before the Storm Wars had ripped Uloa and Matile asunder and spawned the typhoons that ravaged the northern seas, a long-distance trade had been established with the Fidi. The Matile had coined their name for the others from that of the foreigners’ main nation, Fiadol, whose seafarers knew no fear.
It was the Fidi who had initiated the contact, exploring seas far beyond any they or anyone else had known before. Once trade relations were established, ships from Matile and Uloa sailed northward and brought back tales of huge cities and strange people, unicorns and dragons, trees with leaves that changed color every year, and a cold season that turned raindrops into bits of white powder that covered the ground like a pale, chilly blanket.
The Fidi ships brought cargoes of linen and wool and wine, for neither flax nor grapes grew in Matile Mala, and sheep were unknown. In return, the Matile sent the jewels for which the city was renowned, along with, gold, silver, elephant tusks and kef, a red fruit whose twin seeds could be brewed into a strong, stimulating drink.
What the Fidi prized above all else, however, were the craft works produced by the Matile and Uloans alike: necklaces, bracelets and hair ornaments, as well as sculptures in ivory, wood and precious stone, all highly valued by collectors throughout the Fidi lands. Matile works adorned the homes of kings and merchants who paid prices that made the sailors’ voyages more than worthwhile.
Some Fidi had remained in Matile, intermarrying with the local population. And some Matile had sojourned in the Fidi lands as well, some eventually returning, others staying and making new lives in a strange land. For several generations, the two lands had enjoyed a profitable, albeit long-distance, association.
Then the catastrophic Storm Wars severed those bonds, and memories of the Fidi lands, like the splendor of the Matile Mala Empire, subsided into the shadows of the past. As the centuries passed, no one in what was left of the Empire expected to see ships from Fiadol again. The land from which they came was lost on the other side of the storm, and so were the Fidi themselves ... until now.
The Fidi lay scattered like straws on the deck of their ship, appearing more dead than alive. Dark bruises and blood spots mottled pale skin; the limbs of some were bent at unnatural angles; clothing hung in tatters from gaunt frames. Those who were breathing seemed to be clinging to consciousness by only the slenderest of threads. They looked as though they had endured an ordeal no one among the Matile could begin to imagine.
The ship had fared little better than those aboard it. Its sails and rigging were torn, and many planks on the deck were broken. A crack ran through one of the masts; it looked as though it could topple at any moment. As the shallow waves of the harbor pushed the ship’s broken hull against the dock, wood rubbed against stone with a sound like a low moan of pain. Even to Eshana’s unpracticed eye, the vessel looked as though only a miracle had saved it from sinking long before it reached Khambawe’s harbor.
Jass Eshana saw no danger on this derelict ship; only tragedy.
“Sheath swords,” the Dejezmek commanded.
The
