Makami didn’t answer. He felt more than this old man could possibly know.
“Would you care to join me at my tent?” the strange figure asked. “I am returning for mid-morning meal. I have more than enough to spare.”
Makami frowned now. This man was dressed well, not richly, but good enough to be a merchant or a trader. Why would he invite some filthy beggar from the streets to dine with him? He was suddenly gripped by fear, a hand clutching at his chest. Those men last night were to deliver him to someone. Could this be their paymaster? He stepped back slightly, eyes seeking a place to run. The old man must have noticed his alarm, for he lifted his hands in what was a common means of apology in these lands.
“The goddess burn my thick scalp,” he admonished himself. “You must think me a rude old fool.” He palmed his forehead before releasing it, nodding slightly. “Manhada, I am Master Dawan ag Amanani, of Kel Zinda. I offer you food and drink if you would have it, and do so in peace, under the sacred blessed goddess.” He stopped and offered a smile. “Charity is favored by the goddess. And you look as more worthy company than these other men—whose tongues seem only gifted at haggling.”
Makami took a pause to look the man over. The greeting was familiar to him—a ritual of the Amazi people, the desert-born—nomads who traversed the sands. Food and drink were offerings of peace, and were taken seriously, demanding that no harm would come to him under penalty of invoking the wrath of their gods. There was little safer oath he could ask for. As his stomach growled noisily, feeling as if it were folding in on itself, he found himself nodding—casting aside his inner doubts.
* * *
It was sometime later Makami sat upon the colorful and richly decorative rug, shielded from the hot sun outside a large tent, rubbing his sated belly in content. It had taken all his self-control not to ravenously devour all the food placed before him. Manners had forced him to eat gingerly. Still, he had turned away nothing offered and left the earthen plates piled and empty where he sat. He had nodded along, listening to his host talk—and the old man certainly talked a lot.
Master Dawan, as he had rightly guessed, was a trader. He bartered everything from fine fabrics to oils, making at least two trips each long season across the desert. Nearby his tents, were at least four baushanga—great shaggy beasts larger than oxen with curving blue horns. They were slow and lumbering, but their hardiness made them the preferred pack animals of desert traders.
Now an elder man, Master Dawan claimed he had not spent his entire life in the desert. And that when he was as young as Makami, he had traversed far and wide, seeing and hearing of many wondrous things—from giant water serpents that lived beneath the seas, to creatures that were part men and part hyena, who roamed the scorched grasslands. Some things made Makami’s eyebrows rise, like the people who worshipped the many-handed god who it was said stood upon a great stool that rotated even as he spun, forever laughing at some great joke, which kept the world turning with him. Other stories however, like the one related to Master Dawan by a fellow trader, of lands beyond the known world, where white sand that was cold to the touch covered everything, and men with skin like a pig’s belly and adorned with golden hair draped themselves in thick furs, riding into battle covered in heavy metal and armed with broad steel blades, was simply too much to believe.
“And this is a feather from the great bird I spoke of,” Master Dawan said, “that lives high in the mountains of the East—so large it could snatch away a man.” He passed the giant grey feather speckled with bits of red to Makami. The thing was easily as long as he was tall. He ran a hand across the long soft fibers, feeling the hollow quill beneath.
“Ah, more tea?” Master Dawan offered. One of his daughters had come to pour more of the warm liquid into small rounded cups of polished stone at their feet.
Master Dawan had several daughters, six so far Makami had counted, and there was a seventh out at market. All were fairly young, ranging in ages close to nearing the cusp of womanhood. At least four wore two long braids that fell forward at the right sides their heads, red and black beads adorning them, while tinges of indigo stained their lips—signs among the desert people that each would soon be ready for marriage.
As the girl knelt in front of them, mixing goat milk into his tea, Makami smiled and nodded thanks. She only regarded him coolly behind dark eyes surrounded by lines of black ink. That was the usual response he received from each of Master Dawan’s daughters, who frowned or glared at him with open displeasure. It seemed they did not share their father’s charity to seeming beggars—but they held their tongues as well as their noses.
Like most desert people, Master Dawan’s daughters displayed a range of skin—varying from their father in either direction. The blessings of three wives, the old man had called them, all now gone—two lost to childbirth and one to the desert. Like her sisters this daughter was dressed in long robes of dark indigo that flowed down to her sandaled feet. Jewelry of crafted copper, silver and colorful stone adorned her everywhere, even tying into her lengthy braided hair. Most noticeable however were the markings. On her hands, arms, even her feet, were intricate designs and patterns etched in dark ink. The artistry was superb. But unlike his, these did not move. In
