“Thank you, Great Bonobo.” Isa interlocks her fingers and stares gravely at her headmen. “I’d like to take this opportunity to discuss something very important to me. Something so important it’s been keeping me up at night these last few days. My beloved princes, I want to talk about colors.”
The headmen trade baffled looks. The Bonobo is the first to speak. “What?”
“Colors,” Isa says. “Are they not the most wonderful things in the world? Passionate reds, earthy browns, fertile yellows, mysterious grays, trusty blues”—here she looks across the circle—“treacherous greens. Could it be that the colors we’re most drawn to say something about what kind of people we are?”
After another long silence, the Hare shakes his head. “Her Majesty makes a mockery of this sacred place.”
“Her Majesty is the king,” says the Kestrel. “And she is allowed to give a speech without interruptions.”
“Thank you, Great Kestrel,” Isa says. “Now, where was I? Oh yes, colors.”
Mkutanos at the Meeting Place by the Sea are meant to last for two hours and not a second longer. The flames of the burning fire mark the passage of time; they grow weaker with each passing moment, dying out completely when the two hours have elapsed.
Isa has a whole speech prepared. While the fire wanes, she whiles away the time with several loosely related discussions, from the color spectrum to the capital’s architectural history to the economic outlook of a kingdom at war with itself. She speaks until everyone knows that she will not let them do what they have come here to do, for she is king, and a king may speak for as long as she wishes.
She knows in her heart that this is weak power, but it is still power, so she will not shy away from using it.
The Bonobo’s eyes gather rage until they burn brighter than the fire in the depression. The Hare and the Rhino begin to fidget. Across the circle, a slow smile of begrudging respect spreads across the Crocodile’s face.
Isa doesn’t stop talking until the fire goes out with a hiss, signaling the end of the meeting. She stifles the sigh of relief that builds up in her chest. “Oh, will you look at that. Our time is up. And I wasn’t even close to finished! Perhaps I can give the rest of my speech next time.”
When she rises to her feet, the Kestrel and the Lion do the same, though they appear a little more enthusiastic about it now. This time she lets the sigh out. She feared she would lose their respect with this move, but it seems the exact opposite is true.
“Mother’s blessings upon you, Your Highnesses,” she says. “Until next time.” And then she descends the steps to her throne, heading for the stretch of beach they came from. She could just slip back to the temple from here, but she wants the satisfaction of a proper exit.
Dino and Ijiro follow quietly behind her. They didn’t know what she was planning to do; if they think any less of her now, they aren’t showing it.
Halfway there a voice calls out to her: “Your Majesty. A word, if you please.”
Isa considers ignoring the request because she knows exactly whose it is. Curiosity wins out in the end, though, so she stops and turns around.
The Crocodile has taken off his mask. He’s walking toward her alone, with what she might have considered a charming smile had its wearer not murdered her entire family.
How she wishes she could say he is hideous. Some vile, hollow-cheeked wraith with pustules swarming his face. Or perhaps a brute of monstrous girth, with blubbery breasts drooping down to his knees, the sweaty folds of his pendulous double chin rolling like the curds of rancid boar’s milk.
But no. Kola Saai is quite easy on the eyes, if a little short for a man. He keeps his face clean shaven and his frizzy hair closely cropped. He’s also fairly young for a headman; he can’t be more than a decade older than Isa’s seventeen years.
“A wonderful performance back there,” he says. “Your knowledge of what goes on in the city’s sewers is . . . enviable.”
She suspects he’s trying to rouse some kind of reaction from her. She tries not to give it to him, though it’s incredibly hard to maintain her composure standing only a few feet from the man who took everything from her. “What do you want?”
“The answer to a simple question, Your Majesty: Why do you still cling to a crown you can no longer defend? It is futile.”
At least he’s direct. “You expect me to simply stand aside and let you have your way with my people? I think not.”
“But I don’t wish your people harm, Your Majesty. I’m only stepping in to fill a power vacuum that was torn into our society by the Royal Massacre.” Kola Saai bows his head, tracing a solemn finger across his heart. “May the victims find peace on the Infinite Path.”
Next to her, Dino and Ijiro repeat the gesture, perhaps without thought. She won’t fault them—Kola Saai is a headman, after all—but she will not stand here and pretend that this man didn’t murder her family. “There is no power vacuum,” she says. “I am king.”
Kola’s sober expression melts into a crooked smile. “By what power do you make this claim? Your clan has no legion, and the Shirika, who granted your forefathers dominion over the other clans, have not recognized you. Meanwhile I carry their blessing as prince regent, and my clan has the most powerful legion in the kingdom. If that is not a power vacuum, then I’m afraid to say I do not know what is.”
“I’ve been wondering how you managed to buy them off,” Isa says. “Care to share?” It is extremely dangerous, even for a king, to accuse the Shirika of corruption without evidence. But Isa didn’t speak any names, so she has plausible deniability in her favor.
Kola’s smile widens. “Be my wife, Isa. We would have such beautiful children, you and I, and we would rule the world as king and queen. There’s no need for bloodshed.”
Revulsion coils around Isa, but she lets her mask reveal no emotion. “Last I heard you already had a wife. A pretty young thing from the desert.”
“Bah.” Kola waves that away like it’s a pesky little detail. “She’s just a toy. You would be my first wife—my queen.”
“Yes, except I wouldn’t have any legitimate power because you want my mask destroyed.”
The Crocodile stares at her mask with a hungry look in his eyes. “The Shirika cannot crown me so long as that mask exists. You know this.”
“I do,” Isa admits. “I also know that this mask is the most important symbol of my clan. Without it I cannot claim to represent them. We would become a clan with neither legion nor representative in the Mkutano. We would be at the complete mercy of all the other headmen and their whims.”
“Another mask can be made if you’re that attached to it,” Kola says, like he thinks she might actually be that foolish or superficial. These masks are said to have been forged of gold that came from the moon itself; they can never be replaced.
Isa refrains from reacting to his condescension. “And what of my people? What will happen to them when you disband the Sentinels? Do you think the interclan hatreds you’ve stoked will just disappear? Who will defend them when the genocide begins? You said it yourself; my clan has no legion.”
“Marry me, and my forces will step in to prevent any violence against your people.”