Finally, one of them, the one whose steed stood closest, began to unwrap his veil. In moments his face was visible, that of a man—the flints of gray in his beard showing he was older certainly than Makami, but younger still than Master Dawan. His broad frame was visible beneath his clothing, matching his large hands. He stared at them all a while longer, his dark eyes piercing. Then quite unexpectedly a bright grin of white teeth crossed his ebon skin.
“Manhada,” he replied back in greeting, his voice a deep baritone. Palming his own head, where only a strip of hair grew in the middle, he nodded slightly. Makami took note of the man’s accent. He knew the customs of the desert people well enough, but he did not share their dialect. He spoke trader’s tongue impeccably, like someone who was well-traveled. “May the goddess smile upon us all. May she smile on you even more, if you so happen to have water.”
Master Dawan motioned to one of his daughters who stepped forward. Gingerly, she offered up a leather pouch filled with water. The man looked down from his mount, his smile unwavering. Reaching down he took hold of the pouch and paused. Makami’s hands tensed on his knife, anticipating trouble. But the man only took the pouch with a solemn nod. In moments he was downing its contents, much of it running down his beard and soaking his clothing. His thirst quenched, he tossed what was left to one of his companions, who caught it and began to drink just as heartily.
“Many thanks,” the man said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I thought we would die with sand in our throats this day.”
“The sands do not show mercy,” Master Dawan remarked. “What finds you so deep in the desert friend?”
“My men and I were guarding a caravan. But we lost them in a storm.”
“A fierce thing,” Master Dawan noted. “It passed over us some nights past.”
“Most likely one in the same,” the man grunted. “We have not been able to find them since. I fear them perished—as were we until we spied you in the distance. My men and I are hungry, thirsty. Our mounts need feeding as well. If you could spare a bit more to drink, to eat, before we set out—”
“What can you offer in trade?” It was Kahya that spoke. She had donned her veil once more, her muffled voice and clothing making it hard to discern if she were man or woman. Makami knew she had spoken quickly, lest her father in his generosity offer away the little supplies they held for nothing.
The man smiled knowingly. Reaching into his robes he took a small pouch and tossed it over. Kahya caught it nimbly, snatching it from the air and opening it, peering inside. Gold dust, Makami could see.
“A week’s earnings,” the man said. “More than enough I hope.”
Kahya nodded curtly. The gold dust would resupply them and more at the next trading village.
“I am Master Dawan,” the old man said warmly, now that such matters were finalized. “And I offer you food and drink friend....?”
“Abrafo,” the man answered.
“So, it is then, friend Abrafo,” Master Dawan said. “Night draws near, you may camp with us and we will share food, drink and tales.”
The man Abrafo gazed down, smiling widely, as if that was what he had been waiting to hear.
It was well into dusk, as the sun lowered in the horizon, taking with it the last shafts of light in the desert that the caravan and their new guests sat in a circle about a fire eating, drinking and talking. Master Dawan’s daughters had slain a goat, preparing enough food for them all, and they sated their bellies. A few of the young women even danced, showing skills at balancing knives and swords atop their heads as they twirled to a rhythm beat upon a flat drum by their father who chanted some unknown song in the Amazi tongue.
The big man, Abrafo, seemed to delight at this, clapping heartily as he ate, and listening riveted to the tales Master Dawan eagerly spun. Makami sat back, eating his own food slowly, but saying little. The other two strangers—muscular men with rough faces named Cha and Kadori— said even less. Their stone demeanor betrayed nothing but seemed to take in everything at once.
Something about them did not set right with Makami. More than once he thought they glanced in his direction. But they had looked away so quickly, he began to wonder if it wasn’t his own mind playing tricks. Still despite this seeming calm, he kept his eyes open, the knife Master Dawan had given him tucked away safely beneath his shirt. He hoped he would have no need of it. Kahya did not eat with them, taking her food inside her tent where she claimed to be handling business. In all this time Makami had only seen her a few moments, still veiled and not even looking his way. He wondered to himself if tonight, they would still be able to have one of their lessons.
“You are blessed with beautiful daughters and fabulous tales Master Dawan,” Abrafo was saying, his rumbling voice filled with mirth as he drank from a wooden bowl. The skin on his powerfully built arms glistened in the fire’s glow. Since settling down the three men had discarded their lengthy cloaks, revealing long loose-fitting trousers and dark shirts. All had weapons strapped to them. Nothing alarming for caravan sentries, but still—it made them seem like leopards.
“Friend Abrafo, you are too kind,” the old man said, graciously accepting the compliment. “But surely, in your work, you have tales to share as well?”
The big man laughed to himself, sipping again from his cup. He cast a glance to his men, who glanced back. It was such a swift thing that most would not have noticed. But
