He grinned. And he had ample reason to be smug.
During the immediate aftermath of the Uloan invasion, Athir had taken the biggest risk of his life – and he won, even more than he thought he had when he made off with the tsotsis’ plunder while they were fighting for their lives against the Uloans. The hoard of loot he had filched from the tsotsis had immense value. But for all practical purposes – and Athir acknowledged no purposes other than the practical – it was worthless and useless to him.
He knew that once the survivors of the carnage discovered that the tsotsis had been plundering them even as they were fighting for their lives and their kingdom, the ensuing eruption of indignation would be frightening in its intensity. Anyone who attempted to profit from goods stolen by the tsotsis would have been torn limb-from-limb by mobs of Matile, who now hated the tsotsis even more than they did the Uloans – and there weren’t any more Uloans around for the Matile to kill.
Therefore, Athir needed to think of some other way to gain advantage from the loot he had taken from fellow thieves, which in his mind evened the score for the purse they had stolen from him in the Ukili shebeen. It did not matter to him that the loot was far greater in value than the contents of his purse.
Well did he remember the abuse he had suffered at the hands of Mofo and the Ashaki set during his “stepping over.” He remembered the fear that had been his constant companion during the time he ran with the tsotsis, and the ill-concealed disdain and contempt in which he knew Jass Mofo held him. And those bitter memories made his decision an easy one, once he had worked out all the details in his mind. And the revenge that followed his carrying out of that decision tasted all the sweeter, like the finest Fiadolian wine.
It had been a simple matter for him to seek out a Matile army officer and spin a tale of being captured by the tsotsis during the fighting against the Uloans, and being forced to accompany them during their depredations. He had ultimately escaped their clutches, he said half-truthfully, but not before learning where the set that had captured him had cached its loot. Athir then offered to show the officer where the cache was located. And he asked for nothing in return.
Muldure and other members of the White Gull’s crew would have seen through the Ship’s Rat’s story as if it were made of glass, for they knew him well. And even the Matile officer, whose name was Keteme, harbored some suspicions about Athir, as he would about anyone even slightly associated with the tsotsis. But in the debilitating immediate aftermath of the invasion, before the rebuilding had begun, even a glimmer of good news was better than none at all.
So Keteme allowed Athir to lead him and some other soldiers to the spot in the sewers in which he had cached the Ashakis’ spoils. That course of action was Athir’s toss of the dice.
Under normal circumstances, Athir would never have placed himself in such a vulnerable position. It would have been a simple matter for Keteme and his troops to slit his throat and keep the loot for themselves once it was in their hands.
But circumstances in Khambawe were far from normal, and Athir knew it. Most of the city lay in ruins, and outrage at the opportunistic depredations of the tsotsis had risen to a fever pitch. Few people were thinking clearly while bodies still lay in the streets and buildings lay in smoking ruins. Athir’s calculations of his odds proved correct: this time, the soldiers’ sense of duty superseded their all-too-human greed.
The Ashakis’ hoard was collected, and the stolen goods were returned to the owners who had survived the invasion. Keteme, his men, and Athir divided what was left.
When the Emperor learned of Athir’s role in the recovery of the tsotsis’ plunder, he had, in gratitude, given Athir a room in the royal palace. Suddenly, the Ship’s Rat had become a man of wealth and influence in the rebuilding city, much to the bemusement and disgust of his former shipmates, who were certain Athir had stolen the booty himself, then passed the blame on to the tsotsis when he found he couldn’t sell it.
None of them had said anything to the Matile, though. The Ship’s Rat simply wasn’t worth the trouble, even though he now possessed much more material goods than any of those who had scorned him.
Wrapped in luxurious Matile garments, Athir leaned against the ornate cushions that supported his back and fingered the thin tail of hair that hung from the back of his head. He thought about Mofo and the other tsotsis, and how they were currently on the run, stalked by soldiers, shadows, and even ordinary citizens bent on vengeance.
And he laughed out loud.
“I love it,” he said. “I just love it!”
He was speaking in his native tongue, which his servants did not understand. They laughed with him, anyway. For they knew this Fidi could be generous, given the proper enticements.
And, as Athir looked on in approval, they began to provide them.
4
Neither the Ashaki nor the Muvuli would ever be able to find Kalisha ... not as long as she remained in the darkness of the Underground, an extensive labyrinth of tunnels and sewers of ancient vintage that lay beneath the streets of Khambawe. Kalisha was safe in the Underground. But she was also alone.
She sat still as a stone, the wet surface of a tunnel wall clinging to her back. At first, she had loathed the sensation of dampness constantly seeping into her skin. Now, she welcomed it, because it reminded her that she was still alive; that the gloom that surrounded her was not the endless dark of death.
Her fingers trailed idly across the Mask of Nama-kwah. By
