“You will need to be in your skin,” she told him.
Makami’s eye brows rose as he caught her meaning.
“Do not take all night,” she chided.
Following her commands, he pulled off his shirt and then his trousers.
“Come,” she said, patting the space before her. “You will have to learn it the way I did.”
As he knelt down, she discarded the cloth that hugged her, urging him forward. In moments the two sat touching, their sweat-slick skin pressed against each other. It was a soothing warmth, one that Makami had come to forget. Meeting his gaze, she parted her lips, blowing thick smoke upon his face, directly into his nostrils. He coughed but inhaled, feeling the sweet vapors enter his mind.
“Now breathe,” she told him, her heaving chest pressed against his own, arms now clasped around his back. “Breathe in time to me.” He took a deep breath, following her lead. On his chest, he knew the markings were still moving but slower. He could feel them.
“That’s it,” she whispered, her breath warm in his ear. “Breathe. Just breathe.”
Makami found himself matching her rhythm now, drawing and releasing breath. And he did so as long as she urged him. It was well into the late hours of the morning that he drifted off. But when he did, the markings on his chest had ceased moving. And for the first time in what seemed a lifetime, his dreams were not nightmares and he slept in peace.
* * *
“Three men. And they come swiftly.”
Makami took the looking glass from Master Dawan, peering through. It made the objects that appeared as mere dots against the sand in the distance seem close enough to touch. They were three men, their faces veiled. Each rode upon their own mjaasi—a giant sand lizard that could travel the desert at vast speed, and required little water.
“Blue men?” he asked.
Master Dawan shook his head. “Blue men would not so easily announce their coming.”
Blue men, or the Taraga, were strange desert people—some say a lost branch of the Amazi. None knew much of them, except that they dressed in robes of deepest blue, and even covered their skin in the rich dye. They often raided caravans, carrying off goods and people—mostly women, children and young men. Those who had survived their attacks claimed the Blue men merely appeared, as if out of nothingness, and then vanished just as quickly.
“Whoever they are, they’ve spotted us, and are riding hard in our direction.” Kahya had taken the looking glass and now peered through it as she spoke. “We can’t outrun them. Stop the baushanga. I’d rather we met these strange men with our faces than our backs.”
Makami nodded. The woman did not even look back at him before she turned to converse with her sisters. It had been some eleven days now since their encounter during the storm. Since then he had shared her tent each night, and they had held each other, as she taught him this skin magic—and how to control the markings upon him. On those nights she was a different person, adventurous, daring—even playful. But in the open day she was just the serious-minded daughter of a trader, and treated him as she always had. He did not think Master Dawan or her sisters knew of their secret meetings. Both had been quite discreet about that.
Moving off to the baushanga, he pulled on their reins, making the clicking noises of reassurance to stop them. Looking into the distance he could make out the three approaching figures much better now, without the need of the looking glass. They would be upon them in moments.
“Friend Anseh.” He turned to find Master Dawan standing nearby. “I do not know these men, and every precaution is necessary. I will speak to them in peace, but if that does not work...” The old man reached into his robes and drew out a knife. “Can you use this?”
Makami took hold of the weapon, noting the intricate golden hilt and the sharp gleaming curved blade. With dexterous agility, he twirled it across his hand, unsheathing it in a swift display, causing Master Dawan’s eyes to widen slightly.
“I see then that you can,” the old man said, a bit of excitement in his voice. Makami had a feeling he would one day be asking to hear the tale of how he had learned that ability.
“Here they come,” Kahya declared, coming to stand beside them.
Makami looked up to see the three men riding down a dune directly in front of them. The brown and white-striped mjaasi they rode kicked up billowing puffs of sand as they more scampered than ran, their clawed feet barely touching the ground. They brought their riders just up to the caravan, stopping short when the leather reins tied to their necks were pulled. The baushanga shifted slightly at sight of the creatures, eyeing them warily, their normally blue horns changing to a dull orange—a clear warning. Despite their size, mjaasi had small teeth. Exceedingly sharp and numerous, they were better suited for devouring rodents and would not fare well against the tough hide of a baushanga. But the pack beasts didn’t take chances, and would charge with their great horns if these strangers came too close.
“Manhada,” Master Dawan said, palming his forehead in greeting. “The goddess smile on you with good fortune.”
The three men did not respond right away, shifting their gaze down to the old man and his caravans. Each was wrapped in dark fabrics that enveloped them completely. With their veiled faces all that could be discerned were their eyes which were unreadable. But there was something odd about the way they sat, so casually upon their steeds, showing
