“Under Mage Law, any student who commits such an unseemly blunder must remain in animal form for a designated period of time. The one who is charged with the care of Ikuu, and the honor of eventually returning him to his rightful form is, of course, myself.”
“How long has he been this way?” Akuntali asked.
“Ten rains,” Ewuebe replied. Noting the shocked look on the dan-Kano’s face, he added: “Does that seem overly harsh? Perhaps it is, but stiff punishment for failure is the only way to keep incompetents out of the wizards’ profession. Ikuu’s penance is nearly done, and he has served me well.”
The duku nodded vigorously, and ambled back to the meadow to consume more of the lush tropical grasses.
“Now,” Ewuebe said portentously, “I have a proposition for you. Two such clever rogues as ourselves should be able to do twice as well working together as we have thus far done alone. I have been listening to the news of the Talking Drums, and it seems that a singularly rich caravan of Dyula merchants will be coming this way in about one month’s time. For years, my greatest ambition has been the looting of a caravan of those greedy Dyula. With a strong young ally like yourself at my side, my dream can become reality!”
A low whistle passed through Akuntali’s teeth. The Dyula were an international merchants’ guild that controlled most of the commerce of the West Coast, with extensive interests among the Sahanic nations and the Forest Kingdoms as well. Their numerous caravans were well-guarded by mercenaries from Ashonti, a blood-thirsty Forest Kingdom south of the Gulf of Otongi.
If the plunder of such a caravan was what Ewuebe had in mind, then the dan-Ifeti must be more than he seemed. And if Ewuebe was more than a “middling” sorcerer, for what purpose would he require the aid of a second-rate scoundrel such as Akuntali? Such were the thoughts that rushed through the dan-Kanou’s mind.
“You aim high,” was all Akuntali said.
“Yes!” Ewuebe hissed vehemently, his dark eyes aglow with fervor. His face showed an intensity that took Akuntali aback. Then the dan-Ifeti’s face relaxed into its usual ironic expression.
“I know what you must be thinking,” he said. “As I told you before, my sorcerous skills are limited. And I am no longer a young man. I need a partner in this venture – a man of strong thews and quick mind who is willing to risk his life for enough wealth to live like the Oba of Benan! Join my venture, and half the loot will be yours. Are you in?”
For about half a second, Akuntali deliberated. For the wealth of an Oba, he would risk just about anything ...
“I’m in,” he said.
“Excellent!” cried the dan-Ifeti, his face split from ear-to-ear by the combination of his grin and his horizontal face-marks. “I knew you had the look of an enterprising young man when I first laid eyes on you.”
Or, perhaps, a fool, thought Akuntali.
“Just how do you propose to raid a Dyula caravan?” he asked, keeping his suspicions to himself.
“Ah, that is a tale that will be repeated in banana-beer halls for years to come,” Ewuebe said enthusiastically. “Lean closer and listen ... and have some more kola nuts.”
When Ewuebe at last finished talking, the sun was hanging low in the sky. The herd-boy was driving his cattle back to his village, for the rumbling roars of awakening lions could be heard in the distance. And the grin on Akuntali’s face was as broad as Ewuebe’s.
THE DYULA CARAVAN WAS encamped in a large clearing in a wooded area to the side of the Road of Peace. Monkeys leaped and screamed in protest through the upper, vine-laden branches of the tall trees as three nondescript figures trudged through their territory. They were, of course, Ewuebe, Akuntali and Ikuu. But Ewuebe’s illusion-casting had rendered them unrecognizable.
It was two ragged, emaciated, nearly blind beggars who appeared to be shambling toward the great encampment. The shorter of the two was leading a small, mangy looking donkey. It was close to dusk, and in the dimming light it took some time for even the sharp eyes of the Ashonti sentry to detect the unlikely trio emerging from the woodland. When he did, his reaction was immediate and automatic.
“Halt!” he barked, speaking harshly accented Oriba, the lingua franca of the West Coast.
The gleaming steel point of his spear rested but inches from the rag-swathed chest of Ewuebe. Red rays from the setting sun flamed the Ashonti’s helmet, which was shaped like the head of a snarling leopard, and turned the metal scales of his armor into glittering circles of scarlet and orange. Menacing as a fiery warrior-god was the Dyulas’ grim guardsman.
“Please, Mighty Warrior,” Ewuebe whined. “We are but humble beggars, seeking the generosity of our fellow men. Perhaps you could allow us a few scraps of food, and a drop or two of water?”
The Ashonti looked down at the tattered figures, and disgust broke through the stoic mask of his face.
“Get out of here, you miserable dung-eaters,” he snarled. “Get out, before I drive this spear straight up your ...”
“One moment, please,” a low, cultured voice broke in.
A tall man clad in a gorgeously embroidered agbada had quietly stepped behind the sentry. The five v-shaped scars that decorated both his lean cheeks showed that he was from Abron, a southern city noted for the business acumen of its citizens. More important, however, was the string of silver-plated cowries around his neck that indicated the man’s membership in the Dyula.
“In my city’s religion, guardsman, helping a beggar is considered to bring good fortune,” the Dyula said smoothly. “Please allow these two – and their animal
