Sogolon watch them through an opening in the stone. Ten riders she count, but more coming up behind, three, five, two, and two more. Before several dismount, their armor make plain who they be. Red Army, from Fasisi. Archers, spearmen, sword wielders in full chain mail and gold helmets, smooth and close to the head, flares at the ears like wings. Three chariots pull up, then two more. From one of the last, a dog as tall as half of a warrior jump out, sniff the ground, and race off, away from her. A sigh, too loud, escape her lips. The warriors are among the ruins now, and there is nothing she can do but calm herself, be like the earth, and hope that her brown leather and dirty skin they mistake for dirt itself. Sogolon wonder what they looking for, since nobody have any reason to seek her. But they are from Fasisi, in service to the King, and the word to kill all the divine sisters could only have come from the throne. No, that is not it. The word was to kill the King Sister and make sure there are no witness to give report. Even if scouting for witnesses would take days. Survivors, if there are some, to make sure they are none. But there are enough soldiers here for a small siege, much too many just for picking through dead bones. A soldier crouch and sift through the dirt with his dagger. Some of the men spread out, but most stand still, looking around at the sky and the mountains, as if they never seen this view.
And the dog, the dog is behind her. In front of her when she turn back around. Gray, with a white chest and nose, and shaggy, like rug wrapped around a dog. Truth, the dog look as big as the lions of court. He stand there, looking at her, tilt his head like he hear her remark, and so quiet that Sogolon thinking that maybe he is friendly. But then he growl, low and wicked, then louder, baring his teeth like he already decide what to bite into first. Sogolon stiff as wood, frighten that any move would make him pounce. He growl again, then bark and won’t stop barking, and moving in closer and would be upon her if a soldier didn’t pull him back.
“You don’t look like a cat,” he say and grab Sogolon’s arm just as she set to scamper. The soldier pull her to him and she swing around to slap his cheek but hit the side of his helmet. She yell at the pain and the soldier shake his head, telling her that inside these new helmets sound like a bell, and you, young girl, look like you sprain a finger. He drag her along, and Sogolon still yelling and cursing and trying to kick his legs.
“I can either cut your throat, break your arm, or leave you untouched. Which it going be, girl? Choose fast.”
Sogolon calm down and relax the arm still in his grip. They walk past the soldiers spread out, past four setting up camp, and down to the last of them, where three men on horseback is looking at the sunrise. Larger gold helmets, meaning marshals or somebody with authority over other men. Two of them turn around, one she seeing for the first time in red armor.
“Ke—”
It leave her mouth, but her throat snatch the rest of the name back. Sogolon don’t know why. Maybe because even in all this some of the court stain her ways, and she think better than to address a soldier like she familiar. But that wasn’t why. Keme clear his throat.
“Soldier, this is neither lion nor cobra. Who is this you bring?” he ask.
“Find her hiding behind the obelisk, Lord.”
“Everything here is an obelisk.”
“Behind them three over there, Lord.”
“Alone?”
“So far, Lord.”
“Marshal,” Keme say to the one beside him. “None of the river tribes live near Mantha?”
“You would need a river for that.”
“So from where come this girl?”
“She could have been—”
“Everyone there is dead, and everyone is wearing white. This girl, she’s wearing whatever she can find, it seems.”
Sogolon would say something, but even now he don’t say one word to her. Or look at her longer than one would look at a fly. Things didn’t end good between them, but he leave her with a gift. Why pretend not to know her? Some game this is that is afoot.
“Marshal, she looks like she don’t know where her next meal is coming from,” say one next to Keme.
“Marshal, we are brothers in rank and thought. And we have too little food as it is. Soldier! Kill her,” Keme say.
“What? No! Keme!”
The soldier grab her arm again, but Sogolon struggle. Keme is about to turn away but stop.
“What did you say? Girl.”
“I don’t say nothing.”
“You did not just say Keme?”
“No, I—”
“Is my ear a fool or your mouth?” He dismount, march right up to her, and grab her chin. “How do you know my name?” he ask.
“I—I—I don’t know it.”
“You just called it.”
“I did—”
“Gods of chance just whispered it in your ear?”
“I don’t know—”
“You’ll know this blade soon enough.”
“One of your men, he just say it.”
“I have no man that would address me such a way, not even this man,” he say, pointing to the other marshal.
“Marshal, every whoreson from here to Kalindar have the name Keme. Stop acting like you special,” the other marshal say and laugh. He is one of three men naked except for the marshal’s helmet, and he is the only one on a horse. The other two spread out farther than the other men, going down the rocky slope.
“Besides, when Kwash Moki shows a man favor, all of the Kingdom knows. Your name precedes you, and that is no bad thing,” he say.
Keme release her chin, but the frown don’t leave his brow. “Bread for this one. From the looks of that poor tree over there, she’s been eating famine food,” he say as some of the men laugh.
The name come out like a curse, so she thankful that it leave her tongue as a whisper: the Aesi. But the name still have weight, and even to whisper it make her buckle. She stumble to the ground and two soldiers rush to pick her up. She don’t fight them. One tear off a piece of flatbread, scoop some lentils, and hand it to her. She don’t want to need to eat. She don’t want anything from these men. But she swallow it in three gulps, leading one soldier to shout that a crocodile eating its own young take at least four bites. The camp laughter shame her, but she sit in the dirt wishing for another bite. The crackling fire take her back to all the kitchens she know. It lull her to sleep, for how long she don’t know, but Sogolon jump when she wake up to Keme watching her.
“Is this what you seek?” he ask and wave her dagger. His dagger, looking like just a piece of stick. “Ingenious thing. What would happen if I put it at your throat?”
Sogolon say nothing. Keme throw the dagger to her and mark how she catch it.
“You didn’t even look,” he say. “Perhaps the trick of dim light? I would swear the knife found your hand and not your hand the knife.”
“Night have plenty tricks,” Sogolon say.
“Is that a wise saying where you come from?”
“No.”
“Where do you come from? Why walk you on this way?”
“You asking me where I going?”
“I asked you quite a few things.”
“We live on the Ubangta River.”
“No tribe lives on the Ubangta River.”
“Never say we are no tribe. Just a family.”
“Ubangta is east of this trail, yet you walk from the west?”
“Never say I was coming from there.”
“You never said anything.”
Sogolon is hoping, she admit to herself on the quiet, that this hashing and sparring would wake up his memory.
“Talk, girl.”
“I . . . I was hoping they would take me in. The nuns of Mantha.”
“The divine sisterhood? You?”
“No damn thing wrong with me,” she say louder than she intend, and the frown return to his brow.
“Who was that for, mother or father?”
“Yes.”
He laugh.
“One does not just go to Mantha, girl. One is never even invited.”
“Then how you go?”
“Don’t ask me, I’m not a nun.”
There, decided. She hate this Keme too. The same smile, though. The same damn smile shining out of that same damn beard, hugging the same firm chin of that same damn face.
“Did your father beat you hard? Perhaps your mother?”
One thing Sogolon learn from the people at court. Give them just enough about you and they will build their own story. So to his words she just nod.
“Perhaps you are the kind of riotous girl who needs such firm instruction.”