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Synopsis
Is Astra ready to accept her destiny? A gripping novel for 'Hunger Games fans of all ages' says Library Journal. War is breaking out in Kadingir. Still struggling to accept her role as a long prophesied icon of unification between Is-Land and Non-Land, Astra Ordott is on a journey across the wind sands to join her father and his people - the mystics of Shiimti, who claim to hold the secret of truly healing the damaged relationship between human beings and the Earth. Astra's desperate to get there quickly, but when her guide and companion, the shepherd Muzi, leads her off course into the path of a vicious sandstorm, she is forced to confront what the gods of their devastated world might be telling her: that there will be no refuge from her destiny.
Release date: May 5, 2016
Publisher: Quercus Publishing
Print pages: 336
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The Blood of the Hoopoe
Naomi Foyle
The Youth Action Collective (YAC)
The Non-Land Alliance (N-LA)
Kadingir
Pithar [In Zabaria]
Shiimti
Is-Land Ministry of Border Defence (IMBOD)
[VC: Member of the Vision Council]
Is-Land
The Council of New Continents (CONC)
The plateau was as dry as a scab. Since leaving the stream they had passed no water, no bushes, just the odd withered clump of grass, parched and yellow like the soil that cracked in all directions out to the rim of the horizon. The sun was midway to its zenith in a cloudless sky, the shadow of the cart and horse shrinking like a puddle stain. Astra had left the shelter of the tarpaulin purely to pee behind a hump of black stunted rocks; there was no way on Gaia’s ill earth she was staying here.
‘Oh! This is . . .’ She grasped for ridiculous in Asfarian, settled for, ‘stupid. I am going too, Muzi, and that is THE END!’
Her hair was a crusty sponge, her skin measled with heat and coated with grime, and she stank; even her bum ached, and if she ate any more spelt porridge she’d turn grey. Right there, not even an hour’s ride east, so close she could almost see its friendly jumble of sun-baked cubes, feel the breeze from the palm trees waving a lush green welcome against the pale morning sky, was Lálsil, the oasis town she had been dreaming of for three jolting, rattling, sweating days and nights. Even more than the thought of buying dates and oranges at Lálsil’s famous market, drinking beer under its tasselled canopies, getting online, the engine driving her forward for the last twenty-four hours had been the promise of the town’s legendary steam bath: the vision of lying moist and shining on a marble slab under an ancient dome pierced with stars. She stepped back towards the cart.
Quick as a snake, Muzi blocked her, his lithe limbs everywhere she turned. ‘No, Astra. You stay here.’
She flung up her hands, clasped her head. ‘I need to wash, Muzi. And I have to email Photon. There’s a war on. We’ve got to keep in touch with Kadingir.’
‘Hello?’ Muzi waved his short arm in front of her face. ‘You famous now. You goddess, Astra. You Istar, ShareWorld queen. You want IMBOD spies see you?’
‘No one will see me. I’ll buy a . . . veil!’ She retrieved the word triumphantly, splaying her fingers over her face in case he didn’t know it. ‘Some of the Asfarian traders wear them, I know, I saw on Archivia—’
‘We no speak good Asfarian!’ His astonishing eyes dazzled with scorn. ‘I no good words; you no good accent.’
She glowered. He was right, and she knew it. Muzi’s Asfarian accent was excellent. He could do the throaty vowels that made her sound as if she’d swallowed a whole cat, let alone its hairball; the sharp trills her tongue floundered over like a soggy dishcloth. But he couldn’t speak a full correct sentence in the language if his life depended on it.
Nor could he strategise. Muzi wasn’t thinking this through. And he wasn’t even trying to discuss it all properly with her. Her anger flared again. ‘IMBOD could be hunting for you too. You’re just as easy to recognise as me. If it’s so dangerous, we need to stick together. Look. I’ll wear a veil and I won’t speak to anyone. You can say—’
Muzi leaned close. She could smell his musk, his dusty shirt, his breath, aniseed-scented from the twigs he chewed to clean his teeth. ‘If you go into Lálsil, Istar,’ he threatened in Somarian, ‘I’m going home.’
She understood perfectly. At the same time she no longer knew where she was, who this person in front of her was, his rare blue eyes glittering like patches of ice in hot earth. ‘You promise to help me,’ she hissed in his language. The tense was wrong, but a promise was timeless.
‘I told Photon I would take you to find your father.’ He tapped his chest, switched back to Asfarian. ‘I take. I guide. You follow. You no want follow – I go back Kadingir.’
She was speechless. She’d asked Muzi to be her guide, not her leader. And Photon was her friend, a man Muzi had met for an hour. But of course: the CONC driver was a man. For three days and nights she’d fought the temptation to kiss those finely arced lips. Now she wanted to punch them. Here in this lifeless plain all had become brutally clear: Muzi’s lean poise and keenness to help were not expressions of grace and restraint and consideration. They were deeply etched signs of arrogance – the bone-deep arrogance of a cocky, ill-educated, meat-eating patriarch.
She dug in her pocket, brandished her Tablette. ‘I have the money, remember. Who’s going to pay for the supplies if I stay here?’
He turned his back on her and, with that fluid ease that would never again make her heart shiver like a moonlit meadow, leapt back up into the driver’s seat. ‘You keep money,’ he tossed from the shade of the tarpaulin, a lord granting a boon. ‘I trade.’
She thought he was going to take the reins and drive off, but he slung his bag over his shoulder, hopped into the back and began dumping blankets, dishes, cutlery, the spelt sack – everything they owned – out onto the ground. Fear shot through her. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Cart no good now. I trade for camel. No want trader see we travelling two.’
‘What?’ Yet another decision he was taking without her. ‘Camels are expensive. And we can’t both ride one. We need to talk about this, Muzi.’
She had raised her voice. Sisi snorted and stamped. Muzi shot her a reproachful look. ‘Camel good for carrying. Good in sandstorm. Not eat or drink much. We walk.’
She stomped to the back of the cart, to yell without disturbing the horse. ‘Are you crazy? You want to walk the rest of the way? That’s suicidal, Muzi. That’s the most preposterous plan I’ve ever heard. It’s not even a plan. It is NOT A PLAN. It is the absolute absence of a plan. It demonstrates the fundamental non-existence of the capacity to plan.’
She was shouting in Gaian now, shouting and sputtering, not caring that he didn’t understand. He just had to get that he was an idiot, as thick as the Precambrian layer. She had the CONC map on her Tablette; they both knew that it was at least a week’s journey to Shiimti. Walking all the way would take two or three times longer, if they got there at all. They’d get blisters if they walked, risk exhaustion. They might get sunstroke, get lost, stop being able to make sense of the compass in her watch, start going round in circles. They might die. She boiled over, steaming and pacing as Muzi emptied the cart. Loads of people travelled with horses and carts on the Belt roads. She had seen photos. They could buy barrels of water; that was what the cart was for. They could wait out any storm; shelter the horse beneath the tarp if necessary. Muzi was a sheepherder and scrap-metal merchant from Kadingir. Had he ever owned a camel? Ever gone to Shiimti before? No? Well then, it was better to stick to the beast he knew. She shouted louder and louder, pacing and flailing, until Muzi jumped down in front of her and blazed in her face in Somarian, ‘The horse and the cart are mine. I’m trading them for a camel or I’m going home.’
‘You—’ She clenched her fists.
Muzi’s eyes flashed blue fire.
She stepped back, thrust her hands in her pockets. Suddenly she felt as drained as the sallow yellow grass on this barren plain. Technically, the horse and cart belonged to Muzi’s father and uncle. Thanks to her, Kingu and Gibil and their wives and children were in an IMBOD jail. Thanks to her too, Muzi’s grandmother was dead. Uttu had been killed for the crime of inviting Astra to lunch.
‘Okay,’ she muttered, crushing a lump of soil beneath her boot heel. ‘Go without me. Get a camel.’ Her temple was pulsing. If she wasn’t careful she would bring on one of her headaches. She had been taking her medication, but she wasn’t used to spending time in the sun. Or having screaming fights with a man who didn’t listen to a word she said.
‘Is only way, Astra. You see.’
‘Be careful,’ she insisted. ‘You’ve got to wear sunglasses, and your CONC hand. And you should get a pair of gloves to hide it.’
She hadn’t ever mentioned his prosthesis before. He hardly wore the clunky old thing, but surely he understood that a one-handed youth with broken sapphires for eyes would stand out nearly everywhere in Non-Land.
‘No worry, Astra. I keep safe.’ He took his flask from his bag, filled it from the water barrel Photon had given them and set it down by the rocks. The barrel was nearly empty. ‘This water for you. I get more in Lálsil.’
He was really going. Really leaving her here. Really selling the horse.
‘What about the dream-catcher? You’re not going to trade that, are you?’
Muzi frowned. It was the first time she’d seen him concede a point. He walked to the front of the cart and regarded the old propeller fan he’d mounted there, three rook feathers tied by thread to the cage. He took his knife from his shirt pocket, cut the feathers free and offered them to her.
‘We keep dreams. I take catcher to money-lend stall. One day I buy back.’
The feathers that had danced in the air as the cart jolted over the plain lay like three black blades in her palm. ‘We’d better come back,’ she grumbled, slipping them into a cargo pocket. ‘One day I want to go to the Lálsil bath house.’
‘You no need bath.’ He grinned. ‘You smell like scrubland.’
‘I’m serious. I’m filthy. Buy me some soap, Muzi. And a washcloth and a hat. And as much water as the camel can carry. Promise?’
‘Camel spit lots. Is good shower, you see.’
She didn’t answer for fear of losing her temper again. If he’d kept the cart, he could have brought barrels of water back. And this was goodbye to the horse. She couldn’t even trust Muzi would find a good carer – she couldn’t bring herself even to think ‘owner’ – for Sisi. Muzi’s family hadn’t even given the beast a name. When she’d asked, he’d laughed and replied ‘Sisi’: looking it up on her Tablette, she’d discovered the word meant horse in Somarian. She stroked the creature’s soft whuffly nose, whispered, ‘I’m sorry I yelled, Sisi. I’m sorry Muzi’s trading you. Thank you for bringing me this far. Thank you.’
High in the driver’s seat, Muzi waited for her to finish.
‘Make sure she goes to a good person,’ she ordered. ‘And email Photon. Tell him to send someone to meet us in Pútigi. Someone who knows the best route to Shiimti. Don’t forget the soap. And Muzi.’ She tugged his sleeve. ‘Find out the names of the Sec Gens who’ve been killed. Make a list for me, please.’
His lip curled, as if in disbelief or disgust. To him, the Security Generation Gaians were monsters, cannibals, nothing but huge Coded fighting machines. One had killed Uttu, snapped his grandmother’s neck as easily as cracking a knuckle.
‘Please, Muzi. I just need to know if my brother is alive.’
‘I do everything we need. You make tent with blanket. Rest. I back evening. No worry.’
That was easy for him to say. She gazed around the plain. Even if there was somewhere to run to, in the heat of the day she wouldn’t get far.
‘What if someone comes?’
‘No one come. Nothing here: no water, no hunting, no plant. I go back to stream, cover tracks. No one follow.’
The stream was an hour north. She understood now why he had insisted on leading the horse down it for so long. At the time she’d been grateful to walk in the cool water, barefoot beneath the delicate canopy of sunrise and into the morning. The idea, she had thought, had been to approach Lálsil carefully, keeping out of sight as long as possible. They should have had this conversation much earlier. If she’d known what he had in mind, she would have washed in the stream.
‘Anyone could come,’ she persisted. ‘Then what do I do?’
‘No one come, Astra. We travel three days. See no one. Everyone travel on road.’
‘Everyone except bandits.’
He rolled his eyes but handed her his knife.
‘Stab throat first, then heart.’
She snatched at the weapon before he could retract it. ‘I still can’t believe this. You’re leaving me to kill someone all by myself.’
‘I kill next bandit. Promise.’
It wasn’t funny. ‘What if you not come back?’
He wrapped the rein around his short arm. ‘I coming back, Astra.’
‘How do you know?’ Her fear, at last, seemed to reach him. He stared at the horizon, for the first time since they’d stopped the cart, giving her a moment’s thought. ‘If I no come back,’ he ordered, ‘walk back to stream tonight. Follow water to road. Go to Lálsil Treatment Ward and call Photon. CONC look after you. Okay?’
All that was do-able. She swallowed. ‘Okay.’
He nodded, then clicked the horse into motion. With a lumbering creak, the cart rolled out in the direction of the stream.
*
As she had been all morning, the horse was twitchy. Her ears pricked at nothing he could hear and uncharacteristically she strained at the reins. He hadn’t wanted to give Astra an excuse to come with him, but that meant a bad storm was gathering. Not today; the sky was too pale – probably tomorrow morning, tonight at the earliest. It was vital to get the camel today. Astra would see.
To keep her fresh for her market paces, he held the horse to no more than a fast walk, the cart jangling over the parched ground, its only cargo now him, his bag and the bits of scrap metal and old tools he’d brought from Kadingir as currency. Thinking of the good trading ahead, he brightened: today, for the first time in his life, he would be a wealthy man. The largest of the oasis towns and the final stop on the Asfar road, Lálsil boasted the biggest market in Non-Land; most Asfarian traders went no further into the Belt – having travelled for a week, they preferred to let the Non-Landers flock to them. But other than livestock and their own labour, most Non-Landers didn’t have much to bargain with. Many simply paid Asfarians to take them south in their caravans and find them jobs in the cities and towns of the Gulf. Some stayed; others returned with a wife, a husband, a car, bags of coin, determined to set up one of Non-Land’s rare successful businesses. For the region did have its specialities. The oasis women’s weaving cooperatives were famed for their detailed designs, wild herbs from the non-toxic areas of the scrublands were esteemed for their flavour and medicinal minerals from the Chott were in demand as a cure for conditions from asthma to heart disease. People sold these luxury goods for next to nothing in Lálsil and in return the Asfarians charged outrageous prices for stale sweets, factory-loomed robes and last year’s Tablettes. Prices were even higher in Pútigi and choice more limited; another reason to do his trading here. He would have explained all that to Astra, but she hadn’t been listening to reason and he needed to get to market in good time, before all the best camels were gone.
At the stream he got out of the cart and walked the horse over the slippery pebbles, back north to the place they had joined it. From there, he set off at a southerly angle. It was a necessary detour. If he was unlucky and an N-LA police van stopped him as he joined the road, the wheel tracks would back up his story: he was travelling from Kadingir to escape the war, and had gone to the stream to let his horse drink. He was glad he had nothing in the cart. Some of the Non-Land Alliance police officers were the biggest bandits on the roads.
‘And how did you know there was a stream?’ He rehearsed the interrogation – Astra’s pelting questions were good practice. ‘I’ve been to Lálsil before with my father,’ was the easy answer, because it was true. He had come to Lálsil when he was nine, on one of his father and uncle’s annual trading trips. They’d left Kadingir with a cartload of scrap metal and sheep fleeces and returned with tools, spices, beeswax candles, skeins of dyed wool, fancy buttons and threads and, best of all, tales to tell Kishar, his best friend. It had been the biggest adventure of his life: travelling down on the long road, watching the grassy scrubland slowly thin to this pale flaking emptiness; arriving at night, sleeping in the cart, waking to spend the next day immersed in the heaving market, its stalls, unlike their drab counterparts in Kadingir, heaped with treasures: fruits he had never heard of, let alone tasted, cloths in which all the tints of the rainbow were interwoven with silver and gold; barrels of spice, shelves of incense, glass cabinets of perfume. He had stuck close to Kingu and Gibil, drinking cinnamon lassi as they bartered, sipping tea after tea as the traders gradually reduced their outrageous prices to sums two sheep farmers could afford; at last, when all the business was done, taking an evening stroll around the broad green oasis pool, watching the camels drink. Camels in Kadingir had moulting hides and ribs you could play music on; camels in Lálsil were living temples, huge, shaggy-haired beasts adorned with bright woollen blankets, their harnesses dripping with pompoms and bells. He had wanted one ever since.
His mother wouldn’t let him go back to Lálsil the next year. Stories had been heard about a new type of trader, seemingly friendly and generous Asfarians who would invite a man for a beer, then slip a potion in the drink, a chemical to make his heart happy but his eyes heavy, a potion that drove him into a sleep so deep that when he woke up in a ditch on the outskirts of town, his cart, horse, moneybag, children and wife were already halfway to the Dragon’s Gorge. N-LA had investigated, and eventually a gang of beer-tent owners were arrested – corrupt Non-Landers who had been taking a cut of the slavers’ profit – but you still heard occasional tales of young men and women disappearing, never to be heard of again. It was a good thing he hadn’t told Astra that.
Thinking of his family, he peered out from the shade of the tarp, cast his gaze upwards. The thin morning haze was burning off: just keep going and your mind will clear, the sky-god was saying. That was good advice. If he thought too much about what IMBOD might be doing to his family, what that Sec Gen had done to Uttu, he would lose his way, fall down a deep crevice inside himself, perhaps never get out. Kingu had told him that too: when IMBOD takes a prisoner, they capture all his family’s hearts. At such times, you must not give in to fear. Instead you must nurture your resolve.
He felt stronger recalling that phrase. It meant to do all you could to stay strong and focused – both on the tasks at hand and on the future victory. His job right now was clear: to guide Astra to her father. Then he would focus on freeing his family. There were powerful people in Shiimti, he knew, healers in close communication with the gods: another good reason to travel all the way there.
At noon, the road came into sight, a pale raked line across the plain, traversed by a steady stream of cars and carts. He frowned. The traffic was heavier than he had expected: people must be fleeing Kadingir, not a good sign. But he was in luck: no N-LA van, and the road was in good repair. He joined the flow, rumbling along between carts stashed high with furniture and sacks, and soon Lálsil was glimmering like a mirage to the south: a floating vision of golden buildings and dark trees crowned by the town’s ancient bath-house dome, solar towers and Tablette mast. His spirits rose. If he did all his trading quickly, he’d have time for a steam and a good meal before heading back.
There was more traffic in the outskirts, taxis and minibuses raising dust that got up his nose. There was far more to see, too, the road lined with blue CONC-issue tents, goatskin shelters, screenposters, a straggle of stalls selling water and beer, fruit juice and roasted beans, deep-fried chickpea balls and lamb skewers, anything you were hankering for after a long journey, or might need for sustenance on the way home. He was thirsty, but didn’t stop. The smell of roast goat wafting over from an old woman’s stall made his mouth water; that would have to do until he got to the market.
The horse clopped past the first building, a mud-brick grocery shop with a red awning. Beyond rose a honeycomb of businesses and dwellings, the walls festooned with washing lines. Ahead was a red light and the traffic came to a halt, battered taxis jammed up against laden handcarts, women in white and gold veils sailing through the vehicles, beggars tugging at sleeves, raggedy boys offering bags of nuts to the incomers. The driver of the cart beside him was swatting away a pleading hand; his children were perched on the family’s baggage as if guarding it from thieves.
Muzi didn’t remember Lálsil being like this. He glanced back at his meagre load. It was unlikely, but a swarm of those street kids . . . He took advantage of the stalled traffic to hop into the back and chuck his best tools into the front. The horse tossed its head and whinnied as he took up the reins again. ‘Shhh,’ he soothed, though he felt anything but calm himself. At this rate it would take hours to get to the market. Then a bright flash caught his eye and he forgot his hurry. Mounted on the wall of a squat apartment block was a wallscreen ad for retired racing camels.
It was a video of the sort he and Kishar had watched a thousand times without getting bored, betting imaginary coin on the results, keeping a running score of debts to be paid in thumps and their mothers’ date biscuits. Transfixed, he gazed at a line of beasts lurching out of the starting gates then pounding for glory, mouths foaming, robot jockeys swathed in bright cloths mounted like second humps on their backs – humps with whips controlled by the camel owners, who were hanging out of the windows of their cars on the road running inside the track. It was a great race: for ages two beasts ran neck and neck, and then in the very last moments a beast with a red jockey pulled in front and vanquished them both. The kids in the next cart erupted, a mix of triumph and dismay, the mother turning to yell at them just as the older sister punched her little brother in the arm. Muzi grinned. The red light turned green and the traffic moved on, but his thoughts lingered on the race.
Kishar’s brother had a car, as did many youths in Kadingir, but camels at home were just pack beasts. Racers were temperamental, his father had told him; the animals had spent their lives being lashed to go fast and required a strong hand. They were also unreliable, frequently suffering from arthritis or gastric problems. And for all their issues, they were expensive, sold mainly in Non-Land to the breeding farms that lined the Lower Belt Road. No, he told himself firmly, an Asfarian camel would be a foolish investment. Perhaps, though, if there was time, he could go and have a quick look at the racers.
Impatient again, he considered the side streets. They were less crowded, but he didn’t want to risk getting lost. The horse shied at a chicken on the road. He frowned. She had never been this jittery in Kadingir. The sooner he traded her, the better. First though, he had an important stop to make in the market.
He didn’t just need a camel and supplies. He also needed advice. As well as urgent questions about market rates, he had serious enquiries to make about travelling in the desert: what equipment was required, if there were impassable ridges, how to survive the storm that was coming. To get answers to those questions, he needed to see the man Kingu and Gibil said was the most generous and knowledgeable trader in all of Non-Land – the Karkish ironmonger with the sign of the tree of ten fruits hanging outside his shop.
He knew what Astra would say about this plan. Loudly, over and over again, like rain drumming on a roof: his family’s disappearance might be on the news. IMBOD spies could be looking for him. With his blue eyes and short arm Muzi was distinctive. He would have to ask the trader not to talk about him; tell him why. It’s too risky, Muzi. Too risky. Astra worried too much. But . . . He reached into his bag and pulled on his CONC hand. The Council of New Continents could only afford cheap prostheses and his would fool no one, but Astra’s idea had been a good one: he would buy a pair of gloves to disguise it. Even if his family’s names were on the news, the greybeard would surely not connect just another blue-eyed Non-Lander youth with a small boy he’d met once, ten years ago, who’d sat eating date-filled pastries while his father and uncle haggled over pots and pans and candlestick holders.
Pushing on down the hot main road, he smelled the oasis before he saw it, a moist bloom in the air, hinting of vegetation and animal dung. Then the road forked and he was in the shade at last, circling a wide pool fringed with trees, shrieking children running down to splash in its lush green waters, people leading horses and camels to sip from the edge. He took a deep breath. It was a miracle, this open, giving, earth-bowl of water, fed by the only unpoisoned aquifer in Non-Land.
The market was also as he remembered it: a crescent of concentric roads, cafés and beer tents lining the shore of the pool, a clutter of signs and screenposters announcing the hardware, produce and clothing stalls behind, the livestock pens out to the back. He pulled over and joined a queue for the pool. Before he sold it, the horse needed to drink. And he needed time to think. If he remembered correctly, the greybeard’s stall was in the second road before the livestock pens. There were parking lots at the rear of the market too, where, for a coin, a man would make sure no one stole your horse or bedding. He hadn’t got a coin, but he would show the man his tools, explain that he was going to trade them, would pay when he got back. He’d sell the tools first, then check the news, and after that he would go and have a cup of tea from the greybeard’s famous samovar.
Astra didn’t understand: the risk of his father’s old friend betraying them was like the chance of being killed by a flea bite compared to the dangers ahead. He tugged at the horse, climbed back into the cart and entered the teeming market.
*
Muzi was gone, not even a speck on the horizon any more. Astra laid his blanket on the soil, draped hers over the rocks, took off her boots and crawled into the makeshift tent. This was not a good day. Men might come, bandits, Asfarian traders or even IMBOD officers. Is-Land’s Ministry of Border Defence was not allowed to enter Non-Land without permission but that hadn’t stopped IMBOD from sending a secret team into Kadingir to kidnap and kill Muzi’s family. She opened his knife, a black-handled switchblade curved like a flame, and placed it at the base of a rock, ready to grab in a flash. Between the rocks, where she didn’t have to look at it, she placed Muzi’s water flask. Hers was plain metal; his was covered in goatskin, some poor animal killed and flayed for needless decoration. He hadn’t cared when she talked to him about that either, she thought moodily. Then she put her boots back on. She might have to kick a man in the groin before she stabbed him in the throat. She lay in the shade, sipping from her water flask, alert to every flicker of light over the plain. As the sun rose, her fear subsided: any sensible bandits would be bedding down soon for siesta. But despite the silence and emptiness of the wide-open plain, she didn’t feel peaceful. She felt dirty. Dirty inside.
She had a right to be angry. Maybe she was too easily recognised, maybe Muzi had no choice but to leave her in this desiccated wasteland, but he’d made two major decisions without consulting her, and browbeaten her with the threat of going home. His refusal to recognise her as an equal partner in their journey was infuriating. Even so, she had to be honest with herself. Her emotions were threatening to run out of control. She shouldn’t have shouted like that; it was embarrassing to remember, and a little bit frightening.
She took her bottle of headache pills from her trouser pocket. Maybe her bad temper was a lingering symptom of the pain-ball or the grey wave, the punishing pains IMBOD’s memory treatment had left her with. She swallowed the pill. But her stomach still felt lined with grime. She had no excuse. She wasn’t getting the pain-ball or grey wave any more; that violent fit wasn’t IMBOD’s fault, it was hers. At one point she’d wanted to hit Muzi. What if she had? Tears sprang to her eyes. At the start of this journey she’d liked Muzi. A lot. They’d been close. Now he was being cold and demanding, and she’d come to the edge of an unforgivable meltdown.
She wiped her eyes and stared out miserably over the heat haze warping the plain. She had been stupid, that was the problem. She had expected too much, read far too much into Muzi’s surface courtesy. He had charmed her the day they met, lighting her birthday candle and laughing off his family’s attempts at matchmaking. And though the last thing she’d wanted to do was get married to anyone, somehow she’d left his house tending a spark of attraction. The next time she’d seen him, he was crying over the body of his grandmother, Uttu’s neck broken by a Sec Gen in punishment for being Astra’s friend. Rather than blame Astra, Muzi had volunteered to help her find her father. It had seemed the only way forward, as though they were meant to be together. Bitter sorrow washed over he
The Non-Land Alliance (N-LA)
Kadingir
Pithar [In Zabaria]
Shiimti
Is-Land Ministry of Border Defence (IMBOD)
[VC: Member of the Vision Council]
Is-Land
The Council of New Continents (CONC)
The plateau was as dry as a scab. Since leaving the stream they had passed no water, no bushes, just the odd withered clump of grass, parched and yellow like the soil that cracked in all directions out to the rim of the horizon. The sun was midway to its zenith in a cloudless sky, the shadow of the cart and horse shrinking like a puddle stain. Astra had left the shelter of the tarpaulin purely to pee behind a hump of black stunted rocks; there was no way on Gaia’s ill earth she was staying here.
‘Oh! This is . . .’ She grasped for ridiculous in Asfarian, settled for, ‘stupid. I am going too, Muzi, and that is THE END!’
Her hair was a crusty sponge, her skin measled with heat and coated with grime, and she stank; even her bum ached, and if she ate any more spelt porridge she’d turn grey. Right there, not even an hour’s ride east, so close she could almost see its friendly jumble of sun-baked cubes, feel the breeze from the palm trees waving a lush green welcome against the pale morning sky, was Lálsil, the oasis town she had been dreaming of for three jolting, rattling, sweating days and nights. Even more than the thought of buying dates and oranges at Lálsil’s famous market, drinking beer under its tasselled canopies, getting online, the engine driving her forward for the last twenty-four hours had been the promise of the town’s legendary steam bath: the vision of lying moist and shining on a marble slab under an ancient dome pierced with stars. She stepped back towards the cart.
Quick as a snake, Muzi blocked her, his lithe limbs everywhere she turned. ‘No, Astra. You stay here.’
She flung up her hands, clasped her head. ‘I need to wash, Muzi. And I have to email Photon. There’s a war on. We’ve got to keep in touch with Kadingir.’
‘Hello?’ Muzi waved his short arm in front of her face. ‘You famous now. You goddess, Astra. You Istar, ShareWorld queen. You want IMBOD spies see you?’
‘No one will see me. I’ll buy a . . . veil!’ She retrieved the word triumphantly, splaying her fingers over her face in case he didn’t know it. ‘Some of the Asfarian traders wear them, I know, I saw on Archivia—’
‘We no speak good Asfarian!’ His astonishing eyes dazzled with scorn. ‘I no good words; you no good accent.’
She glowered. He was right, and she knew it. Muzi’s Asfarian accent was excellent. He could do the throaty vowels that made her sound as if she’d swallowed a whole cat, let alone its hairball; the sharp trills her tongue floundered over like a soggy dishcloth. But he couldn’t speak a full correct sentence in the language if his life depended on it.
Nor could he strategise. Muzi wasn’t thinking this through. And he wasn’t even trying to discuss it all properly with her. Her anger flared again. ‘IMBOD could be hunting for you too. You’re just as easy to recognise as me. If it’s so dangerous, we need to stick together. Look. I’ll wear a veil and I won’t speak to anyone. You can say—’
Muzi leaned close. She could smell his musk, his dusty shirt, his breath, aniseed-scented from the twigs he chewed to clean his teeth. ‘If you go into Lálsil, Istar,’ he threatened in Somarian, ‘I’m going home.’
She understood perfectly. At the same time she no longer knew where she was, who this person in front of her was, his rare blue eyes glittering like patches of ice in hot earth. ‘You promise to help me,’ she hissed in his language. The tense was wrong, but a promise was timeless.
‘I told Photon I would take you to find your father.’ He tapped his chest, switched back to Asfarian. ‘I take. I guide. You follow. You no want follow – I go back Kadingir.’
She was speechless. She’d asked Muzi to be her guide, not her leader. And Photon was her friend, a man Muzi had met for an hour. But of course: the CONC driver was a man. For three days and nights she’d fought the temptation to kiss those finely arced lips. Now she wanted to punch them. Here in this lifeless plain all had become brutally clear: Muzi’s lean poise and keenness to help were not expressions of grace and restraint and consideration. They were deeply etched signs of arrogance – the bone-deep arrogance of a cocky, ill-educated, meat-eating patriarch.
She dug in her pocket, brandished her Tablette. ‘I have the money, remember. Who’s going to pay for the supplies if I stay here?’
He turned his back on her and, with that fluid ease that would never again make her heart shiver like a moonlit meadow, leapt back up into the driver’s seat. ‘You keep money,’ he tossed from the shade of the tarpaulin, a lord granting a boon. ‘I trade.’
She thought he was going to take the reins and drive off, but he slung his bag over his shoulder, hopped into the back and began dumping blankets, dishes, cutlery, the spelt sack – everything they owned – out onto the ground. Fear shot through her. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Cart no good now. I trade for camel. No want trader see we travelling two.’
‘What?’ Yet another decision he was taking without her. ‘Camels are expensive. And we can’t both ride one. We need to talk about this, Muzi.’
She had raised her voice. Sisi snorted and stamped. Muzi shot her a reproachful look. ‘Camel good for carrying. Good in sandstorm. Not eat or drink much. We walk.’
She stomped to the back of the cart, to yell without disturbing the horse. ‘Are you crazy? You want to walk the rest of the way? That’s suicidal, Muzi. That’s the most preposterous plan I’ve ever heard. It’s not even a plan. It is NOT A PLAN. It is the absolute absence of a plan. It demonstrates the fundamental non-existence of the capacity to plan.’
She was shouting in Gaian now, shouting and sputtering, not caring that he didn’t understand. He just had to get that he was an idiot, as thick as the Precambrian layer. She had the CONC map on her Tablette; they both knew that it was at least a week’s journey to Shiimti. Walking all the way would take two or three times longer, if they got there at all. They’d get blisters if they walked, risk exhaustion. They might get sunstroke, get lost, stop being able to make sense of the compass in her watch, start going round in circles. They might die. She boiled over, steaming and pacing as Muzi emptied the cart. Loads of people travelled with horses and carts on the Belt roads. She had seen photos. They could buy barrels of water; that was what the cart was for. They could wait out any storm; shelter the horse beneath the tarp if necessary. Muzi was a sheepherder and scrap-metal merchant from Kadingir. Had he ever owned a camel? Ever gone to Shiimti before? No? Well then, it was better to stick to the beast he knew. She shouted louder and louder, pacing and flailing, until Muzi jumped down in front of her and blazed in her face in Somarian, ‘The horse and the cart are mine. I’m trading them for a camel or I’m going home.’
‘You—’ She clenched her fists.
Muzi’s eyes flashed blue fire.
She stepped back, thrust her hands in her pockets. Suddenly she felt as drained as the sallow yellow grass on this barren plain. Technically, the horse and cart belonged to Muzi’s father and uncle. Thanks to her, Kingu and Gibil and their wives and children were in an IMBOD jail. Thanks to her too, Muzi’s grandmother was dead. Uttu had been killed for the crime of inviting Astra to lunch.
‘Okay,’ she muttered, crushing a lump of soil beneath her boot heel. ‘Go without me. Get a camel.’ Her temple was pulsing. If she wasn’t careful she would bring on one of her headaches. She had been taking her medication, but she wasn’t used to spending time in the sun. Or having screaming fights with a man who didn’t listen to a word she said.
‘Is only way, Astra. You see.’
‘Be careful,’ she insisted. ‘You’ve got to wear sunglasses, and your CONC hand. And you should get a pair of gloves to hide it.’
She hadn’t ever mentioned his prosthesis before. He hardly wore the clunky old thing, but surely he understood that a one-handed youth with broken sapphires for eyes would stand out nearly everywhere in Non-Land.
‘No worry, Astra. I keep safe.’ He took his flask from his bag, filled it from the water barrel Photon had given them and set it down by the rocks. The barrel was nearly empty. ‘This water for you. I get more in Lálsil.’
He was really going. Really leaving her here. Really selling the horse.
‘What about the dream-catcher? You’re not going to trade that, are you?’
Muzi frowned. It was the first time she’d seen him concede a point. He walked to the front of the cart and regarded the old propeller fan he’d mounted there, three rook feathers tied by thread to the cage. He took his knife from his shirt pocket, cut the feathers free and offered them to her.
‘We keep dreams. I take catcher to money-lend stall. One day I buy back.’
The feathers that had danced in the air as the cart jolted over the plain lay like three black blades in her palm. ‘We’d better come back,’ she grumbled, slipping them into a cargo pocket. ‘One day I want to go to the Lálsil bath house.’
‘You no need bath.’ He grinned. ‘You smell like scrubland.’
‘I’m serious. I’m filthy. Buy me some soap, Muzi. And a washcloth and a hat. And as much water as the camel can carry. Promise?’
‘Camel spit lots. Is good shower, you see.’
She didn’t answer for fear of losing her temper again. If he’d kept the cart, he could have brought barrels of water back. And this was goodbye to the horse. She couldn’t even trust Muzi would find a good carer – she couldn’t bring herself even to think ‘owner’ – for Sisi. Muzi’s family hadn’t even given the beast a name. When she’d asked, he’d laughed and replied ‘Sisi’: looking it up on her Tablette, she’d discovered the word meant horse in Somarian. She stroked the creature’s soft whuffly nose, whispered, ‘I’m sorry I yelled, Sisi. I’m sorry Muzi’s trading you. Thank you for bringing me this far. Thank you.’
High in the driver’s seat, Muzi waited for her to finish.
‘Make sure she goes to a good person,’ she ordered. ‘And email Photon. Tell him to send someone to meet us in Pútigi. Someone who knows the best route to Shiimti. Don’t forget the soap. And Muzi.’ She tugged his sleeve. ‘Find out the names of the Sec Gens who’ve been killed. Make a list for me, please.’
His lip curled, as if in disbelief or disgust. To him, the Security Generation Gaians were monsters, cannibals, nothing but huge Coded fighting machines. One had killed Uttu, snapped his grandmother’s neck as easily as cracking a knuckle.
‘Please, Muzi. I just need to know if my brother is alive.’
‘I do everything we need. You make tent with blanket. Rest. I back evening. No worry.’
That was easy for him to say. She gazed around the plain. Even if there was somewhere to run to, in the heat of the day she wouldn’t get far.
‘What if someone comes?’
‘No one come. Nothing here: no water, no hunting, no plant. I go back to stream, cover tracks. No one follow.’
The stream was an hour north. She understood now why he had insisted on leading the horse down it for so long. At the time she’d been grateful to walk in the cool water, barefoot beneath the delicate canopy of sunrise and into the morning. The idea, she had thought, had been to approach Lálsil carefully, keeping out of sight as long as possible. They should have had this conversation much earlier. If she’d known what he had in mind, she would have washed in the stream.
‘Anyone could come,’ she persisted. ‘Then what do I do?’
‘No one come, Astra. We travel three days. See no one. Everyone travel on road.’
‘Everyone except bandits.’
He rolled his eyes but handed her his knife.
‘Stab throat first, then heart.’
She snatched at the weapon before he could retract it. ‘I still can’t believe this. You’re leaving me to kill someone all by myself.’
‘I kill next bandit. Promise.’
It wasn’t funny. ‘What if you not come back?’
He wrapped the rein around his short arm. ‘I coming back, Astra.’
‘How do you know?’ Her fear, at last, seemed to reach him. He stared at the horizon, for the first time since they’d stopped the cart, giving her a moment’s thought. ‘If I no come back,’ he ordered, ‘walk back to stream tonight. Follow water to road. Go to Lálsil Treatment Ward and call Photon. CONC look after you. Okay?’
All that was do-able. She swallowed. ‘Okay.’
He nodded, then clicked the horse into motion. With a lumbering creak, the cart rolled out in the direction of the stream.
*
As she had been all morning, the horse was twitchy. Her ears pricked at nothing he could hear and uncharacteristically she strained at the reins. He hadn’t wanted to give Astra an excuse to come with him, but that meant a bad storm was gathering. Not today; the sky was too pale – probably tomorrow morning, tonight at the earliest. It was vital to get the camel today. Astra would see.
To keep her fresh for her market paces, he held the horse to no more than a fast walk, the cart jangling over the parched ground, its only cargo now him, his bag and the bits of scrap metal and old tools he’d brought from Kadingir as currency. Thinking of the good trading ahead, he brightened: today, for the first time in his life, he would be a wealthy man. The largest of the oasis towns and the final stop on the Asfar road, Lálsil boasted the biggest market in Non-Land; most Asfarian traders went no further into the Belt – having travelled for a week, they preferred to let the Non-Landers flock to them. But other than livestock and their own labour, most Non-Landers didn’t have much to bargain with. Many simply paid Asfarians to take them south in their caravans and find them jobs in the cities and towns of the Gulf. Some stayed; others returned with a wife, a husband, a car, bags of coin, determined to set up one of Non-Land’s rare successful businesses. For the region did have its specialities. The oasis women’s weaving cooperatives were famed for their detailed designs, wild herbs from the non-toxic areas of the scrublands were esteemed for their flavour and medicinal minerals from the Chott were in demand as a cure for conditions from asthma to heart disease. People sold these luxury goods for next to nothing in Lálsil and in return the Asfarians charged outrageous prices for stale sweets, factory-loomed robes and last year’s Tablettes. Prices were even higher in Pútigi and choice more limited; another reason to do his trading here. He would have explained all that to Astra, but she hadn’t been listening to reason and he needed to get to market in good time, before all the best camels were gone.
At the stream he got out of the cart and walked the horse over the slippery pebbles, back north to the place they had joined it. From there, he set off at a southerly angle. It was a necessary detour. If he was unlucky and an N-LA police van stopped him as he joined the road, the wheel tracks would back up his story: he was travelling from Kadingir to escape the war, and had gone to the stream to let his horse drink. He was glad he had nothing in the cart. Some of the Non-Land Alliance police officers were the biggest bandits on the roads.
‘And how did you know there was a stream?’ He rehearsed the interrogation – Astra’s pelting questions were good practice. ‘I’ve been to Lálsil before with my father,’ was the easy answer, because it was true. He had come to Lálsil when he was nine, on one of his father and uncle’s annual trading trips. They’d left Kadingir with a cartload of scrap metal and sheep fleeces and returned with tools, spices, beeswax candles, skeins of dyed wool, fancy buttons and threads and, best of all, tales to tell Kishar, his best friend. It had been the biggest adventure of his life: travelling down on the long road, watching the grassy scrubland slowly thin to this pale flaking emptiness; arriving at night, sleeping in the cart, waking to spend the next day immersed in the heaving market, its stalls, unlike their drab counterparts in Kadingir, heaped with treasures: fruits he had never heard of, let alone tasted, cloths in which all the tints of the rainbow were interwoven with silver and gold; barrels of spice, shelves of incense, glass cabinets of perfume. He had stuck close to Kingu and Gibil, drinking cinnamon lassi as they bartered, sipping tea after tea as the traders gradually reduced their outrageous prices to sums two sheep farmers could afford; at last, when all the business was done, taking an evening stroll around the broad green oasis pool, watching the camels drink. Camels in Kadingir had moulting hides and ribs you could play music on; camels in Lálsil were living temples, huge, shaggy-haired beasts adorned with bright woollen blankets, their harnesses dripping with pompoms and bells. He had wanted one ever since.
His mother wouldn’t let him go back to Lálsil the next year. Stories had been heard about a new type of trader, seemingly friendly and generous Asfarians who would invite a man for a beer, then slip a potion in the drink, a chemical to make his heart happy but his eyes heavy, a potion that drove him into a sleep so deep that when he woke up in a ditch on the outskirts of town, his cart, horse, moneybag, children and wife were already halfway to the Dragon’s Gorge. N-LA had investigated, and eventually a gang of beer-tent owners were arrested – corrupt Non-Landers who had been taking a cut of the slavers’ profit – but you still heard occasional tales of young men and women disappearing, never to be heard of again. It was a good thing he hadn’t told Astra that.
Thinking of his family, he peered out from the shade of the tarp, cast his gaze upwards. The thin morning haze was burning off: just keep going and your mind will clear, the sky-god was saying. That was good advice. If he thought too much about what IMBOD might be doing to his family, what that Sec Gen had done to Uttu, he would lose his way, fall down a deep crevice inside himself, perhaps never get out. Kingu had told him that too: when IMBOD takes a prisoner, they capture all his family’s hearts. At such times, you must not give in to fear. Instead you must nurture your resolve.
He felt stronger recalling that phrase. It meant to do all you could to stay strong and focused – both on the tasks at hand and on the future victory. His job right now was clear: to guide Astra to her father. Then he would focus on freeing his family. There were powerful people in Shiimti, he knew, healers in close communication with the gods: another good reason to travel all the way there.
At noon, the road came into sight, a pale raked line across the plain, traversed by a steady stream of cars and carts. He frowned. The traffic was heavier than he had expected: people must be fleeing Kadingir, not a good sign. But he was in luck: no N-LA van, and the road was in good repair. He joined the flow, rumbling along between carts stashed high with furniture and sacks, and soon Lálsil was glimmering like a mirage to the south: a floating vision of golden buildings and dark trees crowned by the town’s ancient bath-house dome, solar towers and Tablette mast. His spirits rose. If he did all his trading quickly, he’d have time for a steam and a good meal before heading back.
There was more traffic in the outskirts, taxis and minibuses raising dust that got up his nose. There was far more to see, too, the road lined with blue CONC-issue tents, goatskin shelters, screenposters, a straggle of stalls selling water and beer, fruit juice and roasted beans, deep-fried chickpea balls and lamb skewers, anything you were hankering for after a long journey, or might need for sustenance on the way home. He was thirsty, but didn’t stop. The smell of roast goat wafting over from an old woman’s stall made his mouth water; that would have to do until he got to the market.
The horse clopped past the first building, a mud-brick grocery shop with a red awning. Beyond rose a honeycomb of businesses and dwellings, the walls festooned with washing lines. Ahead was a red light and the traffic came to a halt, battered taxis jammed up against laden handcarts, women in white and gold veils sailing through the vehicles, beggars tugging at sleeves, raggedy boys offering bags of nuts to the incomers. The driver of the cart beside him was swatting away a pleading hand; his children were perched on the family’s baggage as if guarding it from thieves.
Muzi didn’t remember Lálsil being like this. He glanced back at his meagre load. It was unlikely, but a swarm of those street kids . . . He took advantage of the stalled traffic to hop into the back and chuck his best tools into the front. The horse tossed its head and whinnied as he took up the reins again. ‘Shhh,’ he soothed, though he felt anything but calm himself. At this rate it would take hours to get to the market. Then a bright flash caught his eye and he forgot his hurry. Mounted on the wall of a squat apartment block was a wallscreen ad for retired racing camels.
It was a video of the sort he and Kishar had watched a thousand times without getting bored, betting imaginary coin on the results, keeping a running score of debts to be paid in thumps and their mothers’ date biscuits. Transfixed, he gazed at a line of beasts lurching out of the starting gates then pounding for glory, mouths foaming, robot jockeys swathed in bright cloths mounted like second humps on their backs – humps with whips controlled by the camel owners, who were hanging out of the windows of their cars on the road running inside the track. It was a great race: for ages two beasts ran neck and neck, and then in the very last moments a beast with a red jockey pulled in front and vanquished them both. The kids in the next cart erupted, a mix of triumph and dismay, the mother turning to yell at them just as the older sister punched her little brother in the arm. Muzi grinned. The red light turned green and the traffic moved on, but his thoughts lingered on the race.
Kishar’s brother had a car, as did many youths in Kadingir, but camels at home were just pack beasts. Racers were temperamental, his father had told him; the animals had spent their lives being lashed to go fast and required a strong hand. They were also unreliable, frequently suffering from arthritis or gastric problems. And for all their issues, they were expensive, sold mainly in Non-Land to the breeding farms that lined the Lower Belt Road. No, he told himself firmly, an Asfarian camel would be a foolish investment. Perhaps, though, if there was time, he could go and have a quick look at the racers.
Impatient again, he considered the side streets. They were less crowded, but he didn’t want to risk getting lost. The horse shied at a chicken on the road. He frowned. She had never been this jittery in Kadingir. The sooner he traded her, the better. First though, he had an important stop to make in the market.
He didn’t just need a camel and supplies. He also needed advice. As well as urgent questions about market rates, he had serious enquiries to make about travelling in the desert: what equipment was required, if there were impassable ridges, how to survive the storm that was coming. To get answers to those questions, he needed to see the man Kingu and Gibil said was the most generous and knowledgeable trader in all of Non-Land – the Karkish ironmonger with the sign of the tree of ten fruits hanging outside his shop.
He knew what Astra would say about this plan. Loudly, over and over again, like rain drumming on a roof: his family’s disappearance might be on the news. IMBOD spies could be looking for him. With his blue eyes and short arm Muzi was distinctive. He would have to ask the trader not to talk about him; tell him why. It’s too risky, Muzi. Too risky. Astra worried too much. But . . . He reached into his bag and pulled on his CONC hand. The Council of New Continents could only afford cheap prostheses and his would fool no one, but Astra’s idea had been a good one: he would buy a pair of gloves to disguise it. Even if his family’s names were on the news, the greybeard would surely not connect just another blue-eyed Non-Lander youth with a small boy he’d met once, ten years ago, who’d sat eating date-filled pastries while his father and uncle haggled over pots and pans and candlestick holders.
Pushing on down the hot main road, he smelled the oasis before he saw it, a moist bloom in the air, hinting of vegetation and animal dung. Then the road forked and he was in the shade at last, circling a wide pool fringed with trees, shrieking children running down to splash in its lush green waters, people leading horses and camels to sip from the edge. He took a deep breath. It was a miracle, this open, giving, earth-bowl of water, fed by the only unpoisoned aquifer in Non-Land.
The market was also as he remembered it: a crescent of concentric roads, cafés and beer tents lining the shore of the pool, a clutter of signs and screenposters announcing the hardware, produce and clothing stalls behind, the livestock pens out to the back. He pulled over and joined a queue for the pool. Before he sold it, the horse needed to drink. And he needed time to think. If he remembered correctly, the greybeard’s stall was in the second road before the livestock pens. There were parking lots at the rear of the market too, where, for a coin, a man would make sure no one stole your horse or bedding. He hadn’t got a coin, but he would show the man his tools, explain that he was going to trade them, would pay when he got back. He’d sell the tools first, then check the news, and after that he would go and have a cup of tea from the greybeard’s famous samovar.
Astra didn’t understand: the risk of his father’s old friend betraying them was like the chance of being killed by a flea bite compared to the dangers ahead. He tugged at the horse, climbed back into the cart and entered the teeming market.
*
Muzi was gone, not even a speck on the horizon any more. Astra laid his blanket on the soil, draped hers over the rocks, took off her boots and crawled into the makeshift tent. This was not a good day. Men might come, bandits, Asfarian traders or even IMBOD officers. Is-Land’s Ministry of Border Defence was not allowed to enter Non-Land without permission but that hadn’t stopped IMBOD from sending a secret team into Kadingir to kidnap and kill Muzi’s family. She opened his knife, a black-handled switchblade curved like a flame, and placed it at the base of a rock, ready to grab in a flash. Between the rocks, where she didn’t have to look at it, she placed Muzi’s water flask. Hers was plain metal; his was covered in goatskin, some poor animal killed and flayed for needless decoration. He hadn’t cared when she talked to him about that either, she thought moodily. Then she put her boots back on. She might have to kick a man in the groin before she stabbed him in the throat. She lay in the shade, sipping from her water flask, alert to every flicker of light over the plain. As the sun rose, her fear subsided: any sensible bandits would be bedding down soon for siesta. But despite the silence and emptiness of the wide-open plain, she didn’t feel peaceful. She felt dirty. Dirty inside.
She had a right to be angry. Maybe she was too easily recognised, maybe Muzi had no choice but to leave her in this desiccated wasteland, but he’d made two major decisions without consulting her, and browbeaten her with the threat of going home. His refusal to recognise her as an equal partner in their journey was infuriating. Even so, she had to be honest with herself. Her emotions were threatening to run out of control. She shouldn’t have shouted like that; it was embarrassing to remember, and a little bit frightening.
She took her bottle of headache pills from her trouser pocket. Maybe her bad temper was a lingering symptom of the pain-ball or the grey wave, the punishing pains IMBOD’s memory treatment had left her with. She swallowed the pill. But her stomach still felt lined with grime. She had no excuse. She wasn’t getting the pain-ball or grey wave any more; that violent fit wasn’t IMBOD’s fault, it was hers. At one point she’d wanted to hit Muzi. What if she had? Tears sprang to her eyes. At the start of this journey she’d liked Muzi. A lot. They’d been close. Now he was being cold and demanding, and she’d come to the edge of an unforgivable meltdown.
She wiped her eyes and stared out miserably over the heat haze warping the plain. She had been stupid, that was the problem. She had expected too much, read far too much into Muzi’s surface courtesy. He had charmed her the day they met, lighting her birthday candle and laughing off his family’s attempts at matchmaking. And though the last thing she’d wanted to do was get married to anyone, somehow she’d left his house tending a spark of attraction. The next time she’d seen him, he was crying over the body of his grandmother, Uttu’s neck broken by a Sec Gen in punishment for being Astra’s friend. Rather than blame Astra, Muzi had volunteered to help her find her father. It had seemed the only way forward, as though they were meant to be together. Bitter sorrow washed over he
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The Blood of the Hoopoe
Naomi Foyle
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