Unicorn Tracks (10 page)

“Your father’s a chief?” Kara asked, eyebrows raised. “You’re a princess, then? For real?”

“Of a very small village,” I said quickly. “And I’m not a princess. Our village has less than a thousand people. And our chiefs are more like mayors in your land than kings.”

“Why are you here, then? Working like this?” Mr. Harving asked. I braced myself against the question I knew would follow. “If your father is a chief then you’re important. I’ve read enough on culture here to know that. Shouldn’t you be married? Or thinking about it?”

Only silence answered his question. I saw Kara step warningly on her father’s foot. Mr. Harving shuffled his feet, immediately sensing he’d made an error.

After a long moment, Bi Trembla patted my back. Our eyes met, hers crinkling at the corners. “She is too good for any suitors. My girl must have the best,” she said.

Something twisted in my stomach, a mix of butterflies and pain. Bi Trembla was usually so stoic and gruff, that coming from her, the words meant a lot.

“Plus she couldn’t stand the thought of being away from me.” Tumelo chuckled as he tied a gilded sash over his shoulder. “She’s stalked me since we were children. Followed me all the way here, crying like an abandoned puppy. Admit it.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” I said, giggling.

Bi Trembla sighed, moving about the hut and picking up Tumelo’s discarded clothes. “I couldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t try to persuade you all to see sense once more. Nothing I say can stop you from doing this idiot thing?”

“We’re doing it, Bi Trembla.”

Mr. Harving laughed, rubbing the back of his head. “Two safari guides and a pair of foreigners out to the save the world. What could go wrong?”

Bi Trembla didn’t even smile.

Tumelo hugged her with one arm. “We’ll be home for dinner tomorrow night,
Nyanya
.”

Grandmother. Tumelo had chosen his words with care, and I saw Bi Trembla’s shoulders relax.

She gave a curt nod. “See that you are. If your food gets cold or you go hungry, you’ll only have yourselves to blame.”

SMOKE ROSE
off the savanna, giving the illusion of dark volcanoes on the horizon. Thick clouds of birds flew overhead, cautioning us away, while the smoke and the song of metal beckoned. We let Tumelo ride out front. I gave directions from behind him, but trailed far enough back to show deference to his fake rank. The nkombe feathers on his headdress gleamed in the sun. Bi Trembla had done her work well. Every part of his outfit, down to the silver stars embroidered on his collar, looked like a real chief’s outfit. Tumelo sat straight in his saddle, holding his reins in one hand and an ornamental spear in the other.

Beside me, Mr. Harving mopped his forehead with a wet cloth. I offered him more water from my canteen, as he’d drained his on the first part of the journey. He drank greedily, but the heat still made him sway in the saddle. I was grateful for the simple linen clothing Kara and I could wear. Today the intense sun baked our skins like clay bricks.

Tumelo glanced back at us. He grinned, but I knew him well enough to see the worry in his eyes. He tossed a few of the feathers back over his shoulder like locks of hair. “This is it. Time for my debut.”

“You’ve been showing off your whole life,” I said.

“I’m a born star,” he said. “Perhaps when we’re done here, I’ll give up this safari business and audition for a position in the General’s household players’ troop.”

“They’ll cast you as the beast every time,” I said, giggling. Tumelo put his hand over his heart, swaying as if I’d wounded him.

Mr. Harving loosened his collar. “I’m happy for Tumelo to take the lead role in this. The less I have to say, the better.”

“The one who showed us around before didn’t speak Echalende,” Kara said. “Chances are good you’ll barely have to say anything. I didn’t.”

“I think he understood more than he let on,” I said. “Just be careful, okay? Stay in character the whole time. Don’t assume they don’t understand you.”

As we reached the edge of the poacher’s camp, Mr. Harving put his handkerchief to his nose. I resisted the urge to gag. In the space of just a few days, conditions in the camp had gone even further downhill. The terrible stench of rotting egg, meat, and bodies wafted over us. The smell got trapped in the humid air and hovered all around us like a putrid mist.

“My God,” Mr. Harving whispered, hand covering his nose. “What is that?”

“Over two hundred men without a clean water source or a privy,” Tumelo said, grimacing. He schooled his features into a frown and adjusted his position, sitting as tall and proud in the saddle as possible.

Mr. Harving rode up closer to Brekna’s flanks, with Kara and I trailing behind. Kara’s hair hung loose at her shoulders, partially obscuring the telltale line of her jaw.

Before we reached the worksite, two men on horses approached us. I recognized the first immediately. His thigh no longer sported a bandage from the filly’s horn, but the openmouthed gaping at Kara and the hunger in his eyes was the same. Leaving his companion’s side, he trotted directly over to her. He extended his hand to shake hers, but as she nervously held her hand toward him, he reached out and rested his hand on her thigh. His brazen disrespect left me speechless.

Tumelo’s spear whizzed through the air. The shaft connected with the man’s wrist. He reeled back with a howl, cradling his arm against his body. His companion glanced up sharply but shrugged and did nothing to intervene. That boded well. If they believed Tumelo really was a chief, no one would dare question his actions.

“What is the meaning of this?” Tumelo boomed in our language. The feathers around his face quivered when he raised his voice. “I have ridden all the way here to meet with your master, only to have one of my escort touched by the likes of you? Fetch your employer
this second
.”

The two men exchanged uneasy glances. I wondered if Tumelo had overplayed his authority. When my father gave commands, he always did so with a quiet confidence. He expected to be obeyed and felt no need to raise his voice.

After a long pause, the man who had tried to stroke Kara wheeled his horse around and galloped through the mud. I had to cover my mouth to hide a smile of pure relief.

The other poacher half bowed in his saddle. He had a shrewd look about him, with narrow-set eyes and a small, pursed mouth. “Welcome. I assure you Jayweu did not mean any harm. He’s not the brightest man we have, but he’s fearless, and he can rope a unicorn with the best, so we keep him around.” His eyes rested on Kara and me as he said, “Some servants are strong, others must possess… other talents. I apologize if he has given offense. My master is in his pavilion, overseeing the slaves’ progress. I am sure he will receive you there for refreshments.”

We gathered our reins to follow him, but he circled his horse around Tumelo and spoke directly to Mr. Harving. His accent was coarse, but intelligible Echalende flowed from his lips. “Hello, sir. I trust your journey to our country has gone well?”

“Yes,” Mr. Harving croaked. He fanned his beet-red face. “Terribly hot here, though.”

“Yes. We get that complaint a lot, I’m afraid. How did you arrive?”

“By ship, of course.”

The man nodded. “Of course. What other way? Until we complete this project, that is.” He gestured behind him, over the tents to the trail of smoke coiling up to the sky. “Have you spent much time in Nazwimbe? I was not aware that a new ship had landed for some weeks.”

I could see Mr. Harving struggling to find excuses, so I cut in. “As you say, our client has been here some weeks. He became ill on the journey, and we had to make many stops.”

The man’s lip curled. “I see.”

“Do you think that this is his only business?” I snapped.

The man bowed in his saddle. “Of course not. Again, I don’t mean to offend.”

“Are you taking us through for refreshments or not?” Tumelo interrupted. His tone did not question, and this time he didn’t raise his voice. Maybe he had studied my father closely after all. “I wish to dismount and take something to drink.”

“Of course, sir,” the man said, switching instantly back to our language. “Follow me.”

As we trailed after him toward the source of the smoke, Kara leaned over in her saddle to whisper to me. “What do you think all that was about? He seemed really suspicious.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. But he speaks your language. Your father might have to do a lot more talking than we thought.”

Given how much Mr. Harving had struggled to supply a simple excuse, I sincerely hoped the poacher’s leader did not speak Echalende.

When we reached the edge of the labyrinth of tents and mud, Mr. Harving pulled his horse up to study the scene that played out in front of us. We watched, breath held, while two of the slaves hitched a unicorn mare to a sleigh. The mare’s once proud head drooped between her knees. A hornless foal trailed her flank, ribs visible under his fuzzy baby coat. The slaves dragged the mare forward by the bridle, while an overseer whipped their backs. The animal staggered with exhaustion and the weight of the sleigh. The slaves’ groans echoed through me, and despite the intolerable heat, I shivered.

I wanted to reach for Kara’s hand, but the eyes of a hundred men followed us as we made our way through the camp. Even worse, her father rode beside us, and he would see everything. I wrapped a lock of the gelding’s long mane around my hand instead.

The leader of the poachers reclined under a black velvet awning. He rested his feet on the back of a kneeling slave and sipped a bubbling green drink held by another. Two more laborers waved an enormous pair of feather fans above him. I squinted; the fans looked as if the poachers had simply cut off and preserved two ostrich wings. There was no sign of the black box or the moonstone. When he caught sight of our party, he rose to his feet and beckoned us toward the pavilion.

I heard Tumelo exhale. When we passed the slaves, he had slumped in his saddle, haughty bearing gone as he witnessed their abuse. Until he had seen the camp, the acting had been a game to him: a challenge for the salesman inside him to win. He’d known the risks and argued them, but looking at his face, I could tell that he only really understood everything now. An overseer whipped a slave to our left. The man’s blood sprayed in an arc, spotting Tumelo’s robes. He flinched, closing his eyes, as if afraid the whip might slash across his face.

Kicking Elikia forward, I rode up, even with him. His eyes were dazed. I lifted my sleeve to his face and wiped a bead of blood off his lip. Then I turned to the overseer, trying my best to sound imperious, blasé, like my mama would in this situation and shouted, “You have just splattered blood on the chieftain’s robe. Clear a path.”

When the man hesitated, whip still raised, Tumelo recovered himself. “Now,” he ordered.

The leader craned toward us, watching our party intently, taking note of how we handled the men. I looked at Kara, and she met my eye. I could tell from the worried crease across her forehead that both of us were thinking the same thing: this was going to be much harder than last time.

We approached the pavilion. Sitting on their horse’s backs, Tumelo and Mr. Harving were at eye-level with the poacher’s leader. He raised his hand to Tumelo, palm flat, as was our custom when meeting a chief, but I noticed that his eyes never lowered. He watched them all the time, looking for any cracks in their image. We’d only seen him from afar that day on the ridge, but up close, I could see he was much younger than I’d imagined. His face bore no lines; his hair was ebony black. Under his velvet dinner jacket, he wore a silver belt adorned with a collection of knives.

“Greetings,” he said in smooth Echalende.

Mr. Harving removed his hat and tipped it toward him.

“You’re early. Or late. We weren’t expecting anyone today, so you’ve surprised us all. If you’d sent your envoys a bit ahead, I could have arranged for someone to meet you.” He smiled, revealing his teeth. None of his apology carried through in his tone. In place of his two canines were two minute silver blades. I wondered how he chewed without destroying his own cheeks.

“I was ill when I first arrived in the country,” Mr. Harving parroted. His eyes darted to me, searching for affirmation. I looked away. We couldn’t be seen exchanging glances like that. He was supposed to be my employer; he couldn’t look to me for help.

I was glad his face still showed the hollowness of fever because the leader nodded and seemed to accept this excuse without noticing the way he looked at me. The poacher sat back in his chair and said, “I am Arusei Njenga. As you will know from our letters, I am looking to secure further labor and a steady supply of raw materials from the North. Iron, mostly. And weapons in the new style. I think you will be pleased with our progress. Already the railroad connects Nazwimbe to Erithvea and Olstwanga. All in secret, of course. It wouldn’t do for our dear General to know about all this until we’re nearer completion.”

“Of course,” Mr. Harving managed to stutter. Tumelo’s hand shook on his reins.

“This part of the country is very special,” Arusei continued. “Very few inhabitants, but flat. Of course, we hope that will change once we have completed our work. The General is blind. He would never give permission for a project like this. Nazwimbe needs to modernize, or we’re going to be eaten alive by the countries around us.”