His skin is the color of pale river sand, suggesting he might hail from a tribe in the distant north. Dark shoulder-length hair frames his lightly stubbled face. Save for the rather conspicuous silver gauntlet gleaming on his left hand, he is dressed entirely in black, from his formfitting sleeveless dashiki to his pants and boots to the leather knapsack clinging to his back.
For whatever reason, it takes Salo a moment of blank staring for the stranger’s words to register, and then a hundred questions spring to his mind as sense returns to him, the most pressing being: “How is it you speak my tongue?”
“I speak many tongues,” the young man says, once again in perfect if slightly accented Sirezi. He extends a hand for a handshake. “Tuksaad at your service.”
Salo stares at the hand, doesn’t take it. “But you are not Yerezi.”
The young man keeps the hand there a moment longer before he retracts it with a shrug, his eyes twinkling with amusement. They are actually a mossy shade of green, not dark, as Salo first thought. “One need not belong to a tongue to speak it,” he says.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know. Your tribe isn’t exactly one of the big five, but I’m on a pilgrimage of sorts, you see. My mission is to speak to people from as many Red tribes as possible, and you are the first Yerezi tribesman I’ve ever met. When I saw you running past, I knew I had to come and speak with you.” The young man named Tuksaad tilts his head when he notices Salo’s earring. “Forgive me if I’m being rude, but you are a prince, are you not? I know that copper is a signifier of royalty among your people—or am I mistaken?”
A strange man in an even stranger place. But before Salo can think up an appropriate reply, sudden commotion up the street draws his attention, and when he looks, he feels his grip tightening around his staff.
The thief. Except now he’s caught between two armed men in black dashikis, and he’s wailing and struggling against their iron grips as they haul him down the street by his shoulders. A third man leads the party, and it seems they are headed Salo’s way.
“You there,” says the leader when they stop several paces away from him. The man uses a deliberately loud voice to attract attention, presenting a leather pouch held solidly in one meaty hand. “Is this yours?”
Distracted by the horror of the meat market, Salo had forgotten all about the thief. He feels a small flicker of anger seeing him now, but more than anything he feels pity. The boy’s face is now covered in a sheen of snot and tears. “Yes, that’s mine,” Salo says, albeit cautiously. “It was . . . taken from me a short while ago.”
Tuksaad’s eyes have dimmed again. He’s maneuvered himself next to Salo so that they look like they are traveling together. Salo finds that he doesn’t mind too much.
“The victim has confirmed that this is his coin purse,” the guard says, raising the purse for all to see, and again his voice is loud enough for the whole meat market to hear. Salo notices with unease that a crowd is gathering around them. “The stolen purse will now be returned to its owner.”
The guard tosses the purse at Salo, and he catches it. He doesn’t have to open it to know that all his money is still there.
“As for our little thief . . .” With a malicious smirk the guard walks to the weeping boy and unceremoniously divests him of his tattered woolen hat. Salo’s heart lurches when he sees the bronze-like tensors growing out of the boy’s temples. “Faraswa filth,” the guard spits. He reaches down and pulls the boy’s hair back so that his face is upturned. “How did you escape the pens, filth? No matter. We will put you to good use now.”
To the watching crowds he shouts: “By the Dark Sun’s decree, the punishment for the crime of theft is death by dismemberment. All thieves are to be immediately offered to the Blood Woman in our lord’s name, in payment for the injury done to him, for all theft in this town is theft from him.” With callous ease the guard unlimbers the machete tied to his belt—and offers it to Salo.
At the same time, his two comrades shove the Faraswa boy to his knees and stretch his right arm so that it is taut and ready for butchering. Salo’s breath pauses momentarily.
“As the wronged party,” the guard says, “you have the right to exact punishment. Will you exercise this right?”
“Absolutely not!”
“Very well.” The guard turns to face the boy, whose wails have become spine chilling.
“Wait!”
The guard stops. Turns around. A heavy frown darkens his face. “Would you like to exact the punishment?”
“No! I mean, I don’t want any punishment exacted. Certainly not this.”
Next to Salo, Tuksaad steps close enough to whisper. “What are you doing, friend? It is not wise to interrupt them.”
“Your coin purse was found in the Faraswa thief’s possession,” the guard says. “A witness reported the incident, and you have confirmed that the coin purse is yours. The law is clear: he must be dismembered.”
The crowd is thicker now. The slavers are watching with ghoulish curiosity next to their wares. Salo’s words come out as a stutter. “B-but . . . you can’t just kill him! Not for money!”
The guard shares puzzled frowns with his comrades, like Salo has said something nonsensical. That’s when his new friend steps in. “What he means to say, my good man, is that the boy is no thief.”
“I don’t follow,” says the guard, and neither does Salo, but he nods in agreement anyway.
“All just a misunderstanding,” Tuksaad explains with a smile and his palms raised in a gesture of peace. “They were playing a game, you see. My friend here”—he gestures at Salo—“gave the boy his purse and told him to run so he could catch him. It’s a variation of hide-and-seek, a popular game where he comes from.”
“Very popular,” Salo says, nodding in fervent agreement. “We play it all the time.”
“Exactly.” Tuksaad gives a cheerful laugh. “He just wanted the challenge of playing it in a crowded place for once. So you see, just a misunderstanding. There has been no theft here.”
“We’re terribly sorry for the trouble it’s caused.” Salo looks at the boy in desperation. “Tell them, friend. We were playing a game, weren’t we?”
The Faraswa boy nods the way one nods when one’s life depends on it.
“See? Please, Red-kin. Let my friend go.”
“And we’ll buy you a cold beer each for the inconvenience,” Tuksaad adds with his dimpled smile.
For a moment the guard appears inclined to accept Tuksaad’s offer, but then he looks at Salo, and he must see right through him to the dread beneath, because he firms his expression and shakes his head. “I’m afraid that’s not how we do things around here. When a thief steals from the people of this town, he steals from our lord. He must be punished to deter others from following his example. I understand your sympathy, but the law is clear.”
The anticipation in the air is almost thick enough to touch as the guard faces the boy, his machete dangling in one hand. “You have been judged guilty, filth, and now your life shall be offered to the Blood Woman in the name of our Muchinda, the great Dark Sun. May he be blessed with a thousand years of life and good health.”