Tortall (3 page)

Awochu bowed to the man who had to be Chief Rusom. I glanced at the man on the chief’s right and almost gasped like an ignorant country girl. I had never seen a man so pale-skinned. Everyone in my life was brown or black. Some of the fair’s visitors were a lighter brown than I had ever seen before, but it was still brown. This man—this man was
white
.

He had brown-black hair, straighter than the hair of
anyone I knew. His eyes were brown-black,
close
to the color of normal eyes. He didn’t dress like a normal man, though. He wore a loose cloth jacket and a garment made of two cloth tubes that covered each of his legs, instead of a long skirt. Instead of sandals he wore soft leather shoes that covered his feet and legs all the way to his knees. Only his hands looked right. They were hard, muscled, and scarred, the hands of a warrior. His neck was muscled like a bull’s.

“Do you know who that is?” Ogin had worked his way up behind me. I looked at him. His eyes gleamed as he looked on the white man. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, unable to stand still.

“No, but he looks very sick,” I whispered.

“Pf,” Ogin said, pushing me a little. “You know the stories of the Shang warriors, who fight and kill with bare hands? That man is Vah-lah-nee, the Shang Falcon. He is a great warrior!”

He looked like a man, not a legend, to me. “He is a horse who will burn and bloat and explode in the sun,” I replied. “Put him back in the oven and let him cook until he is done.” I looked at the platform and got a very bad feeling. Awochu had left his blue silk girl beside the platform and climbed on it to go to the man who sat at Chief Rusom’s left. He kissed this man on both scarred cheeks. This man wore gold on his arms and fingers. He also looked enough like Awochu to be his father.

Worse, there was a hospitality table placed between his seat and Rusom’s. He and the chief shared food and drink, like allies or friends.

“Awochu, why have you brought these people?” asked the man Awochu had kissed, his voice filling the air. “Why do you disturb Chief Rusom?”

Awochu bowed to Chief Rusom. “Great Chief,” he said with respect, “I come to you as a wronged man. Last year at this fair I was overtaken by a madness that made me want that girl as my bride.” He pointed at Iyaka. “After I stole a kiss from her, I could not sleep or eat unless I was with her. I offered her my name and the wealth of my family. I begged my father and mother to accept the match with an ordinary plains girl.” He shook his head in sorrow. “When we returned to our own great village, our shaman saw the traces of magic on me. He kept me in his hut for nine days and nine nights to cleanse me of the evil spell. He told me—he will tell you, if you ask it—that the girl had painted charm color on her lips. When I stole that kiss, magic made me hers. It made me desire her to the point that I had signed a marriage contract with her family.

“Great Chief Rusom, is it not the law that no contract entered into while under the influence of magic is binding? For so my honored father explained the law to me. I owe this girl nothing. She cannot have me, so she accuses me of a false claim, in order to steal my father’s cattle.”

“I do not steal!” cried Iyaka. “I happily release him from the contract. I do not want a man who is so fickle or so easily swayed.” She glared at Awochu’s father and the elegant woman who stood at his back, who had to be Awochu’s mother. “But he has sullied my name and the name of my family with his accusation of love magic. He must pay half
the bride price for his lies. He should be grateful I do not ask for it all. You see?” She took the delicate skin on which the contract was written from her sash, unfolded it, and offered it to Chief Rusom. “It is written there. If I release him, he must pay half the bride price to me. If he lies about me, he must pay it all and apologize for his evil, and admit he lied.”

“It is she who lies!” cried Awochu. “It is also written that if I am forced to this or lied to about her honor or her maiden nature, I am free of the contract!”

Chief Rusom read the document carefully, his eyes flicking to Awochu, to Iyaka, to my parents, to our shaman, and to our chief. He did not look at Awochu’s father. Instead, when he reached down to that hospitality table for his teacup, Awochu’s father picked it up and filled it, then gave it to Rusom. It was as plain as a baboon’s red behind: Awochu’s father would find a way to fill Rusom’s cup if the chief could help his son.

Rusom let the contract fall. “When there is such disagreement, and good names at stake, there are several ways to resolve the matter,” he said in a voice like oil. “But involving magic …” He stroked his chin. “No, I think it must be trial by combat. The gods will allow the innocent side to win. Awochu?”

“I fight my own battles,” Awochu said, thrusting his chest out. His eyes held the same gleam as those of the chief and his father. He knew the way was prepared.

“Me,” Ogin said, thrusting his way past Papa and me. The Falcon, Vah-lah-nee, was also getting to his feet, as if a white man knew anything of us.

The chief was already shaking his head. “It must be a member of the girl’s direct family,” he said, proving he knew quite well who we were.

Papa took a limping step forward. The gleam in Awochu’s eyes brightened.

I thrust ahead, noticing only then that I was as tall as my papa. “I will fight,” I said, though my voice cracked when I said “fight.” I ignored the laughter of everyone and made myself say, “She is my sister. It is my name, too.”

“No!” cried Mama. “I forbid it! She is a girl! She is no warrior!”

But Rusom already was shaking his head. “Do you believe the gods will help you, girl? This is no time to thrust yourself into serious business if
you
are not serious.”

I trembled and sweated as I made myself say, “I believe in the gods.” What I believed in was the ostrich gods, the giraffe gods, the lion gods. This dishonorable chief knew nothing of them.

“If the gods decide, then surely it only matters that she is of the girl’s blood,” said Chief Rusom. “I call for the combat when the sun leaves us no shadow.”

All was noise then. Mama and Papa scolded me. Iyaka hit me with her fists. My chief told me I was a fool and had cost my sister
and
my papa their honor. The gleeful crowd followed us to the enclosure set aside for trial by combat. Servants came to take away Awochu’s golden ornaments as his girl poured a cup of wine for him. His mama set a stool in the shade for him to rest upon while he waited for the proper time.

Ogin and the white man brought a stool for me. They
made me sit and drink some water. Gently the white man, the Falcon, placed hands like iron on the muscles between my neck and shoulders. I felt him hesitate. Then he raised my hands, examining my callused knuckles. He probed my back muscles with those hard fingers, then bent down to look at my legs and feet.

“Well,” he said. His voice was deep and smooth, like dark honey. “Perhaps this is not the folly it looks to be.” His Dikurri accent was thick, but I could understand him.

Of course, peahen, I told myself. He sat with the chief. They must be able to talk.

He was asking me something. I turned to look up at him. “What?” I asked. My lips felt stiff.

“What do you wear under your dress?” he asked slowly, as if he knew I could only truly understand slow speech just then.

“How dare you!” cried Mama.

He put a hand on her shoulder. “Your daughter cannot fight in a dress,” he said kindly. “The women warriors of the Chelogu tribes fight entirely naked, in tribute to the Great Mother Goddess. I think your daughter may wear a
little
more than that, but a skirt will hobble her like a donkey.”

“She
is
a donkey,” my mother whispered, her lips trembling. “A stupid donkey who does not understand what she has done here.”

“She wears a breast band and a loincloth,” Iyaka said.

“If they are snug, that is enough,” said the Falcon. He told me, “Can you remove the dress on your own?”

I plucked at my sash until it came apart. Someone pulled it away, then Iyaka took the dress. I do not know
why Mama was so upset. I raced in no more than this at every festival.

The Falcon crouched behind me and began to work the muscles around my collarbone with those iron fingers. They spread warmth and relaxation down into my arms. “What is your name, girl?” he asked me, his voice coming from behind me like a ghost’s.

Ogin answered for me. “Kylaia,” he said, his eyes as over-bright as Mama’s. “She is Kylaia al Jmaa.”

The Falcon picked up one of my hands and began to work on it. Across the arena, servants rubbed oil into Awochu’s shoulders. “Kylaia,” the Falcon said for my ears only, “who taught you to fight?”

I blinked at him like a simpleton. “The ostriches,” I said. “The killers of the plain.”

“She is mad,” Papa said abruptly. “I will make them stop it. I will fight him.”

The Falcon said, “It is in the gods’ hands now, sir. I do not think they have chosen badly.”

By the time the sun left us no shadow, the Falcon had loosened the muscles in my arms, back, legs, and feet. I was as relaxed as if I had just finished a quick sprint to get my blood warm.

Someone struck a gong to signal it was time. I walked out to the center of the arena, ignoring the comments of the crowd. If they were properly bred, like the people in our village, they would no more laugh at a maiden dressed to show her body’s skills than they would laugh at a woman giving birth.

Awochu met me at the center. Rusom’s shaman droned a prayer. I ignored him. My eyes watched Awochu. He would want to hit me hard and fast, to get it over with, so he could enjoy my sister’s shame. I had said my prayers. Now it was time for me to take down this hunter who had come into my territory in search of meat. He was stronger on his right side, the muscles of that arm clearer than the muscles of his left. He would try to grapple with me, as the young men did in unarmed combat. If he actually took hold of me, I would be in trouble. He was taller, stronger, heavier. He had fought in battle to earn his scars. He had fought with his hands.

Now Rusom had something to say. He spoke, then stopped.

Awochu shifted his feet for his balance.

Someone struck a gong. Awochu lunged for me, his hands reaching. I pivoted to one side and ostrich-kicked him. The ball of my foot slammed just under his ribs with all the speed and strength I had built up. He gasped and turned to grab my kicking leg, but I was already behind him. He was so
slow
, or so I thought then. I did not understand that all those years of repetition had not just made me a fast runner. All that practice on wood and trees and stone, pretending they were living lions and leopards and wild dogs, had made me a fast kicker, a fast mover, a fast hitter. With my speed I also gained power behind each blow and kick.

I drove the ball of my other foot into his right kidney. He staggered away from me and fell to his knees. I lunged forward and hammered my linked fists giraffe-style into the
place where his neck met his collarbone. He grabbed my hands as he wheezed from pain. I bounced up and came down with my knee in the middle of his spine. He straightened up with a strangled cry, letting me go. Then I wrapped my arm around his neck from behind, gripping that fist with my free one. I pulled back, resting my knee against his spine for leverage. He clawed at my arm, ripping my flesh with his nails.

“Confess,” I told him. “Tell the truth. Swear it on your mother’s name, or I will cripple you.” I did not think I could do it, but it sounded like the right thing to say to a bully who shamed my family before all the trade fair.

He tried to speak and could not. I eased my grip just a little.

“The gods have humbled me!” he shrieked. “They sent a demon into this girl child to shame me! Iyaka al Jmaa is an honorable girl!”

“Mention the magic,” I whispered. If he wanted to believe a demon had beaten him, I did not care. I only wanted my sister to get what was owed.

“I won’t,” he began. I tightened my hold, briefly. When he could breathe again, he confessed to everything and begged his father for the fifteen cattle for my sister. We did not trust them to arrange things honorably. Instead my chief made Awochu and his father sign new words on the old marriage contract, saying that it was ended and the right price paid for the slight to my sister. Then the men of my village went with Awochu and his father to collect the cattle.

This I was told of later. As soon as I let Awochu up, my
sisters swept me up, wrapped me in my dress, and took me back to our tents so I could vomit, clean up, and sleep.

When I woke, only a small lamp burned in our tent. From the light that flickered through the cracks around the door flap, I knew it was night, and the campfires were lit. I could hear the low murmur of voices outside.

I could also smell food. I got up, every muscle of my body aching. In my rage I had done even more than I was used to, and my body was unhappy. Slowly, like an old woman, I walked outside.

Val-lah-nee, the Falcon, sat at our fire with my parents, Iyaka, and Ogin, eating from the pot with one hand as if he had eaten that way all of his life. He nodded to me and said, “I have been talking with your parents about your future,” as if he continued a conversation we had already begun.

“I have no future,” I told him as I accepted a round of bread from Iyaka. I scooped food onto it and crouched between my parents. “Boys won’t want a girl who gets possessed by demons.”

“You were no more possessed than I am,” said the Falcon. “Ogin told us about the way you watched animals and the way you tried to fight as they did.”

I glared at Ogin, who grinned and shrugged. “I am a hunter as well as a herder,” he said cheerfully. “If I cannot be quiet, I catch only grubs.”

The Falcon grinned. I could hardly see his teeth in the shadows, his skin was so pale. “And so I was saying to your parents, while the Shang school for warriors normally does not take a new student of your age—”

“My age!” I protested.

“Their students begin between their fourth and sixth year,” Papa said. “Let the man say what he must. Stop interrupting.”